Dwyer Quotes

You can’t just hope for happy endings. You have to believe in them. Then do the work, take the risks.

What’s an adventure if you know all the steps before you take them?

When did we get here? At this place of tallied wrongs and rights. This place where we speak the same language but cannot understand each other's words.

Love isn’t a prize given on merit, or something to be taken back when there’s a mistake. It’s a gift, as much for the giver as the one who’s given it.

The only person we have the right or the power to forgive is ourselves. For everything else, there is the Art of Acceptance.

Change Your Thoughts - Change Your Life: If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.

I forgot about this. People who can laugh at shitty things. People who don't think the sky is falling when something small goes wrong. They call it perspective. Or being jaded. Or worse, a grateful attitude. Really, it's just survival. A word I hate as much as I own.

If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change.

And this is why tears are falling down my cheeks. Not because of Sandry's kindness, but because of all the people who are supposed to be kind and aren't.

Coming from something doesn't make it what you are.

And it was never but once a year that they were brought together anyway, and that was on the neutral, dereligionized ground of Thanksgiving, when everybody gets to eat the same thing, nobody sneaking off to eat funny stuff--no kugel, no gefilte fish, no bitter herbs, just one colossal turkey for two hundred and fifty million people--one colossal turkey feeds all. A moratorium on the three-thousand-year-old nostalgia of the Jews, a moratorium on Christ and the cross and the crucifixion of the Christians, when everyone in New Jersey and elsewhere can be more passive about their irrationalities than they are the rest of the year. A moratorium on all the grievances and resentments, and not only for the Dwyers and the Levovs but for everyone in America who is suspicious of everyone else. It is the American pastoral par excellence and it lasts twenty-four hours.

You can’t just hope for happy endings. You have to believe in them. Then do the work, take the risks. Slay the dragon—though I really think dragons get a bad rap—kiss the princess, or the frog, defeat the bad witch.

Love shouldn’t be hard.” “There I think you’re wrong. I think it should be the hardest thing there is, then it’s not so easily given away, or taken away, or just lost.

A few months earlier, when a state official named Bud Dwyer was similarly accused of corruption, he called a press conference, pulled out a gun and, as cameras rolled, blew his brains out. This led to an excellent local joke.

Giving feels fantastic and for there to be a Giver, there must be a Receiver, so allowing yourself to receive is an act of love.

It’s the heart that gets us through the hard times, and gives us joy.

What people know, what they believe, what they accept? Those are all different matters, aren't they?

Just—just let me believe that you'll do this with me. That you'll go and we..." "What about Tucker or someone else?" "There isn't anyone else. I don't want to see anything without you.

The summer air hugs me and I walk down dark roads without sidewalks and flat land that challenges the stars as both stretch out before me. When I was little I would walk and time the sound of my steps to the beats of my heart. It seems a habit I haven't outgrown. The sky here is the same one in California, but I feel like all these stars know me. They watched me as I grew tall enough to try to reach them. And they saw every single one of my heartbreaks bleed against the dirt here.

the feelings that got caught in my throat and strangled my mind as I tried to put words to the sea of emotions that lived under my skin

It's better to see and know you're a fool than to keep your eyes shut and keep acting like one.

Love can fade and die. I’ve seen it. It can grow and build as well. I think when it’s real and meant, it can only grow bigger and stronger.

Friends are friends whenever you make them.

Bridges are burned, Iona reminded herself, for the chance to build new ones. Wherever they led--and they'd already brought her closer to who she was than any of the ones before.

I move at a pace that suits me.

Do you believe in reincarnation? ... I was wondering why some connections seem so easy, so natural, as if they'd already been made and are getting picked up again.

Love, as he knew too well, could slice you to pieces and leave no visible scar.

As long as there’s choice, the end is never set.

Tatty says oh yes, she knows what he's like. But when she thinks about it, she doesn't.

Staying busy is a powerful dam for your emotions, and when that’s gone, you’re left with nothing.

I'm not after romance. It's the sort of thing that weakens resolve and clouds sense.

People too often knock down the old for the new instead of understanding that legacy.

He looks fierce and dignified at the same time. Can I pet him?

The greater suffering sometimes is not being able to choose our own suffering.

