Draw A Line Under It Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Draw A Line Under It. Here they are! All 62 of them:

In the throws of depression, one reaches a strange point at which it is impossible to see the line between ones own theatricality and the reality of madness. I discovered two conflicting qualities of character. I am melodramatic by nature; on the other hand, I can go out and “seem normal” under the most abnormal of circumstances. Antonin Artaud wrote on one of his drawings, “never real and always true”, and that is how depression feels. You know that it is not real, that you are someone else, and yet you know that it is absolutely true. Its very confusing.
Andrew Solomon (The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression)
Not even a little?” Hunter whispered as we climbed under my Disney princess sheets. “It’s too weird. I can’t have sex on a princess’ face with my mom down the hall sleeping. I just have to draw the line.
Chelsea M. Cameron (My Favorite Mistake (My Favorite Mistake, #1))
Kestrel's eyes slipped shut. She faded in and out of sleep. When Arin spoke again, she wasn't sure whether he expected her to to hear him. 'I remember sitting with my mother in a carriage.' There was a long pause. Then Arin's voice came again in that slow, fluid way that showed the singer in him. 'In my memory, I am small and sleepy, and she is doing something strange. Every time the carriage turns into the sun, she raises her hand as if reaching for something. The light lines her fingers with fire. Then the carriage passes through shadows, and her hand falls. Again sunlight beams through the window, and again her hand lifts. It becomes and eclipse.' Kestrel listened, and it was as if the story itself was an eclipse, drawing its darkness over her. 'Just before I fell asleep,' he said, 'I realized that she was shading my eyes from the sun.' She heard Arin shift, felt him look at her. 'Kestrel.' She imagined how he would sit, lean forward. How he would look in the glow of the carriage lantern. 'Survival isn't wrong. You can sell your honor in small ways, so long as you guard yourself. You can pour a glass of wine like it's meant to be poured, and watch a man drink, and plot your revenge.' Perhaps his head tilted slightly at this. 'You probably plot even in your sleep.' There was a silence as long as a smile. 'Plot away, Kestrel. Survive. If I hadn't lived, no one would remember my mother, not like I do.' Kestrel could no longer deny sleep. It pulled her under. 'And I would never have met you.
Marie Rutkoski (The Winner's Curse (The Winner's Trilogy, #1))
It's late at night when the memory comes for me, like it always seems to when the relief of sleep seems ready to draw me under.
Joaquin Lowe (Bullet Catcher)
Am I making myself clear, Orrin? I don't regret how I've lived these past few years. I move where I will. I set no appointments. I guard no borders. What landbound king has the freedom of a ship's captain? The Sea of Brass provides. When I need haste, it gives me winds. When I need gold, it gives me galleons." Thieves prosper, thought Locke. The rich remember. He made his decision, and gripped the rail to avoid shaking. "Only gods-damned fools die for lines drawn on maps," said Zamira. "But nobody can draw lines around my ship. If they try, all I need to do to slip away is set more sail.
Scott Lynch (Red Seas Under Red Skies (Gentleman Bastard, #2))
In Chloe, a great city, the people who move through the streets are all strangers. At each encounter, they imagine a thousand things about one another; meetings which could take place between them, conversations, surprises, caresses, bites. But no one greets anyone; eyes lock for a second, then dart away, seeking other eyes, never stopping. A girl comes along, twirling a parasol on her shoulder, and twirling slightly also her rounded hips. A woman in black comes along, showing her full age, her eyes restless beneath her veil, her lips trembling. At tattooed giant comes along; a young man with white hair; a female dwarf; two girls, twins, dressed in coral. Something runs among them, an exchange of glances link lines that connect one figure with another and draws arrows, stars, triangles, until all combinations are used up in a moment, and other characters come on to the scene: a blind man with a cheetah on a leash, a courtesan with an ostrich-plume fan, an ephebe, a Fat Woman. And thus, when some people happen to find themselves together, taking shelter from the rain under an arcade, or crowding beneath an awning of the bazaar, or stopping to listen to the band in the square, meetings, seductions, copulations, orgies are consummated among them without a word exchanged, without a finger touching anything, almost without an eye raised. A voluptuous vibration constantly stirs Chloe, the most chaste of cities. If men and women began to live their ephemeral dreams, every phantom would become a person with whom to begin a story of pursuits, pretenses, misunderstandings, clashes, oppressions, and the carousel of fantasies would stop.
Italo Calvino
When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense. Arraigned to my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rapidly devoured the ideal--I pronounced judgement to this effect-- That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar. "You," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? You're gifted with the power of pleasing him? You're of importance to him in any way? Go!--your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world to dependent and novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe! Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night? Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does no good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and if discovered and responded to, must lead into miry wilds whence there is no extrication. "Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own pictures, faithfully, without softening on defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.' "Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imageine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye--What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!--no sentiment!--no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution... "Whenever, in the future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them--say, "Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indignent and insignifican plebian?" "I'll do it," I resolved; and having framed this determination, I grew calm, and fell asleep.
Charlotte Brontë (Jane Eyre)
when she was 7, a boy pushed her on the playground she fell headfirst into the dirt and came up with a mouthful of gravel and lines of blood chasing each other down her legs when she told her teacher what happened, she laughed and said ‘boys will be boys honey don’t let it bother you he probably just thinks you’re cute’ but the thing is, when you tell a little girl who has rocks in her teeth and scabs on her knees that hurt and attention are the same you teach her that boys show their affection through aggression and she grows into a young woman who constantly mistakes the two because no one ever taught her the difference ‘boys will be boys’ turns into ‘that’s how he shows his love’ and bruises start to feel like the imprint of lips she goes to school with a busted mouth in high school and says she was hit with a basketball instead of his fist the one adult she tells scolds her ‘you know he loses his temper easily why the hell did you have to provoke him?’ so she shrinks folds into herself, flinches every time a man raises his voice by the time she’s 16 she’s learned her job well be quiet, be soft, be easy don’t give him a reason but for all her efforts, he still finds one ‘boys will be boys’ rings in her head ‘boys will be boys he doesn’t mean it he can’t help it’ she’s 7 years old on the playground again with a mouth full of rocks and blood that tastes like copper love because boys will be boys baby don’t you know that’s just how he shows he cares she’s 18 now and they’re drunk in the split second it takes for her words to enter his ears they’re ruined like a glass heirloom being dropped between the hands of generations she meant them to open his arms but they curl his fists and suddenly his hands are on her and her head hits the wall and all of the goddamn words in the world couldn’t save them in this moment she touches the bruise the next day boys will be boys aggression, affection, violence, love how does she separate them when she learned so early that they’re inextricably bound, tangled in a constant tug-of-war she draws tally marks on her walls ratios of kisses to bruises one entire side of her bedroom turns purple, one entire side of her body boys will be boys will be boys will be boys when she’s 20, a boy touches her hips and she jumps he asks her who the hell taught her to be scared like that and she wants to laugh doesn’t he know that boys will be boys? it took her 13 years to unlearn that lesson from the playground so I guess what I’m trying to say is i will talk until my voice is hoarse so that my little sister understands that aggression and affection are two entirely separate things baby they exist in different universes my niece can’t even speak yet but I think I’ll start with her now don’t ever accept the excuse that boys will be boys don’t ever let him put his hands on you like that if you see hate blazing in his eyes don’t you ever confuse it with love baby love won’t hurt when it comes you won’t have to hide it under long sleeves during the summer and the only reason he should ever reach out his hand is to hold yours
Fortesa Latifi
The sliding door opened, and then Michael was clomping across the porch. Gabriel didn’t look at him, just kept his gaze on the tree line. Michael dropped into the chair beside him. “Here." Gabriel looked over. His brother was holding out a bottle of Corona. Shock almost knocked him out of the chair. They never had alcohol of any kind in the house. When Michael had turned twenty-one, they’d all spent about thirty seconds entertaining thoughts of wild parties supplied by their older brother. Then they’d remembered it was Michael, a guy who said if he ever caught them drinking, he’d call the cops himself. Really, he’d driven the point home so thoroughly that by the time he and Nick started going to parties, they rarely touched the stuff. Gabriel took the bottle from his hand. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” Michael tilted the botle back and took a long draw. "I thought you could use one. I sure can." Gabriel took a sip, but tentatively, like Michael was going to slap it out of his hand and say Just kidding. "Where did this even come from?" "Liquor store." Well, that was typical Michael. "No, jackass, I meant-" "I know what you meant." Michael paused to take another drink. "There's a mini-fridge in the back corner of the garage, under the old tool bench.
