Eaton Ups Quotes

Can you tell me where to find Tobias'? I ask. When I imagine his face, affection for him bubbles up inside of me and all I want to do is kiss him. 'Four, I mean. He's so handsome, isn't he? I don't really understand why he likes me so much. I'm not very nice, am I?' -Tris

I can be a new person,someone who doesn't put up with cutting comments from Erudite know-it-alls.Someone who can cut back.Someone who's finally ready to fight. Four.

Something is unfolding, being revealed to me. I see that there's a whole world of of girls and their doings that has been unknown to me, and that I can be part of without making any effort at all. I don't have to keep up with anyone, run as fast, aim as well, make loud explosive noises, decode messages, die on cue. I don't have to think about whether I do these things well, as well as a boy. All I have to do is sit on the floor and cut frying pans our of the Eaton's Catalogue with embroidery scissors, and say I've done it badly.

Sometimes your brain can’t compute what your eyes see. Sometimes you need to stare, hoping maybe you’ll wake up and find out everything was a dream. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t wake up.

If I wanted to put up with Candor smart-mouths, I would have joined their faction.

Those who know in their hearts that they are not really necessary -- and are entirely replaceable-- must inevitably be tempted to misrepresent the nature of their work and build up a false notion of its importance. A further alienation from truth takes place, a further loss of contact with reality. And one thing we can be sure of is that self-deception, whether on the level of the wind and the rain or on that of spiritual reality, must always come up against the real sooner or later, and that its destruction is very painful.

I begin to want things I've never wanted before: braids, a dressing-gown, a purse of my own. Something is unfolding, being revealed to me. I see that there's a whole world of girls and their doings that has been unknown to me, and that I can be part of it without making any effort at all. I don't have to keep up with anyone, run as fast, aim as well, make loud explosive noises, decode messages, die on cue. I don't have to think whether I've done these things well, as well as a boy. All I have to do is sit on the floor and cut frying pans out of the Eaton's Catalogue with embroidery scissors, and say I've done it badly. Partly this a relief.

At the mention of children, Connor halted his steps. For a moment Beatrice thought he was going to storm off, turn away from her and never look back. Instead he fell to one knee before her. Time went momentarily still. In some dazed part of her mind Beatrice remembered Teddy, kneeling stiffly at her feet as he swore to be her liege man. This felt utterly different. Even kneeling, Connor looked like a warrior, every line of his body radiating a tensed power and strength. "It kills me that I don't have more to offer you," he said roughly. "I have no lands, no fortune, no title. All I can give you is my honor, and my heart. Which already belongs to you." She would have fallen in love with him right then, if she didn't already love him so fiercely that every cell of her body burned with it. "I love you, Bee. I've loved you for so long I've forgotten what it felt like not to love you." "I love you, too." Her eyes stung with tears. "I get that you have to marry someone before your dad dies. But you can't marry Teddy Eaton." She watched as he fumbled in his jacket for something - had he bought a ring? She thought wildly - but what he pulled out instead was a black Sharpie. Still kneeling before her, he slid the diamond engagement ring off Beatrice's finger and tucked it in the pocket of her jacket. Using the Sharpie, he traced a thin loop around the skin of Beatrice's finger, where the ring had been. "I'm sorry it isn't a real ring, but I'm improvising here." There was a nervous catch to Connor's voice that Beatrice hadn't heard before. But when he looked up and spoke his next words, his face glowed with a fierce, fervent hope. "Marry me.

His hands shift to my shoulders, and his fingers brush over the edge of my bandage. He pulls back with a puckered brow. “Are you hurt?” he asks. “No. It’s another tattoo. It’s healed, I just…wanted to keep it covered up.” “Can I see?” I nod, my throat tight. I pull my sleeve down and slip my shoulder out of it. He stares down at my shoulder for a second, and then runs his fingers over it. They rise and fall with my bones, which stick out farther than I’d like. When he touches me, I feel like everywhere his skin meets mine is changed by the connection. It sends a thrill through my stomach. Not just fear. Something else, too. A wanting. He peels the corner of the bandage away. His eyes roam over the symbol of Abnegation, and he smiles. “I have the same one,” he says, laughing. “On my back.” “Really? Can I see it?” He presses the bandage over the tattoo and pulls my shirt back over my shoulder. “Are you asking me to undress, Tris?” A nervous laugh gurgles from my throat. “Only…partially.