It’s better to see and know you’re a fool than to keep your eyes shut and keep acting like one.

The world needs lovers who fit, or how would we go on? To be only one of one for a life? That’s a lonely life.

A gift should never be squandered on what you can do with your wit and your hands or your back.

Any tiny little thing that people do,” Dwyer said, if it makes them different from one another, from the idealized standard of herd behavior, “is going to reduce infection rates.

Until I talked to Primus Dwyer, I wouldn’t decide anything on the Lump,

Elliot grinned. ‘I’m one of the founding partners of Stryker, West, Dwyer, Coffey, and Nichols.

She wanted him happy, more even than she wanted happiness for herself. And yet, knowing he was on his way to finding what he didn’t yet know he wanted made her feel so painfully alone.

We are very dangerous to the enemy of our souls when we know exactly who we are. “We are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them

Love isn’t a prize given on merit, or something to be taken back when there’s a mistake. It’s a gift, as much for the giver as the one who’s given it. The day you’ll take it, hold it, you won’t be afraid.

It’s different with a parent, isn’t it? They have to consider constantly whether to say yes or no, now or later. They have to discipline and enforce as well as love and tend. You’ll only have to love, and they’ll soak all that up like sponges.

The transmission of SARS, Dwyer said, seems to depend much on super spreaders—and their behavior, not to mention the behavior of people around them, can be various. The mathematical ecologist’s term for variousness of behavior is “heterogeneity,” and Dwyer’s models have shown that heterogeneity of behavior, even among forest insects, let alone among humans, can be very important in damping the spread of infectious disease. “If you hold mean transmission rate constant,” he told me, “just adding heterogeneity by itself will tend to reduce the overall infection rate.” That sounds dry. What it means is that individual effort, individual discernment, individual choice can have huge effects in averting the catastrophes that might otherwise sweep through a herd. An individual gypsy moth may inherit a slightly superior ability to avoid smears of NPV as it grazes on a leaf. An individual human may choose not to drink the palm sap, not to eat the chimpanzee, not to pen the pig beneath mango trees, not to clear the horse’s windpipe with his bare hand, not to have unprotected sex with the prostitute, not to share the needle in a shooting gallery, not to cough without covering her mouth, not to board a plane while feeling ill, or not to coop his chickens along with his ducks. “Any tiny little thing that people do,” Dwyer said, if it makes them different from one another, from the idealized standard of herd behavior, “is going to reduce infection rates.

The sparkling smile became enormous. ‘Do you think she has a dagger there? Do you? Ask her, M. Francis? For,’ said the most noble and most powerful Princess Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland, delving furiously under all the stiff red velvet, showing shift, hose and garters, shoes, knees and a long ribboned end of something recently torn loose, and emerging therefrom with a fist closed tight on an object short and hard and glittering, ‘for I have!’ And breathlessly, flinging back her head, with the little knife offered like a quill, ‘Try to stab me!’ she encouraged her visitor. There was a queer silence, during which the eyes of Oonagh O’Dwyer and her love of one night met and locked like magnet and iron. The child, waiting a moment, offered again, the ringing, joyful defiance still in her voice. ‘Try to stab me! … Go on, and I’ll kill you all dead!’ Her throat dry, Oonagh spoke. ‘Save your steel for those you trust. They are the ones who will carry your bier; the men who cannot hate, nor can they know love. Send away the cold servants.’ The red mouth had opened a little; the knife hung forgotten in her hand. ‘I would,’ said Mary, surprised. ‘But I do not know any.’ And, anxiously demonstrating her point, she caught Lymond by the hand.

God I'm crazy about him." "It's early yet for crazy isn't it?" "Don't you know when you know? Five minutes, five years - how does that change what you know? I wanted to know with the man I was with before. I tried to know. I liked him, and I was comfortable with him. I told myself, 'Give it more time', but time didn't change anything. Not for either of us as it turned out.

forced to realise that Jobs was, for all his visionary genius, deeply flawed, odd and capricious …’ Davin O’Dwyer, Irish Times ‘This is an authorised but brutally honest account of the life of a legend of our age’ Herald Sun ‘Isaacson has done an outstanding

Her name can’t really be Myrtle Combat, can it?” “Of course not,” Erica replied. “Her real name is Prudence Buttercup, but that made her sound more like an interior decorator than an assassin. So she changed it. Lots of female assassins have pseudonyms: Dinah Mite, Barb Dwyer, Kay Ottic.