Brigid Kemmerer (Spark (Elemental, #2))
Remember to draw a line between being nice in a strong way and simply being a people pleaser. Nice: Positive, yet honest and straightforward. People pleaser: Sweeping things under the rug to avoid making waves.
Fran Hauser (The Myth of the Nice Girl: Achieving a Career You Love Without Becoming a Person You Hate)
We live under the knowledge illusion because we fail to draw an accurate line between what is inside and outside our heads. And we fail because there is no sharp line. So we frequently don’t know what we don’t know.
Steven Sloman (The Knowledge Illusion: Why We Never Think Alone)
N.V.N. (translated by Jane Kenyon) There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross,— even if lips draw near in awful silence and love tears at the heart. Friendship is weak and useless here, and years of happiness, exalted and full of fire, because the soul is free and does not know the slow luxuries of sensual life. Those who try to come near it are insane and those who reach it are shaken by grief, So now you know exactly why my heart beats no faster under your hand.
Anna Akhmatova
He draws a line under his conclusions. Says, 'Gregory, what should I do about the great worm?' 'Send a commission against it, sir,' the boy says. 'It must be put down.' He gives his son a long look. 'You do know it's Arthur Cobbler's tales?' Gregory gives him a long look back. 'Yes, I do know.' He sounds regretful. 'But it makes people so happy when I believe them.
Hilary Mantel (Bring Up the Bodies)
Happy Birthday, Jennifer. And a pencil-line drawing of a house. And under a piece of Scotch tape a ring, just a cheap ring with a blue glass stone. I'm back, it read. Love, Cameron Quick.
Sara Zarr (Sweethearts)
Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrassov describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, 'on its meek eyes,' everyone must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over and over again. 'However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.' The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenceless creature on its weeping, on its 'meek eyes.' The frantic beast tugs and draws the load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sort of unnatural spasmodic action- it's awful in Nekrassov. But that only a horse, and God has horses to be beaten.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky (The Brothers Karamazov)
In my experience, successful people shoot for the stars, put their hearts on the line in every battle, and ultimately discover that the lessons learned from the pursuit of excellence mean much more than the immediate trophies and glory. In the long run, painful losses may prove much more valuable than wins—those who are armed with a healthy attitude and are able to draw wisdom from every experience, “good” or “bad,” are the ones who make it down the road. They are also the ones who are happier along the way. Of course the real challenge is to stay in range of this long-term perspective when you are under fire and hurting in the middle of the war. This, maybe our biggest hurdle, is at the core of the art of learning.
Josh Waitzkin (The Art of Learning: A Journey in the Pursuit of Excellence)
service, which would relay messages to his mother. Ron Wayne drew a logo, using the ornate line-drawing style of Victorian illustrated fiction, that featured Newton sitting under a tree framed by a quote from Wordsworth: “A mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone.” It was a rather odd motto, one that fit Wayne’s self-image more than Apple Computer. Perhaps
Walter Isaacson (Steve Jobs)
It is extremely difficult for believers, if not impossible, to draw a clear line between the facts and fantasies of their beliefs. Most often they are raised as children in the cradle of faith and, before they ever become capable of judging the truth or falsehood of their beliefs, they already become an integral part of their system. The few who awaken from their mental state of lethargy and oblivion do so at the cost of their religion but seldom admit this fact publicly. They keep wearing the same garb under the same title so that despite the loss of faith their religion continues to survive merely as a symbol of identity. This, unfortunately, is the fate of all religions which deny rationality any instrumental role in judging the validity of their beliefs.
Mirza Tahir Ahmad (Revelation, Rationality, Knowledge and Truth)
Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.' "Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye;--What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!--no sentiment!--no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.
Charlotte Brontë (Jane Eyre)
He tans into burning while the opening fanfare to "Peaches en Regalia" flows over him, the bugle call for a hippie army that marched at the peak of the American parabola, that moment when physics held its breath to allow levitation, a small reward before the descent. The hippies knew it then, Maggot Boy Johnson thinks; they couldn't build it into words but they could feel it; a floating in the stomach as history shifted direction. They stopped, hey, what's that sound, and knew that the spiny skyscrapers reflected in the river, the chasms of concrete, the wide streets and sidewalks, the power lines cutting into the hills and mountains above missile silos, the highways drawing lines across the blank plains under enormous skies, the pupil of God's eye, would be the ruins that their grandchildren wandered among, the reminders that once there was always water in the faucet, there was electricity all the time, and America was prying off the shackles of its past. The vision opened up to them and winked out again, and those it blinded staggered through their lives unable to see anything else, while the rest of them wondered if they had only dreamed it.
Brian Francis Slattery (Liberation)
A romantic understanding sees it primarily in terms of immediate appearance. If you were to show an engine or a mechanical drawing or electronic schematic to a romantic it is unlikely he would see much of interest in it. It has no appeal because the reality he sees is its surface. Dull, complex lists of names, lines and numbers. Nothing interesting. But if you were to show the same blueprint or schematic or give the same description to a classical person he might look at it and then become fascinated by it because he sees that within the lines and shapes and symbols is a tremendous richness of underlying form.
Anonymous
A classical understanding sees the world primarily as underlying form itself. A romantic understanding sees it primarily in terms of immediate appearance. If you were to show an engine or a mechanical drawing or electronic schematic to a romantic it is unlikely he would see much of interest in it. It has no appeal because the reality he sees is its surface. Dull, complex lists of names, lines and numbers. Nothing interesting. But if you were to show the same blueprint or schematic or give the same description to a classical person he might look at it and then become fascinated by it because he sees that within the lines and shapes and symbols is a tremendous richness of underlying form.
