Even In Arcadia Quotes

Maybe it involved a woman. Oh, maybe even a nun—ooh! Wouldn’t that be scandalous?” “Indeed, but no.

Arms around me in the dark. Lips against mine in the sunlight. Do you know why I love you? He knew me. And loved me. And he had never asked me for anything. Even Shade wanted me to die for him. Maybe I shouldn’t forgive a monster just because he loved me that way—but— But loving me that way made him a monster. My doom was the price of saving Arcadia, and only a monster would care more about me than saving thousands upon thousands of innocents. Shade was the last prince; of course if he could save only one, he would choose Arcadia. I would do the same.

Even when you think you can't bear it, you can bear it.

Home’, it had struck her on the torturous drive back to London, wasn’t Egerton Gardens, wasn’t even Fox Corner. Home was an idea, and like Arcadia it was lost in the past.

Even if what you said was true, that only makes it worse. Truth should be left in wrapped boxes for people to open when they’re ready. When it’s used as a blade, they vacuum-seal the pain somewhere deep inside, sealing the truth in with it, until it’s time to turn it inside out and cut someone else. I

He clasped her fingers, not so she could pull him up but clearly because he wanted to touch them. She wanted it too, way too much, and then he stood there right in front of her, the abyss beside them, and she could smell his skin and his hair, and let go of his hand, even though she secretly wanted something quite different.

Sometimes, that's all we need. Just one kind person to show us things differently. To perhaps give a perspective shift, even if it's a small one.

The correct translation of the phrase ("Et in Arcadia ego") in its orthodox form is, therefore, not "I, too, was born, or lived, in Arcady," but: "Even in Arcady there am I," from which we must conclude that the speaker is not a deceased Arcadian shepherd or shepherdess but Death in person.

If it is true that there are books written to escape from the present moment, and its meanness and its sordidity, it is certainly true that readers are familiar with a corresponding mood. To draw the blinds and shut the door, to muffle the noises of the street and shade the glare and flicker of its lights—that is our desire. There is then a charm even in the look of the great volumes that have sunk, like the “Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia”, as if by their own weight down to the very bottom of the shelf. We like to feel that the present is not all; that other hands have been before us, smoothing the leather until the corners are rounded and blunt, turning the pages until they are yellow and dog’s-eared. We like to summon before us the ghosts of those old readers who have read their Arcadia from this very copy—Richard Porter, reading with the splendours of the Elizabethans in his eyes; Lucy Baxter, reading in the licentious days of the Restoration; Thos. Hake, still reading, though now the eighteenth century has dawned with a distinction that shows itself in the upright elegance of his signature. Each has read differently, with the insight and the blindness of his own generation. Our reading will be equally partial. In 1930 we shall miss a great deal that was obvious to 1655; we shall see some things that the eighteenth century ignored. But let us keep up the long succession of readers; let us in our turn bring the insight and the blindness of our own generation to bear upon the “Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia”, and so pass it on to our successors.

...she says, Even when you think you can't bear it, you can bear it. He doesn't say anything. Sometimes you have to let time carry you past your troubles, she says. Believe me. I have been where you are.

Even when you think you can’t bear it, you can bear it. He doesn’t say anything. Sometimes you have to let time carry you past your troubles, she says. Believe me. I have been where you are. This is something I do know. In

You just have to look hard. Then you’ll find what you’re after.” It sounded almost as if he were trying to help her in her search for the unique, awkward magic of the place. And she realized he must have thought the same, the first time he ever drove along this road to nowhere, maybe every time he returned. Even today. Maybe everyone, in the face of this void, was searching for something to cling to. Alessandro perhaps even a little more than other people. In the last few minutes she’d discovered more thoughtfulness in him than she’d have thought possible, more desire for answers. Thinking this, it was difficult to look away from him and turn her eyes on what lay ahead of them again.

