Everything's Better In Pairs Quotes

I haven’t been a good guest in Hugo’s life. I access his memories and discover that he and Austin first became boyfriends at this very celebration, a year ago this weekend. They’d been friends for a little while, but they’d never talked about how they felt. They were each afraid of ruining the friendship, and instead of making it better, their caution made everything awkward. So finally, as a pair of twentysomething men passed by holding hands, Austin said, “Hey, that could be us in ten years.” And Hugo said, “Or ten months.” And Austin said, “Or ten days.” And Hugo said, “Or ten minutes.” And Austin said, “Or ten seconds.” Then they each counted to ten, and held hands for the rest of the day. The start of it. Hugo would have remembered this. But I didn’t.

A Faint Music by Robert Hass Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing

I have two minds about everything. Side A(merican) and side B(osnian). I wish I could find a way to drop off the face of the planet and leave my minds behind, get a new one. I dream of disappearing, cutting all ties, becoming a derelict, free to rave. I'd be calmer, happier. Or better, going back to Bosnia and telling no one, not even you. Just live there in the same city, grow a beard, and watch you to go to the market from the café across the street through a pair of sunglasses, never letting you know who I am. (p.43)

I started the first drafts of the book during my sophomore year of college. I wasn’t thinking at all about kids at the time. But I was thinking. A lot. About everything. I wish I could capture that head-space again; everything meant something to me in college. Every leaf, every sound, every lecture, every textbook. It’s like I was on drugs, 24/7. I am glad I was able to pair that ceaseless pondering with plenty of time to write. What came of that time was the first draft of the novel, a lengthy, unnecessarily angst-driven pile of crap. Years later, with Zoloft, I approached the novel with a more level head, and came away with a much, much better novel. My advice to writers, I suppose, is write your novel when you feel like shit; edit when you feel great.

You would be hard pressed, I would submit, to find a better pairing of occurrences to illustrate the divine and felonious nature of the human being—a species of organism that is capable of unravelling the deepest secrets of the heavens while at the same time pounding into extinction, for no purpose at all, a creature that never did us any harm and wasn’t even remotely capable of understanding what we were doing to it as

In forests – Seeds are planted in the soil (capital) and become trees that shed leaves as they grow. Those shedded leaves become added capital to the soil (dividends/yields). The tree also provides a home for other life forms which return capital to the soil. Upon the death of the tree, it’s entire body becomes capital as it is returned to the soil. In this cycle, every tree is an investment which results in the long term accumulation of soil (capital) over time. As the soil grows, it becomes better able to invest in future trees and host future forests. And the yield of them all collectively becomes greater and greater as the capital accumulates. In fact, everything in a natural ecosystem both is capital and exists in service to capital. This duality of capital in natural ecosystems is why capital in natural ecosystems is able to compound and multiply so well. So when it comes to investing - managing portfolios, we apply this duality of capital perspective and pair it with our stewardship identity, which allows us to grow portfolios and maximize wealth.

He jumped up, pulled out the suitcase he stored under his bed, and began to pack everything he would need for the journey ahead. Two sweaters, two pairs of pants, a couple of T-shirts, and some underwear. As many pairs of socks as he owned. A pair of dress shoes, a dress jacket, and two ties. Then he put on his usual shoes, tied up the laces, put on a black sweater and a winter coat, and sat on the bed, waiting for his father—or better yet, his uncle—to knock on the door and say it was time to leave. Ten minutes went by. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Unable to stand it any longer, Jacob got up, quietly went over to his door, unlocked it, and tried to open it without any creaking. He held his breath and listened for yelling, for voices, for any sign of life and movement. He heard nothing.

Indeed, election data show it is true that the candidate who spends more money in a campaign usually wins. But is money the cause of the victory? It might seem logical to think so, much as it might have seemed logical that a booming 1990s economy helped reduce crime. But just because two things are correlated does not mean that one causes the other. A correlation simply means that a relationship exists between two factors — let’s call them X and Y—but it tells you nothing about the direction of that relationship. It’s possible that X causes Y; it’s also possible that Y causes X; and it may be that X and Y are both being caused by some other factor, Z. Think about this correlation: cities with a lot of murders also tend to have a lot of police officers. Consider now the police/murder correlation in a pair of real cities. Denver and Washington, D.C., have about the same population — but Washington has nearly three times as many police as Denver, and it also has eight times the number of murders. Unless you have more information, however, it’s hard to say what’s causing what. Someone who didn’t know better might contemplate these figures and conclude that it is all those extra police in Washington who are causing the extra murders. Such wayward thinking, which has a long history, generally provokes a wayward response. Consider the folktale of the czar who learned that the most disease ridden province in his empire was also the province with the most doctors. His solution? He promptly ordered all the doctors shot dead.