Robert M. Pirsig (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance)
Draw a line down the middle of any room, and you will find group disparities in income, IQ, education, and age. Such disparities are not the result of societal discrimination. They are the result of statistical probability. But according to the Disintegrationists, disparities are automatically the result of discrimination, often relabeled under vague terms like “privilege,” “institutional racism,” or “patriarchalism.” The Disintegrationist philosophy therefore leads to this extraordinarily destructive logic: we must have equality of opportunity, which means unequal rights, because people are not inherently equal; any inequality in society is proof of inequality of opportunity. No system can survive under this logic: inequality of outcome is a feature inherent to humankind. But that’s precisely the point. The system must be destroyed.
Ben Shapiro (How to Destroy America in Three Easy Steps)
I don’t want any money.” I put the wallet away. She said: “What are you going to do about last night?” “What should I do?” “Kill that son of a bitch.” “And fry?” “You’re too smart to fry.” “Maybe,” I said. “But, lady, I’ve been drawing the line at murder lately.” She lay against the pillow, watching me. Her skin was dead white and it made the black eyes look big. She wasn’t young, but she was still good-looking. Her shoulders were round and firm. As far as I could tell she was naked under the sheet. I sat down on a rocking-chair. It creaked under my weight. “But you want to get him, don’t you?” she asked. “I wouldn’t mind.” “Neither would I,” she said. “He’s pretty tough for a gal to tackle.” “He knocked out my teeth.” The way she said it, it sounded like a good reason for bumping off a man. Maybe it was, at that. A girl likes to hold on to her teeth.
Jonathan Latimer (Solomon's Vineyard)
Each of our actions, our words, our attitudes is cut off from the ‘world,’ from the people who have not directly perceived it, by a medium the permeability of which is of infinite variation and remains unknown to ourselves; having learned by experience that some important utterance which we eagerly hoped would be disseminated … has found itself, often simply on account of our anxiety, immediately hidden under a bushel, how immeasurably less do we suppose that some tiny word, which we ourselves have forgotten, or else a word never uttered by us but formed on its course by the imperfect refraction of a different word, can be transported without ever halting for any obstacle to infinite distances … and succeed in diverting at our expense the banquet of the gods. What we actually recall of our conduct remains unknown to our nearest neighbor; what we have forgotten that we ever said, or indeed what we never did say, flies to provoke hilarity even in another planet, and the image that other people form of our actions and behavior is no more like that which we form of them ourselves, than is like an original drawing a spoiled copy in which, at one point, for a black line, we find an empty gap, and for a blank space an unaccountable contour. It may be, all the same, that what has not been transcribed is some non-existent feature, which we behold, merely in our purblind self-esteem, and that what seems to us added is indeed a part of ourselves, but so essential a part as to have escaped our notice. So that this strange print which seems to us to have so little resemblance to ourselves bears sometimes the same stamp of truth, scarcely flattering, indeed, but profound and useful, as a photograph taken by X-rays. Not that that is any reason why we should recognize ourselves in it. A man who is in the habit of smiling in the glass at his handsome face and stalwart figure, if you show him their radiograph, will have, face to face with that rosary of bones, labeled as being the image of himself, the same suspicion of error as the visitor to an art gallery who, on coming to the portrait of a girl, reads in his catalogue: “Dromedary resting.” Later on, this discrepancy between our portraits, according as it was our own hand that drew them or another, I was to register in the case of others than myself, living placidly in the midst of a collection of photographs which they themselves had taken while round about them grinned frightful faces, invisible to them as a rule, but plunging them in stupor if an accident were to reveal them with the warning: “This is you.
Marcel Proust (The Guermantes Way)
This was certainly a fitting end to Valentine’s Day.” She slanted him a glance. “Tell me, was it really just chance that you drew my name at the ball?” “What do you think?” “I don’t know. Celia told me on the way home that she thought it was Fate.” He arched one eyebrow. “Only if Fate’s helper is the Duke of Foxmoor. He rigged the drawing for me.” To his surprise, she laughed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! I thought perhaps you’d spotted my name by chance, but deliberately cheating…You have no principles whatsoever, do you?” “Not where you’re concerned,” he said. That answer seemed to please her. Reassured of her ability to bewitch him, she stretched beside him like a cat, her full breasts moving enticingly under the sheet. It roused him instantly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, my dear.” “Do what?” Her gaze was full of curiosity. “Display yourself so deliciously. Or I’m going to make love to you again.” A coy smile tipped up her lips. “Are you really?” She slid up next to him, her hand drawing a line down his bare chest in a motion worthy of the most experienced courtesan. He caught her hand. “I mean it, minx. Don’t tempt me. I’ll have you on your back so fast you won’t know what happened.” “And what would be wrong with that?” He entwined his fingers with hers. Why couldn’t he stop touching her? “It was your first time. Your body needs to rest.” “Oh.” She frowned. “I suppose I am a little sore.” She cast him a teasing glance. “Who could have known that making love would be so…vigorous? Or addictive?” “You have no idea.” Already his cock was rock hard beneath the sheet. “But after we’re married, I’ll be happy to add to your store of experience.
Sabrina Jeffries (The Truth About Lord Stoneville (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #1))
A pirate! A black patch covered her rescuer's left eye. The elastic holding it in place drew a thin line between his dark brows and across his forehead. His dark hair was wet, and slicked back off his lean face. His strong jaw was hazed with dark bristle. His face bore the austere lines of a man hounded by demons and comfortable with danger. He looked scruffy, unkempt, and strangely appealing. Tally attributed her reaction to being delirious with shock. "Seen enough?" he asked dryly as she continued to stare. "Or do you want me to turn around?" By all means, do. "Sorry. I wasn't really looking looking-I zoned out there for a second." Very smooth, Tallulah. "I wasn't looking looking"? Oh, brother. She blew out a sigh. He wasn't quite a giant, but he was solidly built, and towered over her own not insubstantial five foot nine by a good five or six inches. Six foot four of sheer power, hard muscle, and sex appeal. His broad, darkly tanned shoulders gleamed with moisture. Salt water glittered like tiny diamonds in the hair on his chest and on the silky dark hair on his thickly muscled legs. His hands and feet were enormous. "Understandable." His mocking and enigmatic gaze took in her clinging clothes, bare feet, and grim hold on the railing as his boat rode the swells. There wasn't a thing she could do about her appearance, so she didn't bother fiddling. Besides, she didn't want to draw attention to the wet transparency of her blouse. Not that he looked the type to be crazed by lust. Especially for a woman like her. Perversely disappointed, she realized that far from being crazed with lust at the sight of her size A boobs, the pirate hadn't even noticed he could see right through her shirt. That one, piercing, whiskey-colored eye locked onto her, and Tally's stomach did a weird little somersault. Adrenaline still raced through her body at a furious clip. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tally Cruise." Pleased she sounded coherent under the circumstances, she thrust out her hand and smiled. "Michael Wright." He took her hand, not with his right, but his left. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles. Little zings of electricity shot up her arm.