The PRC’s “deterritorialized nationalism” is compatible with the commoditization of national sovereignty practice of many Mekong countries in which large-scale, long-term land concessions are granted to Chinese companies for lucrative investment in megaprojects (Dwyer 2007). Deterritorialized nationalism mobilized through xin yimin is at

CHRIS PRATT (ANDY DWYER): Chris had the best audition I had ever seen. No one knew his work and he came in and crushed. He is a comedy savant and a natural actor in a way I have never really seen. Each take is different and hilarious and completely unexpected. His character was only supposed to be on the show for six episodes, which seems ridiculous now.

The Voters are Coming!

Our primary vocation is to be loved by God. What a radically freeing idea. If we simply allow God to love us, then we have done the most important work of our lives.

I’m a mild disappointment to them, which is worse somehow than being a serious disappointment. So I’m working hard not to be any kind of disappointment to myself.” She

The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it. —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.

I won’t argue. It’s different for everyone, isn’t it? Love, magick, and how we see and deal. And in each, the choices we make.

Or better yet, may all the gods who ever were bless us, and help us send the bloody bastard to hell.

sweetest of nature, and very likely promises of exotic sexual favors to convince Boyle to let anyone

A thousand and a thousand times.

Nature was as full of cruelty as of beauty, he knew all too well.

When you’ve had less than little in some things, you’re grateful for even a spoonful of more.

From this day forward, she thought, this was home. One she’d make herself, for herself. This was her life, one she’d live as she wanted. If that wasn’t magick, what was?

The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.

How we ever came from the same parents is a wonder. Nothing suits you more than a crowd, and nothing suits me less.

me.

someone to commit a crime

Was it genes or magick? she wondered. But then, for some, one was the same as the other

What you have is as much a part of you as the color of your eyes, the shape of your mouth.

One day I looked at him and thought, Why? I mean, we didn’t have anything for each other but habit and convenience, and people need more, don’t they?

A FINE THING IT WAS TO GIVE SOMEONE THE LINGERING glow of memories.

You’re thinking too much. Try being in the moment. It’ll amaze you.

His eyes are on my mouth and I’m waiting for the truth to leave his. Say it. Say it. Say it.

earlier to—it was no secret—rejuvenate the Agency. He was a star, one of the best-known agents of the moment, and represented a host of writers I loved—Mary Gaitskill, Kelly Dwyer, Melanie Thernstrom—and just as many that I’d long wanted to read, like Jim Carroll and Richard Bausch. His writers published in magazines I read—Granta, Harper’s, The Atlantic—and seemed

You don’t cheat, steal, or lie. You don’t misuse animals or take advantage of those weaker than you. You don’t spoil for a fight—which is a rule come to be in the last few years—but you don’t walk away from one. You stand for your friends and for your round in the pub. You never touch a woman who belongs to another, and you don’t give your word unless you intend to keep it.

No puedes esperar que existan los finales felices. Tienes que creer en ellos. Luego haz el trabajo, asume los riesgos. Mata al dragón, besa a la princesa, o a la rana, y derrota a la malvada bruja.

My job as a coach isn't to 'fix' people it is to 'break' them and empower them to connect to their spirit and trust that they will be re-built into a new improved version given a little time and patience.

We’re a superstitious breed, we Irish, and wise enough to build around a faerie hill without disturbing it, to leave a stone dance where it stands. And to keep back from a place where the dark still thrums.

May my life be a continual prayer, a long act of love. May nothing distract me from You, no noise or distractions. I would so love, my Master, to live with You in silence. But what I love above all is to do Your will, and since You want me to be in the world at present, I submit myself with all my heart for love of You. I offer You the cell of my heart to be your little Bethany; come and live there, I love You so much.

My job as a Mind Body Spirit Coach is not to 'fix' people, it is to 'break' them and empower them to connect to their spirit and trust that they will be re-built slightly differently given a little time and patience.

Symbols are important. The Christians followed the pagans there, carving and painting their one God as the old ones carved and painted the many. Neither understand that the one is part of the many, the many part of the one.