The Hermit I’d gladly climb the highest steeple To escape those middle minded people Jet Set Wedding I wake up screaming clutching my wedding band The garnet ring is still a constant companion on my finger But what happened to the marriage? Fruitland Ave He taught her not to love nor hate And he my friend was double gate The Closing (On Death and Acceptance) When he died the funeral took place at her bank And sadly enough she’s down to her very last frank The Misogynist He sits on his throne a hilltop alone For women’s neurosis cause men’s psychosis Home Sweet Home The neurotic builds the dreamhouse The psychotic becomes his spouse Monogamy I’d rather be someone’s concubine, smell the honeysuckle Taste the wine, than end up being a clinging vine The Gour Maid I like champagne, and french brie, and camembert And men that don’t get in my hair

Bailey, shut up and let me fuck what belongs to me. We can talk later.

When are you going to grow out the ‘stache and go full Old Man Eaton?” He glares at me before he drops the post and lines up the pointed end with the spot he wants. “Dunno. When you cutting your hair, Rapunzel?

Tell me what to do, Summer. Tell me, and I’ll do it. Was I unclear before? Because I want to be crystal clear now. I love you. I loved you the moment you walked into that boardroom and smirked at me like you knew something I didn’t. It bothered me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wanting to know what you know. I fixated on it, but I think I was just fixated on you.” I process his words, soaking them in like a cat soaks up the sun. His cheeks flush, and his feet shift nervously. This is a lot of feeling talk for someone like Rhett Eaton. “And I still am. I always will be. This thing between us? For me? It’s everything. It’s it. You’re it. I’ve spent years thinking I didn’t have someone who really supported me. But that was only because I hadn’t met you yet. You were out there, wanting me. And all it took was one meeting with you for me to want you too. A few weeks for me to know that I’d do anything to support you too.” He shakes his head and peers out the window. “You were out there this whole time, and now I know you exist, and I can never go back. Wouldn’t want to if I could.

behaviors. Alcohol becomes more important because drinking it excessively tricks a primitive, unconscious part of our brain into believing it’s more critical to our survival than it actually is. The artificially high levels of dopamine that flood the brain when we ingest alcohol begin a cascade of other reactions and responses. The brain has a hedonic set point (a term coined by Dr. Kevin McCauley), which means that it both needs a certain amount of dopamine to register pleasure, and is programmed to downgrade levels of dopamine when we receive too much pleasure. Our bodies are constantly trying to find stasis, or balance, and the hedonic set point is an example of that. When high levels of dopamine are regularly released into the system from chronic use of alcohol, the dopamine is down-regulated (or balanced) by something called corticotropin-releasing factor, or CRF—a hormone that makes us feel anxious or stressed. If we flood our system with higher-than-normal levels of dopamine, we also flood our system with higher-than-normal levels of CRF, or anxiety. Over time, when our system is assaulted by surges of dopamine, our hedonic set point goes up (requiring more dopamine to feel good), and things that used to register as pleasurable (like warm hugs or our children’s laughter) don’t release enough dopamine to hit that raised baseline. To boot, activities that normally relieve stress, like a bath or a brisk walk, also lose their effectiveness. Alcohol becomes the quickest way our body learns to handle anxiety (which begets more anxiety because alcohol is a depressant, and the body reacts to it by releasing cortisol and adrenaline, which means the net effect of a glass of wine is more stress, not less). Our bodies are adaptive, and they adapt to an environment that expects the effects of alcohol. So here we are: we start using alcohol because it gives us more pleasure than sex and does more for stress management than chamomile tea. Over time it gets wrapped up in our survival response, so we are motivated to drink with the same force that motivates us to eat—only the force is stronger than the desire to eat because our midbrain, which ranks everything based on dopamine, thinks we need alcohol more than food. That seems like enough fuckery to contend with, but there’s more to the story.