Cherry Adair (In Too Deep (T-FLAC #4; Wright Family #3))
human nature of their origins runs counter to the prevailing cultural view of the ancient Near East. In the Genesis narrative, we see man becoming a contributor under God in the ongoing work of creation, through the development of culture. We learn that city life is not to be seen as simply a punishment for humanity after the banishment from the garden. Rather the city has inherent capacities for bringing human beings together in such a way that enhances both security and culture making. However, as can be seen in the line of Cain, these capacities, under the influence of sin and rebellion against God, can be generators of great evil. The song of Lamech, Cain’s descendant, shows the Cainite city dwellers using all their advances to form a culture of death (Gen 4:23 – 24). Here is the first clear indicator of the dual nature of the city. Its capability for enormous good — for the culture-making creation of art, science, and technology — can be used to produce tremendous evil. Henri Blocher does not consider it a coincidence that the first mention of anti-God culture making is tied to the first instance of city building, but he warns against drawing the wrong conclusion: It is no doubt significant that [in Genesis 4] progress in arts and in engineering comes from the “city” of the Cainites. Nevertheless, we are not to conclude from this that civilization as such is… the fruit of sin. Such a conclusion would lead us to Manichaeism or to the views of Jean-Jacques Rousseau… The Bible condemns neither the city (for it concludes with the vision of the City of God) nor art and engineering.14 Blocher may be responding to writers such as Geerhardus Vos, who in his Biblical Theology points to “the problem
Timothy J. Keller (Center Church: Doing Balanced, Gospel-Centered Ministry in Your City)
Since the convention was trying to establish a government altogether new under the sun, there were no precedents to violate—but also none to steer by. All the issues involved in government stalked the hall at one time or another. Among the troublesome problems were drawing lines between state and federal power, decisions concerning slavery (the more defensively protected in the South because disapproved of in the North), southern suspicions that federal trade regulations would make them serfs to New England shippers, taxation, fear of tyranny at one extreme or anarchy at the other. The level of agreement reached was phenomenal, and, when agreement proved too difficult, many a decision was left vague, to be worked out in actual practice.
James Thomas Flexner (Washington: The Indispensable Man)
Poetry can animate everything, so that life itself breathes through the line. It remembers passion. ... It can make us alive to something new or remembered. Coming out of the ordinary or the mystical, it calls us to ourselves; drawing into view the inner working relationships between the conscious and the unconscious; the passionate intensity of the feeling life as well as the corrugated pathways of thought. Using image to speak, it inspires awe at the way the poet can condense experience on the page.... Poetry can inform, renew, move, uncover understanding, create change’. Robyn Rowland, ‘De-lyricising the lyric?
Robyn Rowland (Under this Saffron Sun /Safran Güneşin Altında)
We are members of families, employees of businesses, and citizens of countries whose goals and aspirations are frequently sub-Christian. When those differences are unjust or evil, we need to distinguish ourselves from them. But where possible, we should gather near, identify common ground, and draw lines as sparingly as possible. Salt should not remain in the saltshaker. A lamp should not be placed under a bushel. Christians should not fail to affirm the good, true, and beautiful wherever we see it, even if it emerges from sources with whom we would otherwise disagree. We need to travel together, even in our differences. Living in the world means seeking common ground with people and pursuits that are not always gospel-centered. For the adventurer, this is welcome news, because it allows us to ask different questions. What might God be doing in this situation? With what struggles can I empathize? What bridges can be built? Where might the kingdom of God be manifesting?
Timothy J. Keller (Uncommon Ground: Living Faithfully in a World of Difference)
Ask your client to recall a time that he or she was able to successfully manage a time of transition or change—a time that he or she was able to “bounce back” from adversity or “survive in a changing world.” Together with your client, create a “causal loop map” of this ‘story of change’ by going through the following steps: 1.While the client is speaking, note down 7-10 key words from the story or example on a piece of paper. Key words may be of any type: behaviors, people, beliefs, values, phenomena, etc. 2.Draw arrows connecting the key words which illustrate the influences between key words and capture the flow of the story. (The arrows should be in the form of an arc or semi-circle rather than a straight line.) A positive or strengthening influence can be indicated by adding a (+) under the arrow. Negative or weakening influences can be shown by placing a (-) under the arrow. 3.When your client has finished telling his or her story, go over your initial map, checking the key words and giving him or her the chance to edit them, or add other key words you may have missed. Also review and check the links you have drawn between the key words. 4.Make sure that you have “closed” feedback loops (as a rule of thumb all key words should have at least one arrow going from them, and another arrow pointing to them). 5.Refine the map by considering the delays that may be involved between links, and searching for other missing links that may be an important part of the story. 6.Find out what beliefs are behind the map (what assumptions do these links presuppose?). Frequently, you will find that managing change involves several loops relating to the how (the steps and strategies involve), the why (the beliefs, values and motivation related to the change) and who (the role and identity issues).
Robert B. Dilts (From Coach to Awakener)
Seven Versions" 1. The Kiss Massive languor, languor hammered; Sentient languor, languor dissected; Languor deserted, reignite your sidereal fires; Holier languor, arise from love. The wood’s owl has come home. 2. Beyond Sunlight I can’t shakle one of your ankles as if you were a falcon, but nothing can prevent me from following, no matter how far, even beyond sunlight where Jesus becomes visible: I’ll follow, I will wait, I will never give up until I understand why you are going away from me. 3. A Man Wound His Watch In the darkness the man wound his watch before secreting it under his pillow. Then he went to sleep. Outside, the wind was blowing. You who comprehend the repercussions of the faintest gesture—you will understand. A man, his watch, the wind. What else is there? 4. For Which There Is No Name Let me have what the tree has and what it can never lose, let me have it and lose it again, blurred lines the wind draws with the darkness it gets from summer nights, formless indescribable darkness. Either give me back my gladness, or the courage to think about how it was lost to me. Give me back, not what I see, but my sight. Let me meet you again owning nothing but what is in the past. Let me inherit the very thing I am forbidden. And let me continue to seek, though I know it is futile, the only heaven that I could endure: unhurting you. 5. The Composer People said he was overly fond of the good life and ate like a pig. Yet the servant who brought him his chocolate in bed would sometimes find him weeping quietly, both plump pink hands raised slightly and conducting, evidently, in small brief genuflective feints. He experienced the reality of death as music. 6. Detoxification And I refuse to repent of my drug use. It gave me my finest and happiest hours. And I have been wondering: will I use drugs again? I will if my work wants me to. And if drugs want me to. 7. And Suddenlty It’s Night You stand there alone, like everyone else, the center of the world’s attention, a ray of sunlight passing through you. And suddenly it’s night. Franz Wright, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, Vol I Issue I . (May 15th, 2011) The individual sections of “Seven Versions” ia based, loosely—some very loosely—on poems by Rene Char, Rumi, Yannis Ritsos, Natan Zach, Günther Eich, Jean Cocteau, and Salvatore Quasimodo.
Franz Wright
The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.” I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?” He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss. “Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.
Kristin Rae (Wish You Were Italian (If Only . . ., #2))
The pen touches the paper again at the bottom of the page and I freeze as he draws a slow, thick line through “Fall in love with an Italian.” I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?” He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss. “Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.” I gasp and part my lips to respond, but he covers my mouth with his and slips his hands around my bare back. As I glide my hands into his thick hair, he pulls me up until I’m straddling his lap. He leans forward, holding me tight against him, and we crash into the pool, our lips never pulling apart.