I have run in the sun and felt the power of it. I have run for the tape, run against the clock, I have run with thousands and run with only myself for company. I have run around and around the track over and over again and run with no idea where I was going. I have run for no particular reason to any particular place. I have run to help my heart’s efficiency; I have run because my heart ached. I have run fast and felt more alive than ever and I have run to bury or fight something deep within. I have run when I knew I needed to and I have run when I knew I shouldn’t have. I have loathed running and I have praised running. I have run for a personal record and made it and I have run giving everything I had and come up just a bit short. I have run and let laughter and storytelling roll the miles away. I have felt the pounding of every single step in silent solitude. I have run enough to know that we sometimes feel like an old pair of shoes and sometimes we feel like new ones. I have run enough to know the difference between a hard, cold head wind and a brisk steady wind at our back. I have run enough to know that once you get out a certain distance you had better be able to get back. I have had runner friends who have poured out their guts to me about my place in their life, some who just said thanks or said nothing at all. I am simply a runner who has failed and succeeded, faded and surged, hoped, dreamed! Running has given me my greatest ideas, thoughts and moments of joy. To feel the “flow”, that feeling of peace, joy, timelessness, focus and clarity is an integral part of the human experience.

Carajo!" Paco says, throwing down his lunch. "They think they can buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria workers wouldn't know taco meat from a piece of shit. That's what this tastes like, Alex." "You're makin' me sick, man," I tell him. I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. Disgusted, I shove what's left of my lunch into my brown paper bag. "Want some of it?" Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty taco to me. "Bring that one inch closer to me and you'll be sorry," I threaten. "I'm shakin' in my pants." Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously know better. "If any of that gets on me--" "What'cha gonna do, kick my ass?" Paco sings sarcastically, still shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him out so I won't have to deal with him right now. As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look down even though I know what I'll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans. "Fuck," Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to shock. "Want me to clean it off for you?" "If your fingers get anywhere close to my dick, I'm gonna personally shoot you in the huevos," I growl through clenched teeth. I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. "You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of pants." "How the hell am I s'posed to do that?" "Be creative." "Take mine." Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard. "Maybe I wasn't specific enough," I tell him, wondering how I'm going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I've peed in my pants. "I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me, pendejo. You're so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus's elves." "I'm toleratin' your insults because we're like brothers." "Nine minutes and thirty seconds." It doesn't take Paco more than that to start running toward the school parking lot.

The surprise and relief of being held so securely by a friend she had not expected to see overwhelmed Evie completely. She felt the pain in her eyes and throat sharpen, until she could no longer hold back her sobs. Lillian tightened her embrace. “You should have seen my reaction when Annabelle and Daisy told me what you had done,” she said, patting Evie’s back firmly. “I nearly dropped to the floor, and then I called down all sorts of curses on St. Vincent’s head for taking advantage of you. I was tempted to come here and shoot him myself. But it appears that someone else spared me the trouble.” “I love him,” Evie whispered between sobs. “You can’t,” Lillian said flatly. “Yes, I love him, and I’m going to lose him just as I did my father. I can’t bear it…I’ll go mad.” Lillian sighed and muttered, “Only you could love such a vile, selfish peacock, Evie. Oh, I’ll admit, he has his attractions…but you would do better to fix your affections on someone who could actually love you back.” “Lillian,” came Evie’s watery protest. “Oh, all right, I suppose it’s not sporting to disparage a man when he’s bedridden. I’ll hold my tongue for the time being.” She drew back and looked into Evie’s splotched face. “The others wanted to come, of course. But Daisy is unmarried and therefore can’t even sneeze without a chaperone, and Annabelle tires easily because of her condition. Westcliff and I are here, however, and we’re going to make everything all right.” “You can’t,” Evie sniffled. “His wound…he’s so ill…he’s fallen into a c-coma, I think…” Keeping her arm around Evie, Lillian turned to the earl and asked in a strong voice that was entirely inappropriate for a sickroom, “Is he in a coma, Westcliff?” The earl, who was bending over Sebastian’s prone form, threw her a wry glance. “I doubt anyone could be, with the noise the pair of you are making. No, if it were a coma, he couldn’t be roused. And he definitely stirred just now when you shouted.” “I didn’t shout, I called out,” Lillian corrected. “There is a difference.” “Is there?” Westcliff asked mildly, pulling the covers down to Sebastian’s hips. “You raise your voice so often, I can’t tell.” A laugh rustled in Lillian’s throat, and she released Evie.