A few years before his death in 1934 the great Algerian Sheikh, Ahmad al-'Alawi, became friendly with a Frenchman, Dr. Carret, who had been treating him for various minor ailments. One day Carrett tried to explain his agnosticism to the Sheikh, adding, however, that what most surprised him was that people who did claim to be religious 'should be able to go on attaching importance to this earthly life'. After a pause, the Sheikh said to him: 'It is a pity that you will not let your spirit rise above yourself. But whatever you may say and whatever you may imagine, you are nearer to God than you think'. In this confused age in which we now find ourselves there may be many a believer who is a kafir under the skin, and many a kafir who is closer than he knows to the God in whom he thinks he does not believe. It is important to be aware of these paradoxes because the distrust of religion - or at least of 'organized religion' - which is so widespread in the Western world, derives less from intellectual doubts than from a critical judgement of the way in which religious people are seen to behave. The agnostic does not concern himself with the supernatural dimensions of religion, let alone with ultimate truth. He sees only that part of the iceberg which is visible above the surface, and he judges this to be misshapen. The whole sad story is summed up in the wise child's prayer: 'Lord, please make good people religious and make religious people good'.

was still angry with me, but the opportunity didn’t arise until Thanksgiving Day. After a physical domestic, I’d had to respond to the hospital to get the victim’s statement. I was walking around the corner when a nurse darted out from behind a curtain and right into me. My hands went out automatically to stabilize the person, and I looked down to find Casey staring up into my face, cheeks turning redder by the millisecond. “Hi, Casey,” I whispered and stared down into her gorgeous eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.” Her mouth opened once, then twice, before she shook her head and stepped back out of my grasp. “Officer Wagner, I should be apologizing, I wasn’t watching where I was going. Is there something I can help you with?” “Casey,” I took a step closer and lowered my voice, “can’t we please talk for a second?” She stared at me for another second before she glanced at the nurse’s station, “I’m working, Officer Wagner.” She gave me her attention again, “Is there something I can help you with that pertains to work?” My anger began to build. Damn it, why was this woman being so stubborn! “Casey, come on, just give me two minutes.” She glared at me, “I told you before that we have

When I was communicating with the spirit world many years ago, time was explained to me as like a giant circle that loops back on itself. Perhaps it would help to explain the concept that past, present, and future are all happening simultaneously, and not on a linear path, and allows us to experience many lives at the same time. It also brings into play the concept of parallel dimensions. My brain finds this very hard to absorb, but Sid Caesar, a US actor, writer, and comedian, summed it up brilliantly:

Certain present-day tendencies make us wonder if succeeding generations of young people are not in danger of growing up impervious to style and insensitive to the quality of real literature. Granted the need for books for beginners in which the vocabulary is adapted to their ability, it is nevertheless disconcerting to find editors rewriting classics for children in what they consider to be more suitable language. Working material to aid a child’s learning process, material which is interesting and appropriate for his age, is needed, of course, but it should be provided without reducing a masterpiece to the commonplace. To the average fortunate child the classics among books written for children, and the classics in adult literature suitable for boys and girls, come naturally into his experience at a time when they can be appreciated and enjoyed. In the midst of the flood of the mediocre which assails the young person of the present day, a classic, here and there—Alice, Robinson Crusoe, Hawthorne’s Wonder Book, Gulliver’s Travels—provides, albeit unconsciously to the children, a touchstone to distinguish the work of a master hand from that of a journeyman. When these classics are rewritten, however, and “modified as to vocabulary,” the touchstone loses its power.

Like the Protestants of the sixteenth century, the Muslim fundamentalists are a relatively new force on the wider Islamic scene. Wahhabism—the dour, repressive creed espoused by the Saudis and the Osama bin Ladens of this world—only dates from the mid-eighteenth century. The strain of Islam that inspired the Taliban, which has become pretty much indistinguishable from Wahhabism, cropped up in India just a little over a century ago. So when we talk about Islamic fundamentalism, we are not talking about some ancient essence of Islam, we’re talking about something relatively modern.

Deep in thought, Alex was startled by the clink of the garden gate opening and closing again. Avigail’s face brightened as she replaced her teacup on its saucer and stood. “Ah, there you are. You look exhausted!” In her sixties, the woman walking up the garden path was tall and olive skinned, hair white as snow. The likeness to the professor is remarkable, Alex thought as he shook her hand. She even moves like him. “Dr. Stern, I’m Alex. I knew your father. I’m so sorry.” It was all he could think to say.

The Muslim Brotherhood was founded in 1928 in Egypt. In 1941, a senior member turned up in Berlin, where he spent much of the war and met Hitler. For most of its history, the Brotherhood has been outlawed.

Everything thrown away in Cairo, every soiled rag, old newspaper, or hunk of stale bread, began an unseen journey from the moment it was thrown in the trash. The Zabbaleen were a community made up mainly of Coptic Christians who eked out a meager existence collecting and disposing of the city’s waste. They generally performed this service for free, making a living through recycling. Invisible to mostCairenes, they lived on vast garbage dumps on the city fringe. Researching a story, Alex visited one of their settlements.