Kristin Rae (Wish You Were Italian (If Only . . ., #2))
For a second, I’m too shocked to react. I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this. My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders. My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear. She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire. Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders. She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us. And there isn’t—not much. I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra. Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone. If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close. She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going. I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now. And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth. She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch. She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick. “You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.” She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.” I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?” She shivers. “You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.” She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.
Courtney Milan (Trade Me (Cyclone, #1))
For a second, I’m too shocked to react. I don’t know why; this thing has been lurking between us for weeks, never dormant, always present. But she’s been wary, pushing me away, and I didn’t expect this. My surprise lasts almost no time at all. Just a second’s worth of her lips against mine, her hands, warm against the cool, bare skin of my shoulders. My last intelligent thought is that I’m not letting this go to waste, and then I’m kissing her back. Wrapping my arm around her, bringing her close so that her body lies flush against mine. My free hand tangles in her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers, following it up to her scalp, the line of her ear. She tastes so good—sweet, like an apple. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving a trail of heat, coming to rest on my hips. Tina shifts her weight and then straddles me. My nerves light up at that, sparking with desire. Fuck, I want her. She’s wearing jeans. I’m wearing jeans. Doesn’t matter that there’s layers of thick denim between us; my body still recognizes the feel of hips pressing against my pelvis. The friction of fabric is rough against my cock, but it’s everything I could have asked for. Her hands rise again, sliding up my chest to rest against my shoulders. She kisses me like she’s been thinking of this as long as I have, like this kiss has been building from the first day we saw each other. She kisses me like there’s no space between us. And there isn’t—not much. I’m not trying to escalate things. I’m not even really thinking about it. But when she smoothes her palm down my chest, my hand creeps up by her side, sliding up until I find the fabric of her bra. Under other circumstances, I might rip it off. But I don’t want to freak her out. I cup her breast in the palm of my hand. She gasps instantly. I was already hard; with that, I find myself turning to stone. Needing, wanting, stone. If I’m stone, she’s fire. Her hips grind into me as my thumb finds her nipple. My lips graze her neck. My tongue darts out and traces down her collarbone. I can’t even remember why I ever thought it was cold in here. It’s a fucking furnace. I pull her close. She’s so fucking responsive. It’s hot beyond belief to watch her go up in flames on top of me, to watch how the smallest touch, the slightest pressure in the right place, gets her going. I don’t have much of a thought process, but it goes something like yes, yes, more now. And she must be thinking the same thing—thank God—because she takes her shirt off. She’s wearing a simple white cotton bra, no padding, and her nipples poke through. I lean forward and catch one in my mouth. She likes it. She grinds against me. Her fingers clench on my shoulders, gripping tight, so fucking tight. I find her other breast—small enough that I can palm it with one hand, so that my fingers can explore every last inch. She’s letting out little moans that seem to go straight to my dick. “You,” I growl out, “have awesome tits.” She freezes on top of me. And then, seconds later, she pulls away. “Don’t.” She reaches for her shirt. “Don’t lie to me. I have nonexistent boobs.” I run my finger over her nipple. “Yeah? What’s this, then?” She shivers. “You have awesome tits,” I repeat. “I love touching them. Licking. Sucking. It makes me fucking wild to be able to drive you crazy like this. Tits are a fucking gift for sexual pleasure. So never tell me you have nonexistent boobs again. I think I just proved otherwise.” She draws in a deep breath. Her eyes meet mine. She looks almost shattered.
Courtney Milan (Trade Me (Cyclone, #1))
In an editorial, the journal Nature warned that one of the dangers of winning the Nobel Prize is that people attempt to enlist you for all sorts of causes.' It particularly cited Scientists and Engineers for America and its opposition to Bush science policies, though "there is little doubt that US federal science has suffered under Bush," the editors wrote. By engaging in partisan behavior, the journal warned, scientists risk "seeming to be self-interested, grant-obsessed, and out of touch." Actually, I think the reverse is true. It is remaining at the bench when times call for action that defines researchers as self-obsessed. As Burton Richter, a Stanford physicist, Nobel laureate, and founder and board member of SEA wrote in response to the Nature editorial, the organization's aim "is to make available to society at large the evidence-based science relating to critical issues facing us all." He added, "We hope both to draw attention to underappreciated science issues and provide the advocacy necessary to get things done-not along party-political lines but scientifically."4
Cornelia Dean (Am I Making Myself Clear? A Scientist's Guide to Talking to the Public)
Civil-military relations in modern America are characterized more by paradox than by consistency: ordinary Americans support the military more than ever but know less about it than ever. In Washington, senior government policymakers simultaneously overestimate the military’s capabilities and mistrust the military leadership. The US military is widely viewed as the strongest military in the history of the world, but military leaders view conventional military tools as less and less useful for dealing with the complex security threats we face today. Meanwhile, although the military itself is more professional than ever, its internal structures—from recruiting, training, and education to personnel policies—lag badly behind those in most civilian workplaces, making it difficult for the military to change from within. These paradoxes both reflect and contribute to an underlying conundrum. In today’s world, where security challenges increasingly stem from nonstate actors, the cyber domain, the diffuse effects of climate change, and similar nontraditional sources, it is growing ever more difficult to clearly define the US military’s role and mission. We no longer have a coherent basis for distinguishing between war and “not war,” or between military force and other forms of coercion and manipulation. In such a context, we no longer know what kind of military we need, or how to draw sensible lines between civilian and military tasks and roles.
Jim Mattis (Warriors and Citizens: American Views of Our Military)
The trajectory curves produced by the ball thrown into the air or the orbital curves of the planets orbiting the sun were of great interest to mathematicians. Treating algebraic systems was developed by medieval Islam scholars. Descartes showed how to use the algebraic term (x, y) to describe a geometric shape, showing what is known as Cartesian coordinates and how they were drawn using x, y and graphs. A straight line graph has characteristics that are easy to calculate. 카톡【AKR331】텔레【RDH705】라인【SPR331】위커【SPR705】 저희는 7가지 철칙을 바탕으로 거래를 합니다. 고객들과 지키지못할약속은 하지않습니다 1.정품보장 2.총알배송 3.투명한 가격 4.편한 상담 5.끝내주는 서비스 6.고객님 정보 보호 7.깔끔한 거래 포폴,에토미,수면제 팔아요 The known formula from the Babylonian times was able to calculate the area under the straight line. This slope (the rate of change represented by the slope of the straight line) is the value of the y coordinate divided by the change of the associated x coordinate. However, these values ​​are more difficult to calculate in the curve. Before Newton, mathematicians realized that one way to do this was to calculate an approximation. Calculate the curve as continuous straight lines, and the area under the curve as continuous squares and triangles. Using more or less rectangles and triangles, you can get a more accurate approximation, but this is still only an approximation. Newton began challenging this problem before he reached Ulussof. In February 1665 he was still in the third year of college. He knew that the French mathematician Fermat and his mentor Bera both explained the formula for a particular curve. He began to wonder if they could be generalized to all curves. "I got a hint about this method from how to draw Fermat's tangents and generalized it," he later said. The key to this problem was his ability to use infinite water. Newton realized this. Instead of adding to infinity, the sum associated with an infinite series is similar to a finite set of goals or limits. And we could use this to find the curve as a rectangle. Effective using infinite numbers and giving small squares to the area under the curve. This is 'integral'.