Unlimited determinability” clearly means something very like the unconscious, a state in which everything acts on everything else without distinction. This empty state of consciousness must be united with the “greatest possible fulness of content.” This fulness, the counterpart of the emptiness of consciousness, can only be the content of the unconscious, since no other content is given. Schiller is thus expressing the union of conscious and unconscious, and from this state “something positive is to result.” This “positive” something is for us a symbolic determinant of the will. For Schiller it is a “mediatory condition,” by which the union of sensation and thinking is brought about. He also calls it a “mediatory disposition” where sensuousness and reason are simultaneously active; but just because of that each cancels the determining power of the other and their opposition ends in negation. This cancelling of the opposites produces a void, which we call the unconscious. Because it is not determined by the opposites, this condition is susceptible to every determinant. Schiller calls it the “aesthetic condition.”88 It is remarkable that he overlooks the fact that sensuousness and reason cannot both be “active” in this condition, since, as he himself says, they are already cancelled by mutual negation. But, since something must be active and Schiller has no other function at his disposal, the pairs of opposites must, according to him, become active again. Their activity is there all right, but since consciousness is “empty,” it must necessarily be in the unconscious.89 But this concept was unknown to Schiller—hence he contradicts himself at this point. His mediating aesthetic function would thus be the equivalent of our symbol-forming activity (creative fantasy). Schiller defines the “aesthetic character” of a thing as its relation to “the totality of our various faculties, without being a specific object for any single one of them.”90 Instead of this vague definition, he would perhaps have done better to return to his earlier concept of the symbol; for the symbol has the quality of being related to all psychic functions without being a specific object for any single one. Having now reached this “mediatory disposition,” Schiller perceives that “it is henceforth possible for man, by the way of nature, to make of himself what he will—the freedom to be what he ought to be is completely restored to him.”91

But then the cowboy standing in front of you smiles gently and says, “You sure?” Those two simple words opened up the Floodgates of Hell. I smiled and laughed, embarrassed, even as two big, thick tears rolled down both my cheeks. Then I laughed again and blew a nice, clear explosion of snot from my nose. Of all the things that had happened that day, that single moment might have been the worst. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I insisted as another pair of tears spilled out. I scrambled around the kitchen counter and found a paper towel, using it to dab the salty wetness on my face and the copious slime under my nose. “I am so, so sorry.” I inhaled deeply, my chest beginning to contract and convulse. This was an ugly cry. I was absolutely horrified. “Hey…what’s wrong?” Marlboro Man asked. Bless his heart, he had to have been as uncomfortable as I was. He’d grown up on a cattle ranch, after all, with two brothers, no sisters, and a mother who was likely as lacking in histrionics as I wished I was at that moment. He led a quiet life out here on the ranch, isolated from the drama of city life. Judging from what he’d told me so far, he hadn’t invited many women over to his house for dinner. And now he had one blubbering uncontrollably in his kitchen. I’d better hurry up and enjoy this evening, I told myself. He won’t be inviting me to any more dinners after this. I blew my nose on the paper towel. I wanted to go hide in the bathroom. Then he took my arm, in a much softer grip than the one he’d used on our first date when he’d kept me from biting the dust. “No, c’mon,” he said, pulling me closer to him and securing his arms around my waist. I died a thousand deaths as he whispered softly, “What’s wrong?” What could I possibly say? Oh, nothing, it’s just that I’ve been slowly breaking up with my boyfriend from California and I uninvited him to my brother’s wedding last week and I thought everything was fine and then he called last night after I got home from cooking you that Linguine and Clam Sauce you loved so much and he said he was flying here today and I told him not to because there really wasn’t anything else we could possibly talk about and I thought he understood and while I was driving out here just now he called me and it just so happens he’s at the airport right now but I decided not to go because I didn’t want to have a big emotional drama (you mean like the one you’re playing out in Marlboro Man’s kitchen right now?) and I’m finding myself vacillating between sadness over the end of our four-year relationship, regret over not going to see him in person, and confusion over how to feel about my upcoming move to Chicago. And where that will leave you and me, you big hunk of burning love.