This part of the Sahara was made up of kilometer upon kilometer of shifting dunes, many more than two hundred meters high. The world’s highest dunes were in the Algerian part of the Sahara, soaring over four hundred and seventy meters, taller than the Empire State Building in New York.

Steps led up to the sanctuary, its two side chapels obscured by wooden screens elaborately adorned with carvings in wood and ivory. He could barely discern the canopied high altar or the apse with worn steps on which the priests of ancient times used to sit. Somewhere below his feet, beneath the cool flagstones, was the flooded crypt where it was believed the infant Jesus had taken shelter.

Few people know this, but the four Gospels of the New Testament were written anonymously and only later came to be called by the names of their reputed authors. I often hear people these days bemoaning what they see as the decline of Christianity into liberalism, by which they mean beliefs they see as unorthodox, not matching their own. Yet, if anything, the faith is becoming narrower. The diversity of early Christianity is staggering when compared with today. “What is more, the early Church knew far more Gospels than those that eventually came to be included in the New Testament. Sadly, most have not survived the centuries. But they have turned up in this part of the world with incredible regularity, particularly in the period following World War II.

What is more, the early Church knew far more Gospels than those that eventually came to be included in the New Testament. Sadly, most have not survived the centuries. But they have turned up in this part of the world with incredible regularity, particularly in the period following World War II. The Dead Sea Scrolls themselves were found around that time, as was the so-called Gospel of Thomas.

After the war, you adopted the girl?” “Yes. Her name is Rachel. Like me, she is an old woman now.” “And you found him, tracked him down?” “It wasn’t hard. When Rebekah’s father learned of the pregnancy, she was abruptly pulled out of boarding school and returned to Germany. She and Morton corresponded until the letters stopped getting through. It was about a year after that that the family was rounded up and sent east to the camps.

About that time, due to its growing popularity, the Egyptian government legalized the Brotherhood again, but only as a religious organization. It was, however, again banned in 1954 because it insisted that Egypt be governed under shari’a, or Islamic law. That year, Abdul Munim Abdul Rauf, a Brotherhood activist, was accused of trying to assassinate President Gamal Abdel Nasser and was executed, along with five others. Four thousand members were rounded up and jailed, and thousands of others fled to Syria, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Lebanon.

spooky parallels’ between Christian right-wingers and Islamic fundamentalists.” He was reading the first draft of an opinion piece Alex was toying with submitting to a European magazine. He quoted: “‘They both divvy up the world between the saved and the damned. Both have declared a holy war on secular culture and liberal democracy. They reject the separation of religion and state and seek to establish a new order based on their own interpretation of divine laws…

There are numerous manuscripts of the books of the New Testament, and none of them are identical. In fact, there are more than five thousand partial or full versions in Greek, and you may be shocked to learn there are more differences than anyone has been able to count. Estimates go up to three hundred thousand. Nobody knows for sure.

perhaps the spookiest parallels come in their views of the end of the world. A common scenario is a colossal confrontation in the desert in which the armies of God destroy the armies of Satan. Radical Muslims, of course, identify Israel and the United States as the forces of evil. Christian fundamentalists see Islam as the ultimate enemy…’ Hang on, that’s crap, that is.” Bairstow paused and looked up. “A bit simplistic, to say the least.

You rule with an iron fist, Daddy Eaton.” I groan, cheeks pinching up in distaste. “That’s what we call my dad.” A silent puff of air slips from her lips, the bottom one more full than the top. “Daddy Cade it is.

It’s never going to happen,” she told him, and in that moment, that was the honest truth. And he knew it. “Well, then I guess there’s no point.” He looked so serious, she laughed again. “To what?” “To us, I guess. To being together.” Two big fat teardrops fell onto his cheeks. What had she done? “Al, no,” she said, taking his hand in hers, which he accepted, without conviction. “Can I just take back everything I just said?” “Only if you truly didn’t mean any of it.” He wiped his eyes with his thumbs. “And I know you did mean all of it.” “But I don’t want to break up with you. We can figure this out.” “What’s there to figure out?” He shook his head and took his hand back. “Why can’t you just be a normal woman who wants to be a mom and have kids?” “That’s not normal for me, Al. And why can’t you be normal? Why do you have to be the one guy in the world who wants to be a dad at nineteen?” “My dad was nineteen when he had me and he was the best dad ever.” He took a deep breath, wiped his cheeks, and stood up. “I gotta go.” This was all happening too fast. Bobby Eaton hadn’t even come back yet to get their order. “What? Hey. Let’s talk about this.” “But there’s nothing to talk about.” He looked her in the face with his big teary eyes, and it ruined her. She watched Al leave the room, and knew then what she’d lost. The version of her he once saw, the one that was so incorrect and so beautiful and so loved, was gone.