포폴정품파는곳,카톡【AKR331】텔레【RDH705】포폴가격,에토미가격,에토미팔아요,에토미구매방법
Another critical distinction I make for police officers, which everyone ought to know, is the difference between the word Respect and the word respect. REspect is what we have to show all people at all times. We cannot respect people who prey on others, people who beat their spouses, people who brutalize their children. I have no respect for lawbreakers, but when as a professional I deal with them, I must always show them REspect. That is the Golden Rule in a single word. I know that is a difficult and fine line to draw because the words are spelled the same, sound nearly the same (except for the emphasis on different syllables), and seem to mean the same. But think of it this way: RE in Latin means to give back, as in giving back what you want under identical conditions. So, always treat the other person as you would want to be treated under identical conditions, even if he is not worthy of your respect. In other words, even in the process of arresting you, or firing you, or disciplining you, I must extend to you the kind of behavior I would expect were I in your shoes. When we disrespect people, put them down in front of others, or make them feel bad, we lose our power and create more enemies. We lose our professional face. We get upset, we use language irresponsibly, and we no longer have a disinterested state of mind. We’re no longer great warriors of words; we’ve become part of the problem. If you can learn to deal skillfully with people under pressure, you can dance where others stumble. And that is the hallmark of the communication samurai: REspect to all, with dignity, pride, and assertiveness.
George J. Thompson (Verbal Judo: The Gentle Art of Persuasion)
How to Bulletproof Your Association’s Biggest Asset: The Money The 35-Point Financial Procedures Manual If you are elected treasurer of your community association and accept the challenge, there are many policies and procedures you will need to learn before you start planning budgets, collecting assessments, and signing checks. Board members and officers of all community associations in America should read the following 35-point list of financial procedures and consider it a survival manual. It is divided into four segments: •​Inheriting Old Books •​Guarding and Vigilance •​Cyberbanking Procedures •​Efficiency Maximization and Return The Takeover: Inheriting Old Books 1.​Incoming treasurers or accounting managers should never accept the recording of financial books or accounts of a previous money manager. In order to be sure there is a clear line between the actions of the prior money manager and the current, a new bank account should be opened and the funds transferred to the new account. The new account helps to draw the line of accountability. Liability is also reduced by the new account, since any old checks that may be lying around will then be invalid. 2.​Immediately notify the bank when officers change. Bank signature cards must always be brought current immediately following the annual election. All officers should go to the bank together to provide identification and verify signatures. 3.​For incoming treasurers or accounting managers, a “transition document” stating all association account balances—including a statement as to the purpose of the reserve account, all contracts (including the vendors’ names and the expiration dates), and any outstanding payments due for services rendered or received—should be provided to the new money manager. 4.​Destroy all old checks and deposit slips. Use a cross shredder or a document destruction company. 5.​Keep new checks under lock and guard the keys. 6.​If a board treasurer or management company refuses to give up the bank accounts (it has happened), send the person or company a certified letter demanding the rightful return
Sara E. Benson (Escaping Condo Jail)
I can tell from the crack of a rifle shot the type of weapon fired and what direction the bullet is traveling. I can listen to a mortar pop and know its size, how far away it is. I know instinctively when I should prep a treeline with artillery before I move into it. I know which draws and fields should be crossed on line, which should be assaulted, and which are safe to cross in column. I know where to place my men when we stop and form a perimeter. I can shoot a rifle and throw a grenade and direct air and artillery onto any target, under any circumstances. I can dress any type of wound, I have dressed all types of wounds, watered protruding intestines with my canteen to keep them from cracking under sunbake, patched sucking chests with plastic, tied off stumps with field-expedient tourniquets. I can call in medevac helicopters, talk them, cajole them, dare them into any zone. I do these things, experience these things, repeatedly, daily. Their terrors and miseries are so compelling, and yet so regular, that I have ascended to a high emotion that is nonetheless a crusted numbness. I am an automaton, bent on survival, agent and prisoner of my misery. How terribly exciting. And how, to what purpose, will these skills serve me when this madness ends? What lies on the other side of all this? It frightens me. I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t prepared for it. I am so good, so ready for these things that were my birthright. I do not enjoy them. I know they have warped me. But it will be so hard to deal with a life empty of them. And there are the daily sufferings. You ghosts have known them, but who else? I can sleep in the rain, wrapped inside my poncho, listening to the drops beat on the rubber like small explosions, then feeling the water pour in rivulets inside my poncho, soaking me as I lie in the mud. I can live in the dirt, sit and lie and sleep in the dirt, it is my chair and my bed, my floor and my walls, this clay. And like all of you, I have endured diarrhea as only an animal should endure it, squatting a yard off a trail and relieving myself unceremoniously, naturally, animally. Deprivations of food. Festering, open sores. Worms. Heat. Aching crotch that nags for fulfillment, any emptying hole that will relieve it. Who appreciates my sufferings? Who do I suffer for?
James Webb (Fields of Fire)
Lie on your back with arms straight out at your sides and very slowly, with knees straight, raise your legs high and hold them in the air. Take a deep breath and very slowly lower them again. Then with your legs still against the floor, draw the small of your back into the floor until you can feel that your back is one straight line. Hold for a count of ten. Then begin the leg-rising exercise again. Work up to ten times. As your stomach muscles become firmer add this routine: Anchor your feet under the bed or a heavy armchair and raise and lower your body slowly, keeping your knees rigid and your back very straight.
Joan Crawford (My Way of Life)
A shell of calamari stuffed so voluptuously delicious seafood umami it's fit to burst! It's like... ... a Premier Selection of winter's best new fashions... Gauzy silk and lace that gently yet flatteringly hugs our curvaceous figures... The Calamari Lingerie Collection! ♥️ Made with sheer silk in the image of a squid's smooth, glistening skin, this shift is this season's must buy! Lamé appliqués that shine like an anchovy's scales under just the right light give the piece an air of decadent luxury. Your sweetie will have a hard time keeping their hands off! ⭐️ Glittery beads arranged in a pattern like a squid's suckers. They draw the eye to the bustline and show off your natural curves. ♥️ This sexy see-through camisole in cayenne pepper red includes deliciously feminine silk embroidery. Done in a motif of garlic cloves, it perfectly complements your spicy-hot body line. Your beloved partner won't be able to tear their eyes away!