Forgiveness isn’t something he cares about; it’s the forgetting that matters. If you forget, then when they do it again, the sins don’t pile up on top of each other. This is what he does. He gets you excited about tiny victories

of you, you’re mine, and that’s a gift I’ll always treasure. Every one of you is a gift to me, a blend of friends and family that’s stronger and truer and brighter than anything I ever imagined having. So, to all of us, together.

It was in part her growing faith that made even the stuff of the earth seem lovelier. Prayer makes us more alive. It makes life richer, color more vivid, sounds clear, light brighter, joy deeper, sorrow sweeter. It is not compartmentalized into a spiritual square, stacked away in a closet to be pulled out in a quiet time, but it is messy, in a beautiful way, spilling out over life like sunshine. And Elizabeth that was wholly alive, embracing the world with true joy.

He wants me to tell him how proud I am. Forgiveness isn't something he cares about; it's the forgetting that matters. If you forget, then when they do it again, the sins don't pile up on top of each other. This is what he does. He gets you excited about tiny victories.

You’ve good speed and agility, and endurance enough. But you’ve no killer in the blood, and so you’ll always be bested.” Iona rubbed her butt. “I never planned on killing anyone.” “Plans change,” Branna pointed out. “Fix those flowers now, as it’s your rump that crushed them.

I’d have taken anything you’d given. I’d have wrapped my own gauzy layers around it and convinced myself that it was right. But it would never have been right. I can’t be happy, not really down-to-the-bone happy, with less than I need. And if I’m not happy, I can’t make someone else happy.

I love you. Iona Sheehan, I love you. Give me a bloody answer.” “It was yes as soon as you opened your mouth. I just wanted to hear it all. It was yes the minute you asked.” He blinked at her slowly, then narrowed his eyes. “It was yes? It’s yes?” “I love you. There’s nothing I want more than to marry you.” “Yes?

Shut up, shut up, she ordered herself, but nerves overwhelmed her. “You have a wonderful operation. Meara showed me around. And you’re right. Alastar has spirit, and a strong will, but he’s not mean. Not innately. He’s just mad and unsettled, finding himself in a strange place, with people and horses he’s not used to. Now he has something to prove, especially to Boyle.

There is nothing I can salvage from this accusation, and the eyes pool, as I lose. From left side to right side, Queen’s Square’s bookends are the Bretts and the Blows, two overlarge and knowing Manchester families. Sitting on a thousand secrets, they are central to everything, vitalized and full of life – not rough, but happy – escapist and impossible to match. Both families welcome ours, the Dwyers, with doors always open in a way that modernists assume never actually happened. The Blows live at the end house in the square, rammed up against the high wall of Loreto, their annual November 5th bonfire drawing in all of the Square’s residents, unifying the leathery old with the darting young. Even Mr Tappley, who lives alone under his flat cap, creeps out to watch, determined to be unimpressed. Life

As she rubbed, as she crooned, Connor’s eyes fluttered open. He found himself staring up into Meara’s pale face and teary eyes. “What? Why am I on the floor? I hadn’t gotten drunk yet.” He reached up, brushed a tear from Meara’s cheek. “Don’t cry, darling.” He struggled to sit up, teetered a bit. “Well, here we all are, sitting on Fin’s kitchen floor. If we’re going to spin the bottle, I’d like to be the one to empty it first.

With blood and tears we spill our fears.” She waved a hand over the cauldron, and the liquid within began to stir. “A pinch of salt times four to close and bolt the door. Weeds to bind, berries to blind. My children he will not see, and they will live safe and free. Pretty petals tinged with hate, scented sweet and so to bait. Boil it all in fire and smoke, and on this potion Cabhan chokes. When I call he comes to me, as I will, so mote it be.

And it was never but once a year that they were brought together anyway, and that was on the neutral, dereligionized ground of Thanksgiving, when everybody gets to eat the same thing, nobody sneaks off to eat funny stuff--no kugel, no gefilte fish, no bitter herbs, just one colossal turkey for two hundred and fifty million people--one colossal turkey feeds all. A moratorium on funny foods and funny ways and religious exclusivity, a moratorium on the three-thousand-year-old nostalgia of the Jews, a moratorium on Christ and the cross and the crucifixion for the Christians, when everyone in New Jersey and elsewhere can be more passive about their irrationalities than they are the rest of the year. A moratorium on all the grievances and resentments, and not only for the Dwyers and the Levovs but for everyone in America who is suspicious of everyone else. It is the American pastoral par excellence and it lasts twenty-four hours.

