Farewell Invitation Quotes

Fear goes where it is invited.

Salvation is a restoration project, not an evacuation project! Or as Thomas Merton put it, “Eschatology is not an invitation to escape into a private heaven: it is a call to transfigure the evil and stricken world.

Now goes under, and I watch it go under, the sun That will not rise again. Today has seen the setting, in your eyes cold and senseless as the sea, Of friendship better than bread, and of bright charity That lifts a man a little above the beasts that run. That this could be! That I should live to see Most vulgar Pride, that stale obstreperous clown, So fitted out with purple robe and crown To stand among his betters! Face to face With outraged me in this once holy place, Where Wisdom was a favoured guest and hunted Truth was harboured out of danger, He bulks enthroned, a lewd, an insupportable stranger! I would have sworn, indeed I swore it: The hills may shift, the waters may decline, Winter may twist the stem from the twig that bore it, But never your love from me, your hand from mine. Now goes under the sun, and I watch it go under. Farewell, sweet light, great wonder! You, too, farewell,-but fare not well enough to dream You have done wisely to invite the night before the darkness came.

What's the latest beast in your collection, I wonder?" "Me." Metal clanged as Gabriel flipped the helmet's visor. "I'm her latest beast." The Irving sisters choked on their laughter, then swallowed it hard. He took a clanking step forward, towering over them. "Let me tell you, Lady Penelope has her hands full. I'm vicious. Untamed. I won't come to heel." He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a growl. "And I bite." He turned, and- confronted with the wall of hedges- stormed through it like the Ottomans breaching the walls of Tyre. Once he'd cleared a path with his armored body, he extended a gauntlet, inviting Penny to follow. She put her gloved hand in his shining one. Rather than leading her through, he pulled her to him, slid his hand to her backside, and lifted her off her feet, keeping her slippers free of the trampled shrubs. Her beast in shining armor. As he carried her through the hedge, she waved farewell to the bug-eyed Irving sisters. "It's been lovely seeing you.

Towards the preservation of your government, and the permanency of your present happy state, it is requisite, not only that you steadily discountenance irregular oppositions to its acknowledged authority, but also that you resist with care the spirit of innovation upon its principles, however specious the pretexts. One method of assault may be to effect, in the forms of the Constitution, alterations which will impair the energy of the system, and thus to undermine what cannot be directly overthrown. In all the changes to which you may be invited, remember that time and habit are at least as necessary to fix the true character of governments as of other human institutions; that experience is the surest standard by which to test the real tendency of the existing constitution of a country; that facility in changes, upon the credit of mere hypothesis and opinion, exposes to perpetual change, from the endless variety of hypothesis and opinion; and remember, especially, that for the efficient management of your common interests, in a country so extensive as ours, a government of as much vigor as is consistent with the perfect security of liberty is indispensable.

Pettiness often leads both to error and to the digging of a trap for oneself. Wondering (which I am sure he didn't) 'if by the 1990s [Hitchens] was morphing into someone I didn’t quite recognize”, Blumenthal recalls with horror the night that I 'gave' a farewell party for Martin Walker of the Guardian, and then didn't attend it because I wanted to be on television instead. This is easy: Martin had asked to use the fine lobby of my building for a farewell bash, and I'd set it up. People have quite often asked me to do that. My wife did the honors after Nightline told me that I’d have to come to New York if I wanted to abuse Mother Teresa and Princess Diana on the same show. Of all the people I know, Martin Walker and Sidney Blumenthal would have been the top two in recognizing that journalism and argument come first, and that there can be no hard feelings about it. How do I know this? Well, I have known Martin since Oxford. (He produced a book on Clinton, published in America as 'The President We Deserve'. He reprinted it in London, under the title, 'The President They Deserve'. I doffed my hat to that.) While Sidney—I can barely believe I am telling you this—once also solicited an invitation to hold his book party at my home. A few days later he called me back, to tell me that Martin Peretz, owner of the New Republic, had insisted on giving the party instead. I said, fine, no bones broken; no caterers ordered as yet. 'I don't think you quite get it,' he went on, after an honorable pause. 'That means you can't come to the party at all.' I knew that about my old foe Peretz: I didn't then know I knew it about Blumenthal. I also thought that it was just within the limit of the rules. I ask you to believe that I had buried this memory until this book came out, but also to believe that I won't be slandered and won't refrain—if motives or conduct are in question—from speculating about them in my turn.