It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. ”Go and sleep, Mother, you will catch cold here.” ”I can sleep enough later,” she says. I sit up. ”I don’t go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps.” She is silent. Then she asks gently: ”Are you very much afraid?” ”No Mother.” ”I would like to tell you to be on your guard against the women out in France. They are no good.” Ah! Mother, Mother! You still think I am a child–why can I not put my head in your lap and weep? Why have I always to be strong and self-controlled? I would like to weep and be comforted too, indeed I am little more than a child; in the wardrobe still hang short, boy’s trousers–it is such a little time ago, why is it over? ”Where we are there aren’t any women, Mother,” I say as calmly as I can. ”And be very careful at the front, Paul.” Ah, Mother, Mother! Why do I not take you in my arms and die with you. What poor wretches we are! ”Yes Mother, I will.” ”I will pray for you every day, Paul.” Ah! Mother, Mother! Let us rise up and go out, back through the years, where the burden of all this misery lies on us no more, back to you and me alone, mother! ”Perhaps you can get a job that is not so dangerous.” ”Yes, Mother, perhaps I can get into the cookhouse, that can easily be done.” ”You do it then, and if the others say anything–” ”That won’t worry me, mother–” She sighs. Her face is a white gleam in the darkness. ”Now you must go to sleep, Mother.” She does not reply. I get up and wrap my cover round her shoulders. She supports herself on my arm, she is in pain. And so I take her to her room. I stay with her a little while. ”And you must get well again, Mother, before I come back.” ”Yes, yes, my child.” ”You ought not to send your things to me, Mother. We have plenty to eat out there. You can make much better use of them here.” How destitute she lies there in her bed, she that loves me more than all the world. As I am about to leave, she says hastily: ”I have two pairs of under-pants for you. They are all wool. They will keep you warm. You must not forget to put them in your pack.” Ah! Mother! I know what these under-pants have cost you in waiting, and walking, and begging! Ah! Mother, Mother! how can it be that I must part from you? Who else is there that has any claim on me but you. Here I sit and there you are lying; we have so much to say, and we shall never say it. ”Good-night, Mother.” ”Good-night, my child.” The room is dark. I hear my mother’s breathing, and the ticking of the clock. Outside the window the wind blows and the chestnut trees rustle. On the landing I stumble over my pack, which lies there already made up because I have to leave early in the morning. I bite into my pillow. I grasp the iron rods of my bed with my fists. I ought never to have come here. Out there I was indifferent and often hopeless;–I will never be able to be so again. I was a soldier, and now I am nothing but an agony for myself, for my mother, for everything that is so comfortless and without end. I ought never to have come on leave.

In the early 1680s, at just about the time that Edmond Halley and his friends Christopher Wren and Robert Hooke were settling down in a London coffee house and embarking on the casual wager that would result eventually in Isaac Newton’s Principia, Hemy Cavendish’s weighing of the Earth, and many of the other inspired and commendable undertakings that have occupied us for much of the past four hundred pages, a rather less desirable milestone was being passed on the island of Mauritius, far out in the Indian Ocean some eight hundred miles off the east coast of Madagascar. There, some forgotten sailor or sailor’s pet was harrying to death the last of the dodos, the famously flightless bird whose dim but trusting nature and lack of leggy zip made it a rather irresistible target for bored young tars on shore leave. Millions of years of peaceful isolation had not prepared it for the erratic and deeply unnerving behavior of human beings. We don’t know precisely the circumstances, or even year, attending the last moments of the last dodo, so we don’t know which arrived first a world that contained a Principia or one that had no dodos, but we do know that they happened at more or less the same time. You would be hard pressed, I would submit to find a better pairing of occurrences to illustrate the divine and felonious nature of the human being-a species of organism that is capable of unpicking the deepest secrets of the heavens while at the same time pounding into extinction, for no purpose at all, a creature that never did us any harm and wasn’t even remotely capable of understanding what we were doing to it as we did it. Indeed, dodos were so spectacularly short on insight it is reported, that if you wished to find all the dodos in a vicinity you had only to catch one and set it to squawking, and all the others would waddle along to see what was up. The indignities to the poor dodo didn’t end quite there. In 1755, some seventy years after the last dodo’s death, the director of the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford decided that the institution’s stuffed dodo was becoming unpleasantly musty and ordered it tossed on a bonfire. This was a surprising decision as it was by this time the only dodo in existence, stuffed or otherwise. A passing employee, aghast tried to rescue the bird but could save only its head and part of one limb. As a result of this and other departures from common sense, we are not now entirely sure what a living dodo was like. We possess much less information than most people suppose-a handful of crude descriptions by "unscientific voyagers, three or four oil paintings, and a few scattered osseous fragments," in the somewhat aggrieved words of the nineteenth century naturalist H. E. Strickland. As Strickland wistfully observed, we have more physical evidence of some ancient sea monsters and lumbering saurapods than we do of a bird that lived into modern times and required nothing of us to survive except our absence. So what is known of the dodo is this: it lived on Mauritius, was plump but not tasty, and was the biggest-ever member of the pigeon family, though by quite what margin is unknown as its weight was never accurately recorded. Extrapolations from Strickland’s "osseous fragments" and the Ashmolean’s modest remains show that it was a little over two and a half feet tall and about the same distance from beak tip to backside. Being flightless, it nested on the ground, leaving its eggs and chicks tragically easy prey for pigs, dogs, and monkeys brought to the island by outsiders. It was probably extinct by 1683 and was most certainly gone by 1693. Beyond that we know almost nothing except of course that we will not see its like again. We know nothing of its reproductive habits and diet, where it ranged, what sounds it made in tranquility or alarm. We don’t possess a single dodo egg. From beginning to end our acquaintance with animate dodos lasted just seventy years.