Thus Poussin himself, while making no verbal change in the inscription, invites, almost compels, the beholder to mistranslate it by relating the ego to a dead person instead of the tomb, by connecting the et with ego instead of with Arcadia, and by supplying the missing verb in the form of a vixi or fui instead of a sum. The development of his pictorial vision had outgrown the significance of the literary formula, and we may say that those who, under the impact of the Louvre picture, decided to render the phrase Et in Arcadia ego as "I, too, lived in Arcady," rather than as "Even in Arcady, there am I," did violence to Latin grammar but justice to the new meaning of Poussin's composition.

I hold Huckleberry Finn real tight against my chest and start across the yard. Now we can leave this place behind anytime we want. All we gotta do is join up with Huckleberry Finn. There’s room on his raft for all five of us, I’ll bet. Maybe we’ll find the Arcadia out there somewhere. Even though I have to head back to Mrs. Murphy’s house, it feels like a whole new place. Now it’s got a river in it. That

… the countryside and the village are symbols of stability and security, of order. Yet they are also, as I have noted, liminal spaces, at a very narrow remove from the atavistic Wild. Arcadia is not the realm even of Giorgione and of Claude, with its cracked pillars and thunderbolts, its lurking banditti; still less is it Poussin’s sun-dappled and regularised realm of order, where, although the lamb may be destined for the altar and the spit, all things proceed with charm and gravity and studied gesture; least of all is it the degenerate and prettified Arcady of Fragonard and Watteau, filled with simpering courtier-Corydons, pallid Olympians, and fat-arsed putti. (It is only family piety that prevents me from taking a poker to an inherited coffee service in gilt porcelain with bastardised, deutero-Fragonard scenes painted on the sides of every damned thing. Cue Wallace Greenslade: ‘… “Round the Horne”, with Marie Antoinette as the dairymaid and Kenneth Williams as the manager of the camp-site….’) No: Arcadia is the very margin of the liminal space between the safe tilth and the threatening Wild, in which Pan lurks, shaggy and goatish, and Death proclaims, from ambush, et in Arcadia ego. Arcadia is not the Wide World nor the Riverbank, but the Wild Wood. And in that wood are worse than stoats and weasels, and the true Pan is no Francis of Assisi figure, sheltering infant otters. The Wild that borders and penetrates Arcady is red in tooth and claw.

lot of problems, it turns out, don’t really have solutions. You can ignore them or rearrange them a bit, you can rename them or redefine them or sometimes even redistribute them, but you can’t actually get rid of them. Not really. Once a glass falls and shatters, even though all the physical pieces are still there, each crystalline shard easily accessible, you still can’t reassemble the original glass. Eventually you have to confront the fact that many things only work in one direction. That’s

Humans out there are grotesque: Scrooges and Jellybys and filthy orphans in the caverns of blacking factories, in lonely depopulated homes, a blight called television like tiny Plato's caves in every room. It is grimmer in the Outside. There is a war in the Falkland Islands, there are Sandinistas and Contras, there are muggings and rapes, terrible things he has heard the adults talking about, has read about himself when he can find an old wrinkled paper in the Free Store. The president is an actor, placed in power to smoothly deliver the corporations' lies. There are bombs among the stars and murders in the inner cities, red rain over London, there are kidnappers and slaves even now, even in America.

Lying," he said out loud, hoping no one would hear. "I need to lie. Teach me, quickly." I wouldn't if I were you, came the response. For a start, it's a variable concept here. You are in a culture where ambiguity has been raised to a high level. Let me give an example: depending on phrasing, circumstance, expression, body movement, intonation and context, the statement "I love you" can mean I love you; I don't love you; I hate you; I want to have sex with you; I do, in fact, love your sister; I don't love you any more; leave me alone, I'm tired, or I'm sorry I forgot your birthday. The person being talked to would instantly understand the meaning but might choose to attribute an entirely different meaning to the statement. Lying is a social act and the nature and import of the lie depends in effect on an unspoken agreement between the parties concerned. Please note that this description does not even begin to explore the concept of deep lies, in which the speaker simultaneously says something he knows to be untrue and genuinely believes it nonetheless: politicians are particularly adept at this.