I contemplated how I was going to get through the rest of the day and felt the onset of a terror I thought I had outgrown. I hated it when these clusters started to form. One unwelcome subject sought out its counterparts—farewells, people leaving and never coming back, ambulances.... And then those counterparts attracted similar old hurts and horrors until you were trapped in the nucleus of the cluster. This cluster, I knew, was labeled LOSS in big black letters. I knew this much, thanks to therapy and training, but simply knowing it didn't protect you from reacting to it over and over again. Until one day you resolved to sit down in the middle of the nucleus, fold your arms, and invite the cluster to do its worst. And if you survived that, you could look around and see what was left in its absence.

Much of Chinese society still expected its women to hold themselves in a sedate manner, lower their eyelids in response to men's stares, and restrict their smile to a faint curve of the lips which did not expose their teeth. They were not meant to use hand gestures at all. If they contravened any of these canons of behavior they would be considered 'flirtatious." Under Mao, flirting with./bre/gners was an unspeakable crime. I was furious at the innuendo against me. It had been my Communist parents who had given me a liberal upbringing. They had regarded the restrictions on women as precisely the sort of thing a Communist revolution should put an end to. But now oppression of women joined hands with political repression, and served resentment and petty jealousy. One day, a Pakistani ship arrived. The Pakistani military attache came down from Peking. Long ordered us all to spring-clean the club from top to bottom, and laid on a banquet, for which he asked me to be his interpreter, which made some of the other students extremely envious. A few days later the Pakistanis gave a farewell dinner on their ship, and I was invited. The military attache had been to Sichuan, and they had prepared a special Sichuan dish for me. Long was delighted by the invitation, as was I. But despite a personal appeal from the captain and even a threat from Long to bar future students, my teachers said that no one was allowed on board a foreign ship. "Who would take the responsibility if someone sailed away on the ship?" they asked. I was told to say I was busy that evening. As far as I knew, I was turning down the only chance I would ever have of a trip out to sea, a foreign meal, a proper conversation in English, and an experience of the outside world. Even so, I could not silence the whispers. Ming asked pointedly, "Why do foreigners like her so much?" as though there was something suspicious in that. The report filed on me at the end of the trip said my behavior was 'politically dubious." In this lovely port, with its sunshine, sea breezes, and coconut trees, every occasion that should have been joyous was turned into misery. I had a good friend in the group who tried to cheer me up by putting my distress into perspective. Of course, what I encountered was no more than minor unpleasantness compared with what victims of jealousy suffered in the earlier years of the Cultural Revolution. But the thought that this was what my life at its best would be like depressed me even more. This friend was the son of a colleague of my father's. The other students from cities were also friendly to me. It was easy to distinguish them from the students of peasant backgrounds, who provided most of the student officials.

The hours I spent in this anachronistic, bibliophile, Anglophile retreat were in surreal contrast to the shrieking horror show that was being enacted in the rest of the city. I never felt this more acutely than when, having maneuvered the old boy down the spiral staircase for a rare out-of-doors lunch the next day—terrified of letting him slip and tumble—I got him back upstairs again. He invited me back for even more readings the following morning but I had to decline. I pleaded truthfully that I was booked on a plane for Chile. 'I am so sorry,' said this courteous old genius. 'But may I then offer you a gift in return for your company?' I naturally protested with all the energy of an English middle-class upbringing: couldn't hear of such a thing; pleasure and privilege all mine; no question of accepting any present. He stilled my burblings with an upraised finger. 'You will remember,' he said, 'the lines I will now speak. You will always remember them.' And he then recited the following: What man has bent o'er his son's sleep, to brood How that face shall watch his when cold it lies? Or thought, as his own mother kissed his eyes, Of what her kiss was when his father wooed? The title (Sonnet XXIX of Dante Gabriel Rossetti)—'Inclusiveness'—may sound a trifle sickly but the enfolded thought recurred to me more than once after I became a father and Borges was quite right: I have never had to remind myself of the words. I was mumbling my thanks when he said, again with utter composure: 'While you are in Chile do you plan a call on General Pinochet?' I replied with what I hoped was equivalent aplomb that I had no such intention. 'A pity,' came the response. 'He is a true gentleman. He was recently kind enough to award me a literary prize.' It wasn't the ideal note on which to bid Borges farewell, but it was an excellent illustration of something else I was becoming used to noticing—that in contrast or corollary to what Colin MacCabe had said to me in Lisbon, sometimes it was also the right people who took the wrong line.

Give every man thy ear but few thy voice. Take each man’s censure but reserve thy judgment. 70 Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy—rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. 75 Neither a borrower nor a lender be, For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, 80 Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell. My blessing season this in thee. LAERTES Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. POLONIUS The time invites you. Go. Your servants tend. LAERTES Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well 85 What I have said to you.

