Echoes Act 3 Quotes

Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear.

Even when I laugh and smile and act completely normal, I can still sense the void inside. The terrifying hollowness. It echoes through my empty chest like an old rusty bell. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. The worst part is that I can’t even talk about it to anyone. They’d think I’m broken beyond repair.

Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear. I’m

There are lots of people out there who are terribly hateful. She could avoid a whole lot of trouble and dress and act as they want her to, but she chooses to be herself. That's brave. Also - the last time we met she stopped Jackaby from hurting the men who hurt her. They might have killed her. Kindness is an act of bravery. I think, just as hatred is an act of fear. I'm sure can appreciate that not all strength is muscle, Mr. Finstern. She has a strong spirit, and I believe she is brave about the way she chooses to use it.

Censorship diminished, and copyright was originated. Moreover, the early years of the eighteenth century gave rise to a galaxy of new phenomena that included the printed handbill, printed receipts, printed tickets, printed advertisements, and posters. At the same time there was a surge in the production of political pamphlets, broadsides, books for children, and even street maps. Alexander Pope satirized the rage for print in his poem The Dunciad (1728–43); he mockingly suggested that its democratizing power had brought ‘the Smithfield Muses to the Ear of Kings’. Johnson echoed Pope’s sentiments, complaining that ‘so widely is spread the itch of literary praise, that almost every man is an author, either in act or in purpose’.3

Between concentric pavement ripples glide errant echoes originating from beyond the Puddled Metropolis. Windowless blocks and pickle-shaped monuments demarcate the boundaries of patternistic cycles from those wilds kissed neither by starlight nor moonlight. Lethal underbrush of razor-like excrescence pierces at the skins of night, crawls with hyperactive sprouts and verminous vines that howl with contempt for the wicked fortunes of Marshland Organizers armed with scythes and hoes and flaming torches who have only succeeded in crafting their own folly where once stood something of glorious and generous integrity. There are familiar whispers under leaves perched upon by flapping moths. They implore the spirit again to heed the warnings of the vines and to not be swayed by the hubris of these organizing opportunists. One is to stop moving at frantic zigzags through gridlocked streets, stop climbing ladders altogether, stop relying on drainage pipes where floods should prevail, stop tapping one’s feet in waiting rooms expecting to be seen and examined and acknowledged. Rather, one is to eschew unseemly fabrications and conceal oneself beneath the surface of leaves—perhaps even inside the droplets of dew—one is, after all, to feel shameful of the form, of all forms, and seek instead to merge with whispers which do not shun or excoriate, for they are otherwise occupied in the act of designating meaning. Yet, what meaning stands beyond the rectitude of angles and symmetry, but rather in wilds among agitated insects and resplendent bogs and malicious spiders and rippling mosses pronouncing doom upon their surroundings? One is said to find only the same degree of opportunism, and nothing greatly edifying that could serve to extend beyond the banalities of self-preservation. But no, surely there is something more than this—there absolutely must be something more, and it is to be found! Forget what is said about ‘opportunism’—this is just a word and, thusly, a distraction. The key issue is that there are many such campaigns of contrivance mounted by the taxonomic self-interest of categories and frameworks ‘who’ only seek primacy and authority over their consumers. The ascription of ‘this’ may thusly be ascribed also with that of ‘this other’ and so it cannot be ‘that precisely’ because ‘this’ contradicts another ‘that other’ with which ‘this other’ surely claims affiliation. Certainly, in view of such limiting factors, there is a frustration that one is bound to feel that the answers available are constrained and formulaic and insufficient and that one is simply to accept the way of things as though they are defined by the highest of mathematics and do not beget anything higher. One is, thusly, to cease in one’s quest for unexplored possibility. The lines have been drawn, the contradictions defined and so one cannot expect to go very far with these mathematical rules and boundaries in place. There are ways out: one might assume the value of an imaginary unit and bounce out of any restrictive quadrant as with the errant echoes against the rippling pavement of this Puddled Metropolis. One will then experience something akin to a bounding and rebounding leap—iterative, but with all subleaps constituting a more sweeping trajectory—outward to other landscapes and null landscapes, inward through corridors and toward the centroid of circumcentric chamber clusters, into crevices and trenches between paradigms and over those mountain peaks of abstruse calculation.

2 Samuel 7:1–17 What does David want to build (verses 1–2)? But what does God want to build (verse 11)? What has God already done for David (verse 8)? What does he promise to do in the future (verses 9–11)? How do these promises echo the promises made to Abraham in Genesis 12:1–3? What does God promise concerning the coming king (verses 12–16)? How does Jesus fulfil these promises? (See Matthew 1:1; Mark 12:35–37; John 2:18–22; Acts 2:24–36; Romans 1:1–4.) What implications does this have for our understanding of Jesus? our relationship with Jesus?

Innovation is the opposite of average. It is refusing to coast, rejecting the status quo, and having the courage to shake up the meaningless routines that lead to laziness. Innovation is the act of exploring new ideas, and every leader must develop this habit in his own life if he wants to become a change maker. Innovators are authentic voices, not just echo chambers.