Aunt Gertie could not tell the difference between 1928 and now. Uncle Joseph was dead and alive. In other words, she grasped the essential non-existence of time. Generally speaking, our minds impose an entirely artificial order on the world. It is the only way that such an inadequate instrument as our brain can function. It cannot deal with the complexity of reality, so simplifies everything until it can, putting events into an artificial order so they can be dealt with one at a time, rather than all at once as they should be. Such a way of interpreting existence is learnt, rather in the way that our brain has to turn the images which hit our retinas upside down in order to make sense of them. Children have little sense of time; nor do the very old. They live in an ever-present now, which stretches into the past and off into the future. Effect triggers cause, and both happen at the same moment, be that yesterday or tomorrow. Aunt Gertie sensed this because all the acquired mental discipline of the years was falling away from her. Once you realised this, her conversation was perfectly comprehensible, even if it did make me a little dizzy.

I hold Huckleberry Finn real tight against my chest and start across the yard. Now we can leave this place behind anytime we want. All we gotta do is join up with Huckleberry Finn. There’s room on his raft for all five of us, I’ll bet. Maybe we’ll find the Arcadia out there somewhere. Even though I have to head back to Mrs. Murphy’s house, it feels like a whole new place. Now it’s got a river in it.

Even Blood Shades are unsure just where these come from. In less enlightened times, they were thought to be the voices of the devil, in his many forms. Or at least a conspiracy of powerful demons. A cacophany of screams, moans, and laughs, the laughter of a Blood Shade, unfiltered by mortal form or the manners of human society. A concerto of horrors for my target’s eyes and ears alone.

You are not going to lose me," said Claybriar. "I don't want to put you through that." "Is that a promise?" I said, and then immediately realized what I'd asked. I held my hand up in front of his mouth even as he drew breath to answer. "No," I said. "Don't bind yourself. Just do your best to stay alive; that's enough for me." It was a little dizzying to realize that he'd been willing to promise me that he'd never leave me, and that unlike the others in my past he'd be bound to that promise. It was tempting, in a dark sort of way. But I wouldn't let him do it any more than I'd let him chain himself in the hold of a sinking ship.

[Option 3.] Name: Edge of Arcadia [E-Epic]. Upgrade of Hatchetman. Attribute per Level (x1/x2/x3): Strength +14, Vitality +8. First Skill Gained: Rapturous Divide. Even paradise needs a butcher, an unrelenting storm of violence. Name: Fetters of Desolation [E-Epic]. Divergence from Undying Bulwark. Attribute per Level (x1/x2/x3): Strength +11, Endurance +8, Wisdom +5. First Skill Gained: Blighted Cut. Bind them to your calamity. Sever their path. Emerge alone.

Sometimes, that’s all we need. Just one kind person to show us things differently. To perhaps give a perspective shift, even if it’s a small one.

Home... wasn't Egerton Gardens, wasn't even Fox Corner. Home was an idea, and like Arcadia it was lost in the past.

although individuals and small events did affect the course of historical development, the influence of even major figures was strictly limited. In

Arcadia Oh how things have changed Feels like I don't know you You're in a whole different place And I've strayed from who it was that you knew We're drifting apart we're parallel sinking ships You're anxiously reaching out but I'm losing my grip You were tryna make it work You were sleeping in my shirt Arcadia Sometimes things don't come full circle I was hoping that you'd care I was distant I was scared Arcadia Sometimes things don't come full circle You're still on my mind somehow You're fit and you're shades of blue There's no way to go back now Couldn't get back even if we wanted to You were tryna make it work You were sleeping in my shirt Arcadia Sometimes things don't come full circle I was hoping that you'd care I was distant I was scared Arcadia Sometimes things don't come full circle Sometimes things don't come full circle Sometimes things don't come full circle You were tryna make it work You were sleeping in my shirt Arcadia Sometimes things don't come full circle I was hoping that you'd care I was distant I was scared Arcadia Sometimes things don't come full circle Sometimes things don't come full circle