So. Then you came to this place, to settle yourself in peace. That is truly the end of your tale?” It was. Since the last time I had hidden the Fool farewell, I had spent most of my days either running or hiding. This cottage was my selfish retreat. I said as much. “I doubt that Hap would see it that way,” he returned mildly. “And most folks would find saving the world once in their lifetime a sufficient credit and would not think to do more than that. Still, as your heart seems set on it, I will do all I can to drag you through it again.” He quirked an eyebrow at me invitingly. I laughed, but not easily. “I don’t need to be a hero, Fool. I’d settle for feeling that what I did every day had significance to someone besides myself.

A Magic Hour’s Dreaming by Stewart Stafford Is there a sight more fair than wheaten fields, Awaiting the sun's ambush to potently ignite? Colour vibrates beyond the eye revealed, To live, dance and breathe in honeyed light. Nature’s palette, painted hues so bright, Invites the bees to sip and man to dream, Of engineered art, dazzling to the sight, Authored lightning in a celestial seam. The creator’s canvas, mint beyond decay, Invites the inner child to replenish at source, Where Nature’s staff casts shadows away, Friendships bond as a trickling stream's course. An eyeblink flash carved in history's tree, Treasured riches pooled of those by our side. For in sepia’s sunflower memory, We court the hand of an agreeable bride. Fading birdsong underscores this bottled time, In butterfly hearts, the hourglass stilled sublime. Autumn's leaves, ochre embers, curtsied fall, Farewell Summer, until roused in New Year's call. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

communion was celebrated. "We had comunion. Captain Newport dined ashore with our diet, and invited many of us to supper as a farewell." The next day, Christopher Newport raised anchor and began the return trip to England. He took letters from those remaining in Virginia and carried accounts describing Virginia and the events that had occurred. The settlement had been made, and the future seemed promising.

To remember people’s names, wash, rinse, repeat—Repeat a person’s name upon introduction, throughout the conversation, and as you bid farewell. Try it both in your mind as well as out loud. Avoid nicknames unless otherwise invited.

Second, the Holy Spirit endues the church with God's authority. In responding to some Pentecostal exegetes who emphasize the role of the Holy Spirit only in empowering believers for witness, Max Turner makes the observation that several of the key manifestations of the Holy Spirit in the book of Acts are not linked to an empowerment-for-witness theme.' In several texts people are filled with the Holy Spirit to give service or direction to the church. For example, in Acts 6 the seven deacons are filled with the Holy Spirit to serve the church (6:1-7). Similarly, in Paul's farewell to the elders at Ephesus, he acknowledges that it was the Holy Spirit who had appointed them as overseers of the church (20:28). In Acts 11:27-28, Agabus is filled with the Holy Spirit to inform the church that a severe famine will spread over the entire Roman world. In Acts 15 the Holy Spirit directs the church in their decision regarding the terms through which Gentile believers were to be admitted into the church (15:28). The Holy Spirit extends the judgment of God on both the church and on the unbelieving world (5:3, 9; 13:9-12). Thus, the Holy Spirit serves not only to empower the church to witness but also is the "teacher of the church" and the "executor of Christ's will in the world" (John 15:26; 16:14-15).7 The Holy Spirit conveys revelation to the church by communicating to the church the will of God, thereby helping to bring the church under the authority of Christ. The early church regularly confesses that it is the Holy Spirit who inspired the biblical authors and, thereby, delivered to the church the Word of God (Acts 1:16; 4:25).

One curious postscript to the Mannix farewell to Maynooth has never been explained. Just two days before being consecrated as archbishop, near the end of his nine-day retreat of prayer and silence, he wrote a short note inviting an underqualified, obscure young teacher, whom he had never met, to apply for a part-time job lecturing in mathematics at Maynooth.45 Mannix could have left it to his successor to find a candidate for this minor post. Why did he want to help Eamon de Valera? In 1912, de Valera, a father of three, was struggling to get by with bits and pieces of teaching in secondary schools. The Maynooth connection would be an immense asset to a future political leader, but in 1912 de Valera hadn’t entered politics. All he had done was to get a disappointing pass degree in mathematics, learn Irish, and become secretary of a branch of the Gaelic League. Was Mannix trying to atone for the O’Hickey case? Whatever his reasons, he brought the future Sinn Féin leader, like a Trojan horse, into the clerical fortress of Maynooth.