More than loving themselves, Narcissists are absorbed with themselves. They feel their own desires so acutely that they can’t pay attention to anything else. Imagine their disorder as a pair of binoculars. Narcissists look at their own needs through the magnifying side, and the rest of the cosmos through the side that makes things small to the point of insignificance. It’s not so much that these vampires think they’re better than other people as that they hardly think of other people at all. Unless they need something. Narcissistic need is tremendous. Just as sharks must continually swim to keep from drowning, Narcissists must constantly demonstrate that they are special, or they will sink like stones to the depths of depression. It may look as if they are trying to demonstrate their worth to other people, but their real audience is themselves. Narcissists are experts at showing off. Everything they do is calculated to make the right impression. Conspicuous consumption is for them what religion is for other people. Narcissists pursue the symbols of wealth, status, and power with a fervor that is almost spiritual. They can talk for hours about objects they own, the great things they’ve done or are going to do, and the famous people they hang out with. Often, they exaggerate shamelessly, even when they have plenty of real achievements they could brag about. Nothing is ever enough for them. That’s why Narcissists want you, or at least your adulation. They’ll try so hard to impress you that it’s easy to believe that you’re actually important to them. This can be a fatal mistake; it’s not you they want, only your worship. They’ll suck that out and throw the rest away. To Narcissistic vampires, the objects, the achievements, and the high regard of other people mean nothing in themselves. They are fuel, like water forced across gills so that oxygen can be extracted. The technical term is Narcissistic supplies. If Narcissists don’t constantly demonstrate their specialness to themselves, they drown.

Stoicism suggests that one should try to maintain the following balance: an awareness that the things we are worried about could and very likely might happen – that life will contain moments of tragedy and sharp turns – and that we should be prepared for these moments, both mentally and practically, in any way we can. However, equally important is recognizing that many of these sorts of catastrophic moments, can’t be known nor controlled nor predicted and thus, after a point, worrying has none. Once one has done everything that is rationally and realistically preventative, they should work to revert their attention back to the present, leaving all additional concern about the future, for the future. Awareness and rational preparation have value to the future at low cost to the present. But worrying about what one cannot know nor control of the future has no value to either and comes at the cost of the present. Following the Stoic way of thinking to potentially help counter this unnecessary anxiety and bring our attention and enjoyment back to the present, we can remind ourselves that in the future, things might not be ok, but if they might not be, then they are now. Or at least better than the future version we are worried about. If we are worried that things will only get worse, then things are as good as they’ll ever be right now. And how foolish it would be to ruin what might be ok now out of concern of things potentially not being so later if one cannot know or do anything further to prevent it? And better yet, if one is wrong about what they’re fearful, then things will only get better. And there is even less reason to worry. Moreover, we tend to assume the worst. We tend to worry not only about things going wrong but the worst cases of things going wrong, paired with a sense that in the face of such cases, we would be broken and ruined, beyond repair. However, how often is this actually true? Stoic philosopher Seneca wrote, “We are more often frightened than hurt, and we suffer more from imagination than from reality.” Epictetus similarly wrote, “Man is not worried by real problems so much as by his imagined anxieties about real problems.” In all likeliness, there is someone somewhere right now living some version of a seemingly worst-case scenario for many of us, living with no phone, computer, TV, and a great many other things, unaware of this video and perhaps a huge portion of the happenings of the world. And he or she is likely just as happy or unhappy as many of us right now. We are adaptable creatures, wired to adjust our worries to our circumstances, as well as our abilities to remain ok in the face of them. And it is perhaps of great use to consider and meditate on this idea frequently and with confidence. That even if some version of nearly worst-case, we would likely still be some form of ok. The ingredients of your being that have gotten you where you are, that have given you what you’ve experienced, will still remain. To paraphrase Roman statesman, and philosopher Cicero, while one still breathes, one still has hope. At least in some form.

We live in “an extraordinary time full of vital, transformative movements that could not be foreseen,” argues Solnit. “It’s also a nightmarish time. Full engagement requires the ability to perceive both.” She speaks directly to the pairing of complex hope and the summons to respond: The hope I’m interested in is about broad perspectives with specific possibilities, ones that invite or demand that we act. It’s also not a sunny everything-is-getting-better narrative, though it may be a counter to the everything-is-getting-worse narrative. You could call it an account of complexities and uncertainties, with openings.