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 29 [Shokugeki no Souma 29] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #29))
Meanwhile, people are busy using fractals to explain any system that has defied other, more reductionist approaches. Since they were successfully applied by IBM's Benoit Mandlebrot to the problem of seemingly random, intermittent interference on the phone lines, fractals have been used to identify underlying patterns in weather systems, computer files, and bacteria cultures. Sometimes fractal enthusiasts go a bit too far, however, using these nonlinear equations to mine for patterns in systems where none exist. Applied to the stock market to consumer behavior, fractals may tell less about those systems than about the people searching for patterns within them. There is a dual nature to fractals: They orient us while at the same time challenging our sense of scale and appropriateness. They offer us access to the underlying patterns of complex systems while at the same time tempting us to look for patterns where none exist. This makes them a terrific icon for the sort of pattern recognition associated with present shock—a syndrome we'll call factalnoia. Like the robots on Mystery Science Theater 3000, we engage by relating one thing to another, even when the relationship is forced or imagined. The tsunami makes sense once it is connected to chemtrails, which make sense when they are connected to HAARP. It's not just conspiracy theorists drawing fractalnoid connections between things. In a world without time, any and all sense making must occur on the fly. Simultaneity often seems like all we have. That's why anyone contending with present shock will have a propensity to make connections between things happening in the same moment—as if there had to be an underlying logic.
Douglas Rushkoff (Present Shock: When Everything Happens Now)
BECOMING UNDONE   Advancing down the front of her with my lips pressing firmly against her stomach my hands move up from underneath her shirt looking up into those eyes that long for me. Traveling up her long thighs my hands move with a subtle sophistication that sends shivers round about her. My hands and fingers inch all the way up under and passed her buttocks climbing over the top of her black panty line. Like a feather broom to a silk web her laced laungerie slips down her legs as her hands and fingers comb through my hair. With my fingers I draw a V below her lower abs sliding my lips between her libellule as she moves up the back of my neck. I remove her sandals from her heels looking up at her as my hands strum down from her back end, she gazing down at me with a still attraction.
Luccini Shurod
I hear Chloe is keeping a man in the house,” he said stiffly. “Now, Emma, you know I don’t mind about Big John Lenahan stopping by every now and again, but I draw the line—” “It isn’t your house, Fulton,” Emma put in reasonably. Fulton was so startled at the interruption that he went red at the ears. “Be that as it may, I don’t care for the idea of my fiancée sleeping under the same roof with somebody who’d stoop to drinking in the Yellow Belly Saloon.” Emma went to the door and began picking up the returned books. She was careful to hide her smile. “I’m not your fiancée, Fulton,” she reminded him sweetly. “Who is he? What’s his name?” Some instinct made Emma reticent about Steven’s identity. “Just a drifter,” she said, carrying the books to her desk and beginning to sort through them. “He’ll be gone soon.” “Well, I certainly hope so.” Emma changed the subject. “Daisy wanted to know if you planned on coming to supper tonight.” “You know I wouldn’t go out on a Tuesday.” Emma sighed, staring off into the distance. He’d gone out on a Monday, but she didn’t want to take the trouble to point that out. “Yes,” she said, and she was thinking of the man she’d washed and read to the night before. She wondered if he was awake, drinking the coffee Emma had left for him, though it would be stone-cold by now, or swearing because no one would give him back his .45. “What are you smiling about?” Fulton demanded. Emma went right on sorting books. “Nothing,” she lied. “Nothing at all.
Linda Lael Miller (Emma And The Outlaw (Orphan Train, #2))
It is quite possible that, even if you set the most relevant, realistic goals, you may not achieve them in the way or the time you wanted to. Life may throw something unexpected in your path, which stops you from achieving what you want, when you want. This is not failure. Feeling like you have failed is bound to lead to low mood, and can often come about if things haven't quite gone according to plan. However, the best thing to do is to draw a mental line under the experience, learn from what has happened and try again. As long as you are still trying, you are working towards your long-term aims; and as long as you are doing that, you are never truly failing.
Anna Barnes (How to Be Confident)
My boy is painting outer space, and steadies his brush-tip to trace the comets, planets, moon and sun and all the circuitry they run in one great heavenly design. But when he tries to close the line he draws around his upturned cup, his hand shakes, and he screws it up. The shake’s as old as he is, all (thank god) his body can recall of the hour when, one inch from home, we couldn’t get the air to him; and though today he’s all the earth and sky for breathing-space and breath the whole damn troposphere can’t cure the flutter in his signature. But Jamie, nothing’s what we meant. The dream is taxed. We all resent the quarter bled off by the dark between the bowstring and the mark and trust to Krishna or to fate to keep our arrows halfway straight. But the target also draws our aim - our will and nature’s are the same; we are its living word, and not a book it wrote and then forgot, its fourteen-billion-year-old song inscribed in both our right and wrong - so even when you rage and moan and bring your fist down like a stone on your spoiled work and useless kit, you just can’t help but broadcast it: look at the little avatar of your muddy water-jar filling with the perfect ring singing under everything.
Don Paterson (Rain)
That's a fine line," he said at last, indicating with his thumb what pleased him. "You're beginning to learn to draw." Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of sardonic indifference to the world's opinion. "I'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent." Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into technical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton did not say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt with satisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of them listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinet got up and came to Philip. "He only arrived two days ago," Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. "He's a beginner. He's never studied before." "Ca se voit," the master said. "One sees that." He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him: "This is the young lady I told you about." He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice grew more rasping. "It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You have been complaining to the massiere. Well, show me this work to which you wish me to give attention." Fanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of a strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on which she had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down. "Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it is good? It isn't. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn't. Do you wish me to say it has merit? It hasn't. Do you wish me to show you what is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to do with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now?" Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all this before Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and could understand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words. "He's got no right to treat me like that. My money's as good as anyone else's. I pay him to teach me. That's not teaching me." "What does she say? What does she say?" asked Foinet. Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable French. "Je vous paye pour m'apprendre." His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist. "Mais, nom de Dieu, I can't teach you. I could more easily teach a camel." He turned to Mrs. Otter. "Ask her, does she do this for amusement, or does she expect to earn money by it?" 304
W. Somerset Maugham
Therefore, since it was all but inevitable that there would be a power struggle of some kind between the two great power centers on earth, even without declared hostility, the intelligence community proponents said that it would be easier to begin our national defense posture by delineating the source of all concern and danger, i.e. world communism, and then to draw lines for a never-ending battle, sometimes called the Cold War. The line so constructed was, in the beginning, the Iron Curtain. Although one might expect that the battles would be waged by our forces on their side of the curtain, and the skirmishes by their forces would be on our side, it has not turned out that way. The battles that have been fought since 1947 for the most part have been fought on our side of the Iron Curtain. It had to happen this way because the intelligence community has gained the initiative, and the response technique will not work on the other side. This was the great contest and although the principals on both sides of the argument, which was of such vital concern to the foreign policy and defense posture of this country, might deny it, this was the basis for the contention that the Central Intelligence Group should be assigned to a position subordinate to the Secretaries of State and Defense and under their direction.
L. Fletcher Prouty (The Secret Team: The CIA & its Allies in Control of the United States & the World)
If Pulcheria were able to pose as the human embodiment of the Theotokos, in so doing she would be blurring the line between Christianity and the rituals of imperial cult, which had existed since pagan times. This would also raise the disturbing question, whether it was the bishop or the imperial family who had the right to define the nature of Christian piety and liturgical practice. A law of Theodosius II promulgated in 425, for example, reassures those who fail to participate in some public ceremony related to civic cult in order to attend a church service because 'due reverence is paid to the emperor when God is worshipped'. This law reveals that Christian liturgy had now taken precedence over the old civic cult, but it also shows a blurring between the person of the emperor and the person of Christ. One can see why a bishop of Constantinople might have resisted this. Nestorius may have suspected that Theodosius was using Pulcheria to draw the Church even more tightly under the control of the imperial family.