When are you going to grow out the ‘stache and go full Old Man Eaton?” He glares at me before he drops the post and lines up the pointed end with the spot he wants. “Dunno. When you cutting your hair, Rapunzel?

I wonder how he’s feeling. I wonder if he knows what he’s doing. I wonder if he’ll regret changing his life for me. And the weight of that is downright crushing. I don’t go to my next appointment. I don’t think I can handle looking at another dining room and wondering about Beau. What I want is to crawl into bed with him and have him hold me. I don’t text him. I just drive back to the fire hall, prepared to wait for him if I have to. But I don’t have to. When I pull up, he’s seated on a bench in the sun, knees slung open, phone held low while he scrolls the screen. You’d think for a tier one operator he would notice me across the street, but he doesn’t. So I watch him. He smiles and his shoulders vibrate on a laugh. I wonder what he’s watching. I wonder how his interview went. I wonder how long he’s been waiting. I wonder if he’s hungry or if he ate lunch. I wonder if he’d be okay with me coming to sit beside him. It feels like my brain is just an ode to Beau Eaton. I think about him all the fucking time. Worry about him. Crave him.

Listen, shit gets ripped off at hospitals all the fucking time. I mean Jesus, who wants to work in a hospital? The money sucks and it's boring and disgusting and you can get attacked with like, staplers, because people are genuinely off their rockers, and if I tell anybody something's wrong—any little, the slightest nothing, anything—the whole entire desk gangs up on you like you're some traitor to their mind-blowing incompetence. By law, they have to call the police and file a report. It's a whole thing, a giant hassle, and they all hate you 'cause it means tossing the cells, it really is like jail only everybody knows it's somebody on staff, and that gets them extra table-flipping pissy because it's this big hot steaming pile of extra work for nothing!

Choose to find your purpose and never give up on making the world a better place.

Bailey, shut up and listen to me.” She chuckles softly with another eye roll before giving me back her full attention. “You fill me with purpose. Lifting you up gives me a reason. Seeing you smile makes me feel whole. And I’m never going to apologize for that. We’re symbiotic, you and me. Without you, this version of me doesn’t exist. Without the next version of you, the next version of me doesn’t exist either. We’re going to grow together.” “You’re fucking my makeup up, Eaton,” she murmurs dryly, wiping a stray tear off her face with the sleeve of her sweater.

Many aspects of our destiny come into play, and these can be stretched over numerous lifetimes. Sometimes we fulfill our destiny in one lifetime, but there are too many potential scenarios to generalize. We all have specific destiny points where we connect with key people such as family, friends, colleagues, even adversaries. We can also agree to meet up with certain people from past lifetimes to complete our karma with them, or to continue long-cherished relationships. This may involve members of our immediate soul group, but not always.

I believe these thoughts and suggestions are often given to us by our guides, as well as our loved ones in the afterlife, as a form of telepathy, and it is up to us to follow through. If we are so preoccupied with everyday concerns that we ignore an important message, we may lose out on opportunities or suffer a negative impact. When we ignore messages or guidance, it can often be repeated in a much stronger way, almost forcing us to take notice.

Ten dollars was a great deal of money in 1935 – a year in which department store seamstresses found they had to work evenings to earn the minimum weekly wage of $12.50. But for others it was a pittance. “I’m glad I grew up then. It was a good time for everybody. People learned what it means to work,” said John David Eaton.

Fear doesn't shut you down, it wakes you up. -Tobias (Four) Eaton

Those who seek, or have thrust upon them, unearned benefits and privileges do not know that there is a price for every benefit, a collateral required for every loan of artificial compensation. The collateral that must be given up, the price that must be paid is the dignity, honor, and self-respect of the recipient. He or she will never be exposed to the satisfaction of true achievement, and so never become a whole person.

Fear doesn't shut you down, it wakes you up.