You may love Arcadias. But he doesn’t love you. If Arcadias truly loved you he would not lead you into harm’s way, he would lead you away from harm. An honorable man should defend and protect his woman at all times, even to the point of laying down his life for her. Arcadias isn’t doing that for you,” Annie said. “I’m sorry to have to say that, Iris, but everyone in this room can see Arcadias is thinking only of himself.” Iris wiped at her eyes as she digested Annie’s statement. “Okay, but I can’t do anything about your hands and the plastic cuffs. I can only untie your feet.” Iris moved toward Rafter and squatted down near his feet. “No, Iris, untie Mr. Jepson first, and then Annie. Save me for last,

Mama, did you see the angel place his wing in front of Jon Rafter right before Arcadias shot his gun? The angel’s wing slowed the bullets’ velocity.” “I did, son. The angel also used his wing to deflect the bullets into the Bible in Jon’s shirt pocket. We just watched a miracle take place.” Josiah stood up and clapped his hands. “Now I can rest easy knowing the Rafters are okay.” “Seeing a miracle like that makes you wonder how often miracles occur on Earth without people even realizing they’re taking place.” “I’m sure they happen all the time, Mama. Although they might not always be as dramatic a miracle as mine was, and the one we just witnessed.

and United Klans began their ascendancy. Back then, the situation deteriorated until the governor had no choice but to order in the National Guard, which managed to halt the descent into chaos. But as traumatic as that era was, the destruction of Tranquility and Arcadia might bring worse. The South—even the nation—is already primed for an explosion. Memphis and Mission Hill saw to that. These arsons (and the bold note claiming them as justified actions) might provide the critical mass required for detonation. But what frightens me most is something less tangible. The common fealty to American ideals—a living principle that survived even the traumatic sixties and seventies—has withered to nothing during the brief span of years since my daughter left home

A statue waited before them, a sapien male made entirely of glass, the height of ten market stalls. “The Glass King,” Kaluza whispered. “You read about him?” “A little.” “The Glass King built Arcadia, understand? The world was made, not formed. Thousands of years ago, by the sapien metric.” “Why?” “Why what?” “Why did he build Arcadia?” “Because sapiens broke easily, and even if they stayed careful they still wore down and died. Not so deep into their history they’d peered into physics and wrapped the universe up in equations and built huge societies, and they still hadn’t done a thing about death. The Glass King vowed to kill it.” “To kill death?” “To kill death.

It's a cozy little thought, isn't it? All of us under one roof, even the Gentle Lord. You sent me to die in just the next room." Father's jaw clenched. "I sent you to save our world," he ground out. "I'm your daughter," I spat. "Didn't it ever, for a single moment, occur to you that you should try to save me?" "Of course I wanted to save you," Father said patiently, "but for the sake of Arcadia--" "You weren't thinking of Arcadia when you bargained with the Gentle Lord. And I'm not sure you were thinking much of Mother, either, because if you really loved her, you would have found a way to save both the daughters she wanted so much." I bared my teeth. "Or at least you wouldn't have spent the last five years bedding her sister.

So darkened am that all my day is evening, Heart-broken so, that molehills seem high mountains

Pride and Prejudice is realistic, questioning, and sometimes flippant, even cynical--but Arcadia is always just about to happen. Some very tough truths are told in this novel in which everyone goes wrong, but our hearts are light as we read because we are never far from the land of green promise.

Like the whole classical sphere, of which it had become an integral part, Arcady became an object of that nostalgia which distinguishes the real Renaissance from all those pseudo- or proto-Renaissances that had taken place during the Middle Ages: it developed into a haven, not only from a faulty reality but also, and even more so, from a questionable present. At the height of the Quattrocento an attempt was made to bridge the gap between the present and the past by means of an allegorical fiction.

With only slight exaggeration one might say that he (Virgil) "discovered" the evening.

