Favourite Person Quotes

My first meeting with you only confirmed what I first suspected. You are a fraud, a charlatan and a shyster. My favourite kind of person, in fact.

I love you," I whispered hoarsely. "You're my favourite person." The tears blurred in my eyes again. "And if you ever tell anyone I cried during this moment I will withhold sex for a year.

You're my very favourite person in the known universe

When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in the particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "So it goes.

You’re too good for me.” He laughed. “Are we talking about the same person? The selfish fucker who curses and yells, blows up cars and beats up people, because he has a temper he can’t control? You know, the one who drinks like a fish and fries his brain with drugs? That person is too good for you?” She shook her head. “I’m talking about the boy who shared his chocolate bar with me when he probably never shared anything before, who gave me his mama’s favourite book, because he thought I deserved to read. The one who seems to be constantly fixing me up when I get hurt. I’m talking about the boy who treats me like I’m a regular girl, the one who desperately needs his bedroom cleaned and laundry washed but chooses to live in a mess and wear dirty clothes, because he’s too polite to ask the girl he kisses for help.” “Wow,” Carmine said. “I’d like to meet that motherfucker.

Marriage is about finding that person you know best in the world. Not how they take their coffee or what their favourite film is or the name of their first cat. It's knowing on a deeper level. It's knowing their soul.

I am a Jane Austenite, and therefore slightly imbecile about Jane Austen. My fatuous expression, and airs of personal immunity—how ill they sit on the face, say, of a Stevensonian! But Jane Austen is so different. She is my favourite author! I read and reread, the mouth open and the mind closed. Shut up in measureless content, I greet her by the name of most kind hostess, while criticism slumbers.

You are my favourite person of all time. I want everyone to meet you.

My favourite characters are people who think they’re normal but they’re not. I live in Baltimore, and it’s full of people like that. I’ve also lived in New York, which is full of people who think they’re crazy, but they’re completely normal. I get my best material in Baltimore – you get dialogue that you just couldn’t imagine. I asked this guy in a bar what he did for a living and he said he traded deer meat for crack. I never realised that job even existed. You could make a whole movie about that person. And he was kind of cute too, if you could ignore his eyes rolling around his head. Although I did crack once, accidentally, and I thought: Oh my God, what, am I gonna rob my parents now? I prefer poppers – they’re legal in London, right? I used to do them on roller coasters. They’re illegal in Provincetown, which is the gay fishing village where I live in the summer. In the airport there are signs warning you to get rid of your poppers.

Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwarves or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins. He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath.

My favourite part of the gospels was in Matthew, when Jesus said: love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you. I shared in this desire for moral superiority over my enemies. Jesus always wanted to be the better person, and so did I. I underlined this passage in red pencil several times, to illustrate that I understood the Christian way of life.

I know you can do this. You’re the person who revolutionized garbage collection at Westview, remember?

But there must be a real giving up of the self. You must throw it away "blindly" so to speak. Christ will indeed give you a real personality: but you must not go to Him for the sake of that. As long as your own personality is what you are bothering about you are not going to Him at all. The very first step is to try to forget about the self altogether. Your real, new self (which is Christ's and also yours, and yours just because it is His) will not come as long as you are looking for it. It will come when you are looking for Him. Does that sound strange? The same principle holds, you know, for more everyday matters. Even in social life, you will never make a good impression on other people until you stop thinking about what sort of impression you are making. Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. The principle runs through all life from top to bottom. Give up your self, and you will find your real self. Lose your life and you will save it. Submit to death, death of your ambitions and favourite wishes every day and death of your whole body in the end: submit with every fibre of your being, and you will find eternal life. Keep back nothing. Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours. Nothing in you that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for yourself, and you will find in the long run only hatred, loneliness, despair, rage, ruin, and decay. But look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else thrown in.

my favourite emotions include 'brief calmness in good weather' and 'i am the only person alive

Cindy, have you heard of the second law of thermodynamics?” “Yes. Something about heat energy can never be created or destroyed?” “That’s the first law of thermodynamics. The second one is this…all organized systems tend to slide slowly into chaos and disorder. Energy tends to run down. The universe itself heads inevitably towards darkness and stasis. Our own star system eventually will die, the sun will become a red giant, and the earth will be swallowed by the red giant.” “Cheery thought.” “But mathematics has altered this concept; rather one particular mathematician. His name was Ilya Prigogine, a Belgian mathematician.” “Who and what does that have to do with your being a PI and a great psychologist?” “Are you being sarcastic? Of course you are. Anyway, what I was trying to say was that Prigogine used the analogy of a walled city and open city. The walled city is isolated from its surroundings and will run down, decay, and die. The open city will have an exchange of materials and energy with its surroundings and will become larger and more complex; capable of dissipating energy even as it grows. So my point is, this analogy very much pertains to a certain female. The walled person versus the open person. The walled person will eventually decline, fade, and decay.

Dear woman, look at yourself in the mirror and be your own favourite person. Every curve, every freckle, every hair on your skin. Because you are worth your tears, your laughter, your joys and your pains. You are worth the broken roads you've traveled, the nights you've spent alone with a bottle of champagne, the times you climbed out of graves. You are worth the smiles only you see, the ones you generously share, then all the others in between. You're worth the love that's meant for you and the pains you've broken through. Dear woman, look at yourself; you love you.

