Duncan Williams Quotes

I go and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.

His silver skin laced with his golden blood.

It is through prayer that we destroy the kingdom of Darkness and enforce the judgment written that the Gates of Hell shall not prevail - Prayer Moves God, Archbishop Nicholas Duncan-Williams

Media has the ability to make good seem evil and evil seem good.

Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man. The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin laced with his golden blood, And his gashed stabs looked like a breach in nature             For ruin's wasteful entrance; there the murderers, Steeped in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breeched with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known?

The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, “Hold, hold!

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly: if the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch With his surcease success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust; First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other.

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace. With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. [a bell rings] I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Ones life will have much more meaning and happiness if one makes their own decisions

Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.

he took political sketch-writing to a new level, invented sports commentary as we know it, and created the essay-form as practised by Clive James, Gore Vidal, and Michael Foot.

My dearest love, Duncan is coming here tonight. LADY MACBETH: And when goes hence?

Plato’s term for soul-suture: “the fastening of heaven.” Rumi’s term: “the cord of causation.” Plotinus’s: “our tutelary spirit, not bound up with our nature, not the agent in our action, belonging to us as belonging to our soul, as the power which consummates the chosen life.” And American poets have discovered this magic, too! Denise Levertov speaks of a thread, finer than spider’s silk, that pulls at her, keeps her company, guides her. William Stafford speaks of a thread we can follow as it pierces things that change, yet itself never changes. That these spirit threads, as Plotinus says, aren’t ours, that they’re the soul’s own unbreakable extensions, is why they have the

There were a number of early water-powered mills around Green Hill.  Duncan Smith, Berry McDonald, Thomas Ross, Isham Richardson, and Enoch Raleigh Kennedy had gristmills on Cow Pen Creek. 

William Duncan Strong was a scholar, a man ahead of his time: quiet, careful and meticulous in his work, averse to spectacle and publicity. He was among the first to establish that Mosquitia had been inhabited by an ancient, unknown people who were not Maya. Strong spent five months traversing Honduras in 1933, going by dugout canoe up the Río Patuca and several of its tributaries. He kept an illustrated journal, which is preserved in the Smithsonian’s collections—packed with detail and many fine drawings of birds, artifacts, and landscapes.

Hadn't Gary Gygax simply invented a game, and an esoteric one at that? It was hardly a footnote in the increasingly fast and complex information age that we live in. What was all the fuzz about? The reason for all the fuzz among those who understood his work was simple. Gary Gygax and his seminal game creation, Dungeons & Dragons, had influenced and transformed the world in extraordinary ways. Yet, much of his contribution would also go largely unrecognised by the general public. Although it is debatable whether D&D ever became a thoroughly mainstream activity, as a 1983 New York Times article had speculated, referring to it as the great game of the 1980's, D&D and its RPG derivatives are beloved by a relatively small but dedicated group of individuals affectionately known as 'geeks'. Although the term 'geek' is not exclusive to role-playing gamers, the activities of this particular audience have often been viewed as the most archetypal form of 'geekiness'. Labels aside, what is notable is that the activities of this RGP audience were highly correlated with interests in other activities such as early computers, digital technologies, visual effects, and the performing arts. In this way, these geeks, though relatively small in number, became in many instances the leaders and masters of this era. With the advent of the digital age, geeks worldwide found opportunity and recognition never previously available to their predecessors. Icons and innovators such as George R. R. Martin, Mike Myers, Richard Garriott, Vin Diesel, Tim Duncan, Anderson Cooper, David X. Cohen, John Carmak, Tim Harford, Moby, and the late Robin Williams, to name just a few, were all avid role-playing gamers in their younger years. The list of those who include D&D as a regular activity while growing up is both extensive and impressive.

Duncan had no other guide than a distant glimmering light, which served, however, the office of a polar star to the lover. By its aid he was enabled to enter the haven of his hopes, which was merely another apartment of the cavern, that had been solely appropriated to the safe-keeping of so important a prisoner as a daughter of the commandant of William Henry. It was profusely strewed with the plunder of that unlucky fortress. In the midst of this confusion he found her he sought, pale, anxious, and terrified, but lovely. David had prepared her for such a visit. “Duncan!” she exclaimed, in a voice that seemed to tremble at the sounds created by itself. “Alice” he answered, leaping carelessly among trunks, boxes, arms, and furniture, until he stood at her side. “I knew that you would never desert me,” she said, looking up with a momentary glow on her otherwise dejected countenance.

nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died 10 As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d, As ’twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

Timothy Theodore Duncan was born on April 25, 1976, to William and Ione Duncan. Duncan was raised in St. Croix, a small island that is part of the U.S. Virgin Islands located just east of Puerto Rico. The Duncan’s were a tall, athletic family.

Masumi Kimura (her maiden name) was ten years old and living with her parents in Madera, California, when the Japanese planes attacked Pearl Harbor. More than sixty years later, she still vividly recalled the tension and fear that gripped her family and hometown that December day. Word had quickly spread that all the Buddhist priests at the nearby Fresno Buddhist Temple had been arrested, and white teenagers had shot up the temple’s front door.

We are living in very interesting times, and the enemy wants us to talk on prosperity, breakthrough, success, and every other thing except the coming of the Lord.

Before concluding the discussion on Partridge’s connection to the Stoic tradition, I present what is probably the greatest proof Partridge was a Stoic: he suffered the public doom of one. Ironically, Partridge may have missed a powerful warning about his own fate within one of the key texts he used in his academies. A footnote within William Duncan’s translation of Cicero’s orations recalls the ill fortune of Quintus Aelius Tubero in the eyes of the people of Rome caused by his Stoic behavior at the funeral of Scipio Africanus: "[It was the same from the study of Tubero] Cicero here ridicules the doctrine of the Stoics, shows the absurdities into which it may betray a man and paints the ill consequences that often arise from it. [Quintus Aelius] Tubero, of whom he speaks here had professed himself a Stoic and resolved to regulate his conduct by the tenets of that sect. Accordingly, in an entertainment he gave the Roman people on occasion of the death of the great Scipio Africanus he made use of plain wooden beds, goat skin covers, and earthen dishes. But this ill-timed parsimony was so displeasing to the Roman people that when he afterwards stood for the prætorship they refused him their suffrages though a man of illustrious birth and the most distinguished virtue." Is there a passage more fitting for the legacy of Partridge and his Stoic behavior? Even when Partridge had built an ideal model for educating a complete virtue-driven citizen worthy of the Republic, few would find the lifestyle required appealing. Being a virtuous man with a sufficient plan for American education was not enough to guarantee his acceptance among the masses.