And it was never but once a year that they were brought together anyway, and that was on the neutral, dereligionized ground of Thanksgiving, when everybody gets to eat the same thing, nobody sneaking off to eat funny stuff—no kugel, no gefilte fish, no bitter herbs, just one colossal turkey for two hundred and fifty million people—one colossal turkey feeds all. A moratorium on funny foods and funny ways and religious exclusivity, a moratorium on the three-thousand-year-old nostalgia of the Jews, a moratorium on Christ and the cross and the crucifixion for the Christians, when everyone in New Jersey and elsewhere can be more passive about their irrationalities than they are the rest of the year. A moratorium on all the grievances and resentments, and not only for the Dwyers and the Levovs but for everyone in America who is suspicious of everyone else. It is the American pastoral par excellence and it lasts twenty-four hours.

The state of you,’ Senan says in disgust. ‘I’m grand,’ Bobby says, miffed. ‘Mr Dwyer,’ Mart tells Cal, ‘is the finest distiller in three counties. A master craftsman, so he is.’ Malachy smiles modestly. ‘Every now and then, when Malachy has a particularly fine product on his hands, he’s gracious enough to bring some of it in here to share with us. As a service to the community, you might say. I thought you deserved an opportunity to sample his wares.’ ‘I’m honoured,’ Cal says. ‘Although I feel like if I had any sense I’d be scared, too.’ ‘Ah, no,’ Malachy says soothingly. ‘It’s a lovely batch.’ He produces, from under the table, a shot glass and a two-litre Lucozade bottle half-full of clear liquid. He pours Cal a shot, careful not to spill a drop, and hands it over. ‘Now,’ he says. The rest of the men watch, grinning in a way that Cal doesn’t find reassuring. The liquor smells suspiciously innocuous. ‘For Jaysus’ sake, don’t be savouring the bloody bouquet,’ Mart orders him. ‘Knock that back.’ Cal knocks it back. He’s expecting it to go down like kerosene, but it tastes of almost nothing, and the burn doesn’t have enough harshness even to make him grimace. ‘That’s good stuff,’ he says. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Mart says. ‘Smooth as cream. This fella’s an artist.’ Right then the poteen hits Cal; the banquette turns insubstantial beneath him and the room circles in slow jerks. ‘Whoo!’ he says, shaking his head. The alcove roars with laughter, which comes to Cal as a pulsing jumble of sound some distance away. ‘That’s some serious firepower you got there,’ he says. ‘Sure, that was only to give you the flavour of it,’ Malachy explains. ‘Wait till you get started.’ ‘Last year,’ Senan tells Cal, jerking a thumb at Bobby, ‘this fella here, after a few goes of that stuff—’ ‘Ah, now,’ Bobby protests. People are grinning. ‘—he got up out of that seat and started shouting at the lot of us to bring him to a priest. Wanted to make his confession. At two o’clock in the morning.’ ‘What’d you done?’ Cal asks Bobby. He’s not sure whether Bobby will hear

Evil is part of this world, as it’s part of your job, and it will remain so until the end of days, I’m afraid. You need to counterbalance it with the good. Find the good.

You ever stop to think about the evil in this world?” Father Brennan chuckled. “Of course. The evil in this world can seem quite overwhelming sometimes, but we have a choice to give in to it or not. For example, you choose to see evil because you’re tasked with bringing murderers to justice. People who watch television see evil because that’s what sells, so that’s all the media shows them. Me, I choose to see life. I see the joy of a new mother holding her child for the first time. I hear the laughter of newlyweds as they walk down the church aisle together as husband and wife. I see the joy of a family getting together for the holidays. These are the things that give me hope. I’ve seen the dark side too. More times than I wish to count. But I balance it with the good. I suggest you do the same. Evil is part of this world, as it’s part of your job, and it will remain so until the end of days, I’m afraid. You need to counterbalance it with the good. Find the good.

lasted for almost two years.

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I miss him,” she whispered. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I just can’t believe it.