Kate Cooper (Band of Angels: The Forgotten World of Early Christian Women)
And yet they persist in the belief that everyone should draw the same conclusion if given the same information, as though reason operated according to an obligatory physics, like the optics of an eye. These book club members aren’t alone. We are raised believing that reasonable discourse can establish the superiority of one line of thought over another. The underlying presumption is that each of us has an innate faculty of reason that can overcome our perceptual differences and see a problem from the “optimal perspective.” One goal of this book is to dispel this misconception.
Robert A. Burton (On Being Certain: Believing You Are Right Even When You're Not)
In this framework, although church discipline is being thought through afresh by many Christian groups,44 one of the areas where more thought is still needed is the manner in which churches that draw lines in the moral arenas—however graciously, humbly, gently, sometimes by degrees, but also firmly—are not only taking steps to align themselves with Scripture (and with the main strands of Christian heritage, for that matter), but are taking on the culture. Such steps become not only a matter of nurturing and protecting the faithful, but of showing a pluralistic world what Christian living looks like. This will alienate some; under God’s good hand, it will draw others, not least because the freedoms promised by pluralism are tearing society apart. In any case, we have little choice: elementary faithfulness demands it.
D.A. Carson (The Gagging of God: Christianity Confronts Pluralism)
He drew maps of Bulgaria in the dust, enormous as it had been more than five centuries ago, before the Turks had taken over our land. He’d draw a circle around the North and say “This is called Moesia. This is where we live, free at last, thanks to the Russian brothers.” Then he’d circle the South. “This is Thrace. It stayed part of the Turkish empire for seven years after the North was freed, but now we are one, united. And this,” he’d say and circle farther south, “is Macedonia. Home to Bulgarians, but still under the fez.” He’d brush fingers along the lines and watch the circles for a long time, put arrows where he thought the Russians should invade and crosses where battles should be waged. Then he’d spit in the dust and draw the rest of Europe and circle it, and circle Africa and Asia. “One day, siné, all these continents will be Bulgarian again. And maybe the seas.
Miroslav Penkov (East of the West)
In assessing what happened in the Netherlands under Nazi occupation, later generations were quick to draw hard lines between good and evil, but they hadn’t experienced the war and all its ambiguity firsthand, and it was all too easy to see things as black or white. But those who had lived through it knew better: only the dead were blameless. All survivors had something to feel guilty about—if only the mere fact that they were still alive while so many others, some of whom had surely been better, braver, more deserving than they, were not.
Annejet van der Zijl (The Boy Between Worlds)
Instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, searching my face. "You think I'm heartless." "I know you're not. But I won't tell you it's okay," I say. Now he draws back, almost impatiently. "Katniss, what difference is there, really, between crushing our enemy in a mine or blowing them out of the sky with one of Beetee's arrows? The result is the same." "I don't know. We were under attack in Eight, for one thing. The hospital was under attack," I say. "Yes, and those hoverplanes came from District Two," he says. "So, by taking them out, we prevented further attacks." "But that kind of thinking...you could turn it into an argument for killing anyone at any time. You could justify sending kids into the Hunger Games to prevent the districts from getting out of line," I say.
Suzanne Collins (Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3))
wondered about consciousness as a kind of “continuous fabric” that allows you to go “anywhere under certain conditions.” Paul’s response was complex. He agreed with what I said, but added, “At the same time, you get, like it flexes in. Your energy, you could, when you die, you’ll like retract a little bit to that core consciousness, and the memories of who you are still very much here and very much incorporated into that energy. Very much so! And it goes back into the whole and the whole grows back again and then you come back . . . The memories are there, but it’s kind of like you push back out again, and you take form again . . . you seem like you feel that independence because you’re so focused into one direction, into one purpose, like coming back molecularly and drawing from everything, drawing from all because of what you’re connected to . . . The lines that you have to where you’re really from are ominous power. It’s enormous! But, like, since you’re pushing forward you forget what’s behind you. That’s what I think held me. I think those are those cords, in a way, that I’m feeling behind me, maybe. I’m not sure.
John E. Mack (Abduction: Human Encounters with Aliens)
The Beginning Meet me back at the beginning. Where the stars lined up and parted the skies, drawing a line from me to you. Meet me in the space. Where we reached inside the darkness, touched hearts, and found each other. Meet me under the trees. Where we lay, spending countless hours retelling our pasts in grand detail. Meet me under the arch. Where we professed our love and promised for better or for worse. Meet me at worse. Where we chose to ignore the promises and the trees as we navigated the dark void of stars.
Alfa Holden (She Wears Pain Like Diamonds: Poems)
The overarching concept of the MacOS was the “desktop metaphor,” and it subsumed any number of lesser (and frequently conflicting, or at least mixed) metaphors. Under a GUI, a file (frequently called “document”) is metaphrased as a window on the screen (which is called a “desktop”). The window is almost always too small to contain the document and so you “move around,” or, more pretentiously, “navigate” in the document by “clicking and dragging” the “thumb” on the “scroll bar.” When you “type” (using a keyboard) or “draw” (using a “mouse”) into the “window” or use pull-down “menus” and “dialog boxes” to manipulate its contents, the results of your labors get stored (at least in theory) in a “file,” and later you can pull the same information back up into another “window.” When you don’t want it anymore, you “drag” it into the “trash.” There is massively promiscuous metaphor-mixing going on here,
Neal Stephenson (In the Beginning...Was the Command Line)
grown to love since he’d been introduced to it. Her tongue slid over his and caused his dick to harden more. He wanted to toss her on the bed, flip her over, and yank her ass into the air just to be inside her welcoming body but kissing was important to her. He began to see the draw as he licked her back, his excitement growing when he mimicked what he’d like to do to her by delving deeper to take what she offered. He tore at her shirt. The material ripped but Alli didn’t pull away. He just wanted to feel her skin, all of it, every inch. He hated anything that barred him access to any part of her body. A snarl tore from him, muffled between their mouths, when one of his palms cupped her breast. It was soft and pliable, the nipple instantly pebbling when his fingertips brushed it. Alli wiggled on his lap. She broke the kiss he was enjoying. He was afraid she’d tell him to stop but instead of just getting off his lap, she lifted up and turned to plant her knees on each side of his hips when she straddled his lap. Her hands cupped his cheeks and she kissed him again. He didn’t need instructions anymore. He dominated her with his tongue, enjoying the taste of her and the way their panted breaths mingled. Obsidian needed her. He released her breast to grip her waist. The thin pants she wore gave easily when he dug his fingertips under the band of them and pulled. Material tore to reveal skin. Alli stopped kissing him back and gasped but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He ripped the things more, shredding them enough to reach between her thighs. She was as wet and welcoming as he imagined she’d be when his fingers traced the line of her sex. With her legs spread wide apart he had no difficulty sliding one finger inside the tight confines of her pussy. She threw her head back, breaking the connection of their mouths. He saw the line of her neck exposed. Instinct and need struck him hard. He homed
Laurann Dohner (Obsidian (New Species Book 8))