Now,” Hunt said, ignoring the tumult, “if I may have a look at that remaining handcuff, I may be able to do something about it.” “You can’t,” Lillian said with weary certainty. “The key is in St. Vincent’s pocket, and I’ve run out of hairpins.” Sitting beside her, Hunt took her manacled wrist, regarded it thoughtfully, and said with what she thought was rather inappropriate satisfaction, “How fortunate. A pair of Higby-Dumfries number thirty.” Lillian gave him a sardonic glance. “I take it you are a handcuff enthusiast?” His lips twitched. “No, but I do have a friend or two in law enforcement. And these were once given as standard issue to the New Police, until a design flaw was discovered. Now one may find a dozen pair of Higby-Dumfries in any London pawnshop.” “What design flaw?” For answer, Hunt adjusted the locked cuff on her wrist, with the hinge and lock facing downward. He paused at the sound of more furniture breaking from upstairs, and grinned at Lillian’s gathering scowl. “I’ll go,” he said mildly. “But first…” He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket with one hand, inserting it between her wrist and the steel cuff as a makeshift inner padding. “There. That may help to cushion the force of the blow.” “Blow? What blow?” “Hold still.” Lillian squeaked in dismay as she felt him lift her manacled wrist high over the desk and bring it down sharply on the bottom of the hinge. The whack served to jar the lever mechanism inside the lock, and the cuff snapped open as if by magic. Stunned, Lillian regarded Hunt with a half smile as she rubbed her bare wrist. “Thank you. I—” There was another crashing sound, this time coming from directly overhead, and a chorus of excited bellows from the onlookers caused the walls to tremble. Above it all, the innkeeper could be heard complaining shrilly that his building would soon be reduced to matchsticks. “Mr. Hunt,” Lillian exclaimed, “I do wish that you would try to be of some use to Lord Westcliff!” Hunt’s brows lifted into mocking crescents. “You don’t actually fear that St. Vincent is getting the better of him?” “The question is not whether I have sufficient confidence in Lord Westcliff’s fighting ability,” Lillian replied impatiently. “The fact is, I have too much confidence in it. And I would rather not have to bear witness at a murder trial on top of everything else.” “You have a point.” Standing, Hunt refolded his handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket. He headed to the stairs with a short sigh, grumbling, “I’ve spent most of the day trying to stop him from killing people.

It will be lovely to have someone new to dine with,” Pandora exclaimed. “Especially someone who has just come from town. I want to hear everything about London.” Devon cast a questioning glance at Kathleen. She answered the twins directly. “I have already explained to Lord Trenear that as we are in strict mourning, we shall dine separately.” The statement was met with a flurry of protests. “But Kathleen, it’s been so dull without any visitors —” “We’ll behave perfectly, I promise —” “They’re our cousins!” “What harm would it do?” Kathleen felt a twinge of regret, knowing that the girls were eager for any kind of diversion. However, this was the man who intended to cast them out of the only home they had ever known. And his brother, Weston, from all appearances, was already half in his cups. A pair of rakes was unsuitable company for innocent girls, particularly when the girls themselves could not be trusted to conduct themselves with restraint. No good could come of it. “I’m afraid not,” she said firmly. “We will allow the earl and his brother to dine in peace.” “But Kathleen,” Cassandra pleaded, “we’ve had no amusement for so long.” “Of course you haven’t,” Kathleen said, steeling herself against a stab of guilt. “People aren’t supposed to have amusements when they’re in mourning.” The twins fell silent, glowering at her. Devon broke the tension by asking Cassandra lightly, “Permission to go ashore, Captain?” “Aye,” came the sullen reply, “you and the wench can leave by way of the plank.” Kathleen frowned. “Kindly do not refer to me as a wench, Cassandra.” “It’s better than ‘bilge rat,’” Pandora said in a surly tone. “Which is the term I would have used.” After giving her a chiding glance, Kathleen returned to the graveled walk, with Devon by her side. “Well?” she asked after a moment. “Aren’t you going to criticize as well?” “I can’t think of anything to add to ‘bilge rat.

All day I loafed in the streets, east as far as Wapping, west as far as Whitechapel. It was queer after Paris; everything was so much cleaner and quieter and drearier. One missed the scream of the trams, and the noisy, festering life of the back streets, the armed men clattering through the squares. The crowds were better dressed and the faces comelier and milder and more alike, without that fierce individuality and malice of the French. There was less drunkenness, and less dirt, and less quarrelling, and more idling. Knots of men stood at corners, slightly underfed, but kept going by the tea-and-two-slices which the Londoner swallows every two hours. One seemed to breathe a less feverish air than in Pairs. It was the land of the tea urn and the Labour Exchange, as Paris is the land of the bistro and the sweatshop.

It is a true soul tie. In the beginning, Chaos created us in pairs or more. The mark is a tether that pulls you back to each other. Once connected, it is beyond bliss, beyond ecstasy. Even the hard parts are no longer hard. The days become brighter. Everything is better because they exist—and when they are gone, the pain is immeasurable.

Eventually you have to decide what to do with this desire. Do you tamp it down in yourself, or do you chase after it? Should you quit your job to pursue your dream, or hang on to that steady paycheck? Stay in an okay relationship or find a better match? Do you plunge into a Technicolor riot of what might be, harsh and delirious and confusing? Or do you accept the humble beauty of ordinary life, where nothing ever changes, and everything is simple? Which will it be—Kansas or Oz? Life as it is or life as it could be? Soon enough, life will offer you an answer. But for the moment, you are like Dorothy, sitting up in her bed, trying to decide which pair of slippers she wants to wear today. Black or ruby? Black or ruby? Until she decides, she’ll be caught in a maddening state of tension, trying to live in two worlds at once—padding around the farmhouse as it spins inside the twister, with rubies shining in her bloodstream, her auburn hair slowly turning gray. Spare a thought for poor Dorothy, the orphan girl of Kansas, who dreams in color but lives in black and white.