He wasn’t quite what you’d hoped for, was he, Mother dear?” remarked Violet. “I was trying to help you,” said Angelina, her cheeks warming. Violet folded her arms and gave her a look. “I’m never going to invite him again.” Angelina weaved unsteadily on her high heels as she made her way towards the stairs and the privacy of her dingy room. “You won’t have to,” replied Violet. “He’ll be back. --Farewell My Life: Buona Notte Vita Mia

The words weren’t a come-on, some not-so-subtle invitation. But even later, as he sat in the Fae Archives researching medical breakthroughs, he still pondered the tone and promise of her farewell. And realized he’d never gotten her name.

Then she sang:   Dumbarton’s drums beat bonnie O, When they mind me of my dear Johnnie O! How happy am I When my soldier is by, While he kisses and blesses his Annie O! Tis a soldier alone can delight me O, For his graceful looks do invite me O! While guarded in his arms I’ll fear no war’s alarms, Neither danger nor death shall e’er fright me O!   My love is a handsome laddie O, Genteel, but ne’er foppish or gaudy O! Though commissions are dear, Yet I’ll buy him one this year, For he’ll serve no longer a cadie O! A soldier has honor and bravery O, Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery O! He minds no other thing But the ladies or the king, For every other care is but slavery O!   Then I’ll be the captain’s lady O! Farewell, all my friends and my daddy O! I’ll wait no more at home, But I’ll follow with the drum, And whene’er that beats I’ll be ready O! Dumbarton’s drums sound bonnie O! They are sprightly like my dear Johnnie O! How happy I shall be When on my soldier’s knee, And he kisses and blesses his Annie O!

Your boyfriend leave already?” She glanced toward the kitchen, saw Toby disappear out the back door, leaving them alone. “He isn’t my boyfriend. At least he’s not anymore.” Hard blue eyes bored into her. “So what then? You just invited him in and gave him a farewell fuck?” Oh, dear. He was madder than she thought. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad. “I let him spend the night, but I didn’t sleep with him.” “Yeah, right. And the New York Yankees are gonna lose the pennant this year.” “I didn’t sleep with Jeremy. I didn’t want to. I don’t have those kinds of feelings for him anymore.” “So I’m supposed to believe the two of you stayed together in a two-room cabin and he didn’t wind up in your bed.” Her own temper heated. “I’m not a liar, Call. I especially wouldn’t lie about something like that.” He stared at her for several long moments, then a weary sigh escaped. “I’m sorry.” He walked toward her, dragged her into his arms, and very thoroughly kissed her. “I just…I didn’t like the idea of him being over there with you.

By means of †faith, the life of Christ permeates Paul. Christ does not impose himself on Paul but makes his divine life available to Paul, inviting a response of faith. The absolute trustworthiness of the Son of God opens up for Paul the possibility of a life of faith, which is the life of Christ in him and his life in Christ, a marvelous reciprocal interiority. Jesus’ farewell discourse in the Gospel of John has much to say about this mutual indwelling.7 Faith does not present itself as a mere assent of the mind to certain truths, but as the surrender of one’s whole being to the person of Christ (see the sidebar, “What Does Paul Mean by ‘Faith’?,” p. 100).

Edward’s final meeting with his mistress was as harrowing as that with his banker was dignified. Even before the news was broken to the nation, the atmosphere surrounding Mrs Keppel was fraught. From her nursery window, nine-year-old Sonia could see knots of people clustered on the pavements, and strangers buttonholing each other for the latest. Inside, the servants were distracted and grim. Fifteen-year-old Violet was clearly in on the secret but refused to divulge any details. That afternoon, Mrs Keppel presented a letter to the Queen, which Edward had written to her almost a decade earlier. In the event he was ever taken seriously ill, he asked her to come and see him ‘so that I may say farewell and thank you for all your kindness and friendship since it has been my good fortune to know you’. He concluded with a thinly veiled order to his wife and children: ‘I feel convinced that all those who have any affection for me will carry out the wishes which I expressed in these lines.’37 Always magnanimous to her husband’s lovers, Alexandra invited Mrs Keppel to the Palace at 5 p.m. By then, the King was being kept alive with strychnine. At 1 p.m., he had had a heart attack and was believed to be dead. Coming round, he had drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours. At 4.30 p.m., the Prince of Wales informed him that his horse, Witch of the Air, had just won by half a length at Kempton Park. ‘I am very glad,’ Edward murmured.38 When Mrs Keppel arrived, he barely recognised her. According to Lord Esher, who heard a full account from Francis Knollys, the Queen shook hands and told her, ‘I am sure you have always had a good influence over him.

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