Lord gave His church some final instructions. In fact, the very last words He spoke on earth have been commonly known as “the Great Commission.”1 This unchanging command is to “make disciples of all ethnic groups of the world” (Matt. 28:19-20). All four Gospels, along with the book of Acts, repeat the disciple-making mission entrusted to the church.2 In fact, from a hermeneutical perspective, one must interpret the entire New Testament in light of the Great Commission and the redemptive work of Jesus. The salvific mission of Jesus remains the same and has been handed down to every believer. The follower of Christ must obediently pick up the baton and carry on the mission of Jesus. On the other hand, the Great Commission has fallen on hard times and in reality has been re-defined as “the Great Omission.”3 Perhaps one’s conscience has been soothed by the fine art of “making church members” or helping the poor. Nevertheless, the haunting words of the Great Commission continue to echo from the pages of Scripture, “make disciples of all nations” not just casual followers. Far too often, Christians are content with leading people to say a prayer or sign a card in order to ease their guilty hearts. The bar of discipleship has been lowered, and leadership has accepted the fact that most church members will never be involved in the disciple-making mission of Jesus. In fact, low expectations have become the norm in everyday Christianity. The content of preaching continues to be “dumbed down,” and the ever-widening gap between the professional clergy and the common layman continues to expand. As long as the offerings exceed the budget, leadership will accept the status quo. Nevertheless, the church remains oblivious to the mission of Jesus. Perhaps missiologist Ed Stetzer has correctly surmised the situation: The greatest travesty in the contemporary church is we pile hundreds of Christians into our churches and stack them in on padded pews very similar to products stacked on shelves in the grocery store and we let them come and go and do absolutely nothing and we let them think they’re okay. The greatest sin in most churches is that we have made it okay to do nothing and call ourselves a follower of Jesus.4

When we connect the death of Christ to the Old Testament, as Paul tells us we should,45 we can see the destruction of Jerusalem in 587 BC as a portent of the cross (both of them acts of human wickedness that were simultaneously the outpouring of God’s judgment), and the return from exile as a portent of the resurrection (and ultimately, in longer prophetic vision, of the new creation). And as we read Lamentations again in the light of that connection, the experiences of Lady Zion (especially in Lam. 1), and the Man (in 3:1–18) find multiple echoes in the passion of Christ.

Of course, Adam was still counting days the old way, as Sunday was the first day of the week, so he was misinforming me as to which day his father actually arrived in Spain, seemingly by accident, by mistake. Perhaps it was a mistake that Adam had confused the European calendar with the Israeli calendar from time to time; perhaps it was not a mistake. Ferran actually arrived the following day, Tuesday, according to the Gregorian calendar and not Monday, when we had all been preparing for his arrival with Martina in vain. I had wanted to introduce her to the old man nicely. However, Tuesday, when he was scheduled to arrive, Mario Larese - Mister Twister - showed up, banging the glass of the store-front door, echoing throughout the entire store and upstairs apartment, as if he was about to break the glass if I did not go down to open it. He was knocking on the plain, large glass of the door with either a lighter or with his metal ring; I don't know which, but it was terrible. I knew Ferran could arrive at any moment, so I told Martina it might be best if she went home to Paola and let me take care of the business. I couldn't ignore Mario, who was almost breaking the glass, seemingly because he had seen my scooter parked in front of the store. I opened the door and he started pushing his way inside, saying, “Let's smoke a joint and drink a coffee.” I replied, “Slow down, cowboy. I've got company, I'm expecting more company, and I just woke up. I have no time now; sorry, Mario.” He kept banging the door because he wanted to smoke somewhere early in the morning, and Canale Vuo was still closed. I was so tempted to slap him. Unintentionally, I let slip that I was expecting Ferran, which only increased his refusal to leave. Theatrical. Dramatic. He wasn't going to get out of my store, my way, my day, my life, my struggle, or my schedule. Meanwhile, the same time, Nico was bugging me on the phone to make sure I delivered a box of 1,000 cones for La Silla because they needed it to make pre-rolled joints for their smokers. They sold 2-3,000 pre-rolled joints a week, ordering two boxes weekly, thus making me waste my time for free. I started to think it had all been planned just to make me lose time every week. They sold 3,000 joints a week and yet couldn't afford more than two boxes of cones to purchase to keep up. Tuesday morning was so urgent for La Silla to get those 1,000 brown cones right then. Just for Nico's 5-euro commission and so he wouldn't be embarrassed in front of his friends at La Silla with his sales performance - no problem. I couldn't kick out Mario, and I didn't want to kick out Martina, who apparently didn't want to leave. I asked them to leave, but Mario was leaning on the kitchen table and unable to look up or turn toward me to meet my gaze. Martina was looking at me angrily. So, I told them both, “OK then, stay here; let the old man inside once he arrives. I have to deliver this box of cones to La Silla right away, but I will be right back. 20 minutes tops.” Adam had also failed to inform me that he had copied a set of keys for his dad at one point, and he had somehow sent them to Israel by mail, I guess. Martina did not need to stay in the store to let Ferran in, but I did not know that. Adam was always secretive and brief with his words, as if it cost him money to say words out of his mouth or dictate to Rachel what to write in an email or what he was supposed to tell me on the phone. I thought that Martina had to stay to let Ferran into the store in case he arrived just when I went to La Mesa to do a favor for Nico. I was on my way back to Urgell from La Silla, when Adam suddenly called me from Amsterdam, screaming on the phone.

I manage a low growl, then stop when a sigh echoes in my head. “Hey,” I say softly. “I appreciate what you’ve done. When I’m yelling at the face in the mirrors, I’m not yelling at you. It’s not you I’m angry at. You know that, right?” I know it now. A pause. I am, essentially, the metal and circuitry you persist in seeing. Sometimes it is difficult for me to tell at whom you are directing your disgust and hatred. I thank you for considering my feelings. Is that what I just did? Yeah, I guess it was. I’ve acknowledged VC1’s capacity for emotions in the past, but I don’t think I’ve ever taken them into consideration when I’ve acted before now. I allow myself a small grin. “I’ll try to do better with that. You are so much more than metal and circuitry.” So are you.