I know we need to talk about things, lots of things," he chokes, "but I just-" Susan grabs his face, pulls his head down, and devours him. And that kiss is everything. It's love and regret and apology. Passion and sex, friendship and promise. It's want and need and yearning and heat and shivers that they both feel shuddering through their bodies. It's ten years' worth of kisses, all crowding into one embrace as the pair of them rediscover each other: the curves of their mouths and bodies pressed close, the insistence of hands and tongues, the hearts hammering in concert, and the silent, mutual promise that there is more- so much more! and better!- to come. When they finally part, Susan looks up at him with a teasing smile and says, "You're not just doing this for the brownie recipe, are you?" "Ah, you caught me!" He laughs, then kisses her again and again and again, and when they pause once more, she notices the flush creeping up his neck, the mixture of frustration and desire in his eyes. Clinging to him, she says, in a throaty voice: "Your place or mine?" "Well," he answers, with a devilish smile, "yours is closer, but mine doesn't have your father or Julia in it." "Right," Susan laughs. "Yours, then." Together, they hurtle through the crowd, through the gates of Charlotte Square, bellowing in unison, "Taxi!

At least each course was better than the last. The ingredients were fresh, everything was made from scratch, and she had also planned the perfect wine pairing. He had never had mole with fish, as it was usually served with chicken. And for the first time in his life, he actually enjoyed eating cactus, a feat that even some of the best chefs in the world who had cooked for him hadn't managed to accomplish.

Bruno returns, still clad in only his green towel, hair poofing out a little as it dries. “Everything all right?” I ask, with a stupid smile. I fight my line of sight to stay above the shoulders, but despite my best efforts, my eyes dart down a few times as he strides across the room to his closet. “Yes, clothes. Please,” I say too fast. “Good idea.” Shut. Up. The corner of his mouth hitches up, and his head turns toward my open suitcase on the floor. He bends over and I realize I’m still watching, both to see what he’s doing, and to see if his towel can hang on for the ride. He pulls out a few of my shirts and flings them onto the bed, digging deeper into my suitcase until he pulls out a coral-colored sundress. “Oh, that’s going to look fabulous on you,” I say. “I do not doubt it.” He laughs, turning and holding the dress up to himself, one hip jutting out, then closes the distance between us in a couple of steps. I take the dress from him and do my best to avoid eye contact. But now I’m looking at his chest. His bare chest. His tan, bare chest. And he smells clean, like almonds and oats. A feast for all the senses. Maybe eye contact would be better. I look up into them and immediately regret it. They’re big and golden and deep, and they’re looking at me. I have no clue what’s happening. “You will wear this for me today, yes?” I nod. “Bene.” He walks back to the closet and pulls out a thin white button-down shirt and a pair of navy-blue shorts, then heads for the door. “Wait,” I say, shaking my head out of my daze. He stops just before he passes me. “What’s so special about today? Aren’t we just working?” Darren said he was coming back today and would pop by the restaurant, but we didn’t set a specific time. I assumed I’d be at work all day. “Later, yes,” he says quietly, leaning in like we’re coconspirators. “First, I am taking you on my boat.” I get pulled into the conspiracy and lean in too. “Your boat?” “My boat.” He’s even closer now, still shirtless. His clothes are just an afterthought of wadded-up laundry in his hands. It’s probably such a chore for him to put them on every day. He’s clearly in his element without them. Chiara did say that I had to see Cinque Terre from the sea, that there’s nothing else like it. The anticipation of the photo ops alone is enough to make my answer “Si, si, si,” forget about the half-naked guy standing in front of me. Forget about his lips, inches from mine. Forget that he has his own boat in Italy. “Where are we going?” I stare at his mouth, waiting for an answer. He smirks and I’m pretty sure I’ll follow him anywhere. Bruno traces my jaw with a fingertip and lightly taps the tip of my nose. “You will see.