Here the development has run full cycle. To Guercino's "Even in Arcady, there is death" Fragonard's drawing replies: "Even in death, there may be Arcady.

Truth is, instead of fixing everything, the Arcadia made everything real. Camellia’s gone. Lark and Gabion are far away. Queenie’s buried in a pauper’s grave, and Briny’s heart went there with her. He’s lost his mind to whiskey, and he doesn’t want to come back. Not even for me. Not even for Fern. We’re not enough.

I moved to reach the door when Chrome’s hand wrapped around my neck from behind, spinning me around to meet his lips in a demanding kiss that claimed me. “Just so we’re clear, we’re not even close to being done.” I nodded dumbly, desire igniting my veins once again. “Okay,” I whispered, afraid my voice would show how much I wanted his promise to hold true. Because damn. Chrome’s lopsided grin told me he knew exactly how I felt. He stole another kiss, this one softer, before grabbing my hand and lacing our fingers together before heading to the door. “Let’s go.

My chest tightened, and my nostrils flared at the possibility of her attaching to another guy. That felt so wrong, even though I had no way of claiming her. But I knew on a soul level that she was meant to be with me. I’d always felt that since I was ten years old. We would find each other again, but we needed Forest out of the picture first.

Because you’re about to take a Soul Oath of Fealty. Once you do that, your powers are going to start blasting through like never before. Even if you’re not full-blooded,

I dove in. Allowing my magic to sift through any of her memories that involved me, including this one, and absorbing them. Every single memory of us. Even clear photos of what I looked like that hung throughout the palace.

Poi, verso mezzogiorno, ci imbattemmo nel giudice tutto solo sulla sua roccia in mezzo a quella desolazione. Già, e non c'erano altre rocce, solo quella. Irving disse che se l'era portata appresso. Io dissi che era un cippo che gli serviva per segnare il confine fra sé e il nulla. Aveva lo stesso fucile che gli vedi adesso, tutto montato in argento tedesco, e il nome che gli aveva dato era scritto con un filo d'argento sotto la sicura, in latino: Et In Arcadia Ego. Si riferiva alla morte che si portava dentro. E' abbastanza comune dare un nome al proprio fucile. Ne ho sentiti certi come Dolcilabbra e Voce dalla Tomba e tutti i nomi di donna di questo mondo. Il suo è il primo e l'unico che io abbia mai visto con un'iscrizione classica.

Beneath your pain, the foundation of you is love, has always been. Even when people are unworthy of it, you give love with your whole heart. Even if it tears you to pieces.

Turning us against each other. Making us spill each other’s blood. Just like the British.” “Mom.” “Taking what we have. Oil, land. Treating us like animals.” “Mom.” “He’s right. They deserve what they got. And what they’re going to get.” These last words were the lines that would end up in my play. The man she was referring to being right was, of course, bin Laden. Later, after the attacks in 2001, she would never admit to having said anything of the kind. Understandably. I think most of the Muslim world could not have imagined how terrible redress would feel, when it came. Not only to Americans but to those in the Muslim world as well. For despite our ill usage at the hands of the American empire, the defiling of America-as-symbol enacted on that fateful Tuesday in September would only bring home anew to all the profundity of that symbol’s power. Despite the predations on which it was predicated, the symbol sustained us, too. Many have disdained the American response to the attacks as childish, have seen these years of vengeful war as the murderous tantrums of a country too young, too protected from the world, too immature to understand the inevitability of death. But I think the matter is more complicated. The world looked to us—and now I speak as an American—to uphold a holy image, or as holy as it gets in this age of enlightenment. We have been the earthly garden, the abundant idyll, the productive Arcadia of the world’s pastoral dream. Between our shores has gleamed a realm of refuge and renewal—in short, the only reliable escape from history itself. It’s always been a myth, of course, and one destined for rupture sooner or later. Yet what an irony: when history finally caught up to us, it wasn’t just we Americans—or even mainly we Americans—who would suffer the disastrous consequences.

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