¡Carajoǃ” Paco says, throwing down his lunch. “They think they can buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria workers wouldn’t know taco meat from a piece of shit. That’s what this tastes like, Alex.” “You’re makin’ me sick, man,” I tell him. I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to Paco everything looks like mierda now. Disgusted, I shove what’s left of my lunch into my brown paper bag. “Want some of it?” Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty taco to me. “Bring that one inch closer to me and you’ll be sorry,” I threaten. “I’m shakin’ in my pants.” Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously know better. “If any of that gets on me--” “What’cha gonna do, kick my ass?” Paco sings sarcastically, still shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him out so I won’t have to deal with him right now. As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look down even though I know what I’ll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans. “Fuck,” Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to shock. “Want me to clean it off for you?” “If your fingers come anywhere close to my dick, I’m gonna personally shoot you in the huevos,” I growl through clenched teeth. I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers. I turn back to Paco. “You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of pants.” “How the hell am I s’posed to do that?” “Be creative.” “Take mine.” Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard. “Maybe I wasn’t specific enough,” I tell him, wondering how I’m going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I’ve peed in my pants. “I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me, pendejo. You’re so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus’s elves.” “I’m toleratin’ your insults because we’re like brothers.” “Nine minutes and thirty seconds.” It doesn’t take Paco more than that to start running toward the school parking lot. I seriously don’t give a crap how I get the pants; just that I get ‘em before my next class. A wet crotch is not the way to show Brittany I’m a stud.

Most of my readers are straight women,” she said and Connor laughed. “Really? You’d think they wouldn’t find that interesting…” he mused and Kate snorted. “Why wouldn’t we find that interesting? It’s the one type of sex we can’t have and we have two of everything we like most,” she said and Connor look confused. Kate sighed as she pushed the cart and he followed. She’d lost track of how many times she’d explained this. “Look. I can have sex with a man. I can have sex with a woman. I can’t be a man having sex with a man, right?” She waited for Connor to nod. “What’s better than one really hot hero? Two. That’s two sets of smoldering eyes, two pairs of strong hands, two washboard stomachs, two throbbing…” He cut her off. “I get it,” he said hoarsely. “Women are secretly adventurous,

When you say you’ve got the Cloak, and clothes . . .” said Harry, frowning at Hermione, who was carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which she was now rummaging. “Yes, they’re here,” said Hermione, and to Harry and Ron’s utter astonishment, she pulled out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally the silvery Invisibility Cloak. “How the ruddy hell — ?” “Undetectable Extension Charm,” said Hermione. “Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she said, peering into it, “and I had them all stacked by subject. . . . Oh well. . . . Harry, you’d better take the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. . . .” “When did you do all this?” Harry asked as Ron stripped off his robes.

If we moved to Bonk we could get a big apartment for the cost of this place—' 'This is our home, Irina,' said the oldest sister. 'Ah, a home of lost illusions and thwarted hopes...' 'We could go out dancing and everything.' 'I remember when we lived in Bonk,' said the middle sister dreamily. 'Things vere better then.' 'Things vere alvays better then,' said the oldest sister. The youngest sister sighed and looked out of the window. She gasped. 'There's a man running through the cherry orchard!' 'A man? Vot could he possibly vant?' The youngest sister strained to see. 'It looks like he wants... a pair of trousers...' 'Ah,' said the middle sister dreamily. 'Trousers ver better then.

7. UNFAVORABLE ENVIRONMENTAL INFLUENCES DURING CHILDHOOD. "As the twig is bent, so shall the tree grow." Most people who have criminal tendencies acquire them as the result of bad environment, and improper associates during childhood. 8. PROCRASTINATION. This is one of the most common causes of failure. "Old Man Procrastination" stands within the shadow of every human being, waiting his opportunity to spoil one's chances of success. Most of us go through life as failures, because we are waiting for the "time to be right" to start doing something worthwhile. Do not wait. The time will never be "just right." Start where you stand, and work with whatever tools you may have at your command, and better tools will be found as you go along. 9. LACK OF PERSISTENCE. Most of us are good "starters" but poor "finishers" of everything we begin. Moreover, people are prone to give up at the first signs of defeat. There is no substitute for PERSISTENCE. The person who makes PERSISTENCE his watch-word, discovers that "Old Man Failure" finally becomes tired, and makes his departure. Failure cannot cope with PERSISTENCE. 10. NEGATIVE PERSONALITY. There is no hope of success for the person who repels people through a negative personality. Success comes through the application of POWER, and power is attained through the cooperative efforts of other people. A negative personality will not induce cooperation. 11. LACK OF CONTROLLED SEXUAL URGE. Sex energy is the most powerful of all the stimuli which move people into ACTION. Because it is the most powerful of the emotions, it must be controlled, through transmutation, and converted into other channels. 12. UNCONTROLLED DESIRE FOR "SOMETHING FOR NOTHING." The gambling instinct drives millions of people to failure. Evidence of this may be found in a study of the Wall Street crash of " 29, during which millions of people tried to make money by gambling on stock margins. 13. LACK OF A WELL DEFINED POWER OF DECISION. Men who succeed reach decisions promptly, and change them, if at all, very slowly. Men who fail, reach decisions, if at all, very slowly, and change them frequently, and quickly. Indecision and procrastination are twin brothers. Where one is found, the other may usually be found also. Kill off this pair before they completely "hog-tie" you to the treadmill of FAILURE.