Dennis faced him. They glared at each other again. Neither said a word until Dennis set the glasses down, leaned back against the counter, and folded his arms over his chest. "You're an idiot." "Seems to be a common conclusion. You're not my favourite person right now either.

You deserve so much more than hiding out in high school basements. You don't deserve to be someone's secret, Ashlyn. You deserve to be the chorus to a person's favourite song. You deserve to be the dedication in their favourite book.

Nature does not play favourites, it regards its creations without sentimentality. Therefore the wise person also acts in this way.

You may be a person I admire, but you can't be a person that everyone admires. You are not everyone's favourite, but you are someone's favourite whether you like them or not.

The best gift that you can give to your favourite person is to lead him or her to God.

He adjusts our hands, his fingers warm around mine. And then he looks down at me, and his eyes say all the things he cannot. His gaze holds mine as we dance slowly, and I silently tell him that I'll always carry him in my heart, and he silently tells me that in another place, another time, we'd have been pretty damn close to perfect. 'For what it's worth'—his hand slips into my hair and he strokes his thumb along my jaw—'and because we're finally being honest with each other, you're just about my favourite person in the world, and it was the single most spectacular kiss of my whole life.

- Then I realized maybe Atlas wasn't supposed to be my whole life. Maybe he was only supposed to be a part of it. - I'm going to make a promise to you. When my life is good enough for you to be a part of it, I'll come find you. But I don't want you to wait around for me, because that might never happen. - You pushed me. "You fell", he says. - You are my wife. I'm supposed to be the one who protects you from the monsters. I'm not supposed to be the one. - Where did you get that magnet, Lily? - Lily saved your life, now you're saving hers. - I had nothing to offer you but live, and to me, you deserved more than that- Atlas - If you severer need me, I want you to call me. But only if it's an emergency. I'm not capable of being casual with you, Lily.- Atlas - In the future..if by some miracle you ever find yourself in the position to fall in love again..fall in love with me. You're still my favourite person, Lily. Always will be.- Atlas - Just because someone hurts you doesn't mean you can simply stop loving them. It's not a person's actions that hurt the most. It's the love. -It stops here. With me and you. It ends with us- Lily to her baby Emerson. - I feel like my life is good enough for you now. So whenever you're ready...- Atlas - You can stop swimming now, Lily. We finally reached the shore."- Atlas

On the surface, a sheltered life spent on your favourite activities might look like paradise but I believe that unless you come into contact with some of the hardships other people endure, your own personal development will be impaired.

Because I'm okay with you having ten other people be your favorite. But you're always going to be my favourite person.

History was my favourite subject at school and in my spare time I read historical novels voraciously from Heidi to the Scarlet Pimpernel and from Georgette Heyer to Agatha Christie.

Naturally, I have grown to recognize some of my fellow visitors, the widows and widowers in waiting who wander the corridors in terrified loneliness, deprived for the first time in decades of their favourite person.

My friendships are my privacy. My love life is my privacy. My health life is my privacy. My enemies are my privacy. My favourite is my privacy. My thinking is my privacy. If I show you what they're like then you're chosen.

Neither of you ever told me what happened that year you were both gone.” “Maybe because you don’t want to know … You weren’t our favourite person that year, after all.” “I wasn’t my favourite person that year, either,” Søren said.

All things are incomplete. They are in search of completeness. While you are in company of a person or a book or your favourite food, be aware of the experience inside you. Because the search of completeness ends inside, not outside.

My humble...I don't drink...' 'A shame! What about a game of dice, then? Or do have some other favourite game? Dominoes? Cards? 'I don't play games,' the already weary barman responded. 'Altogether bad,' the host concluded. 'As you will, but there's something noce nice hidden in men who avoid wine, games, the society of charming women, table talk. Such people are either gravely ill or secretly hate everybody around them. True, there may be exceptions. Among persons sitting down with me at the banqueting table, there have been on occasion some extraordinary scoundrels! Chapter 18

Usually, but not always, a story is told mostly for the benefit of the teller. The story (...) demonstrates how the teller has lived a life full of adventure, of meaning; that they're comical, self-deprecating, and brave; that they're ultimately a person worth knowing. It's as though folks need to remind themselves of their own worth, and they do this by telling and retelling their favourite eleven or twelve stories, the anecdotes that fundamentally define who they are.

favourites.-There is, of course, here and there on this terrestrial sphere a kind of sequel to love, in which that envious longing of two persons for one another has yielded to a new desire and covetousness, to a common, higher thirst for a superior ideal standing above them : but who knows this love? Who has experienced it? Its right name is friendship.

The minute you begin to feel yourself ‘working hard’ as opposed to ‘playing a challenging game’ it’s time to take a break or get around some new people. Disappear for a week, get some sun, read up on your favourite role models, explore fresh ideas and spend time with people who are ‘in their zone’. Attend a new event, read a new book and have a few new conversations.

Most of Jacks' books were crookedly stacked and next to volumes without any apparent reason, except for a small collection of the last book she'd have expected to find here: The Ballad of the Archer and the Fox. Something warmed inside of her at the sight of so many copies of her favourite storybook. Jacks owned seven volumes, ranging from old to very old. Positioned more precisely than anything else in his den, they sat side by set, on the tip-top of the shelf, the sort of place where a person stored books they didn't want anyone else touching. What was all this about? ... Evangeline reached for the first volume- she knew she was being distracted. But all she wanted was to look at the last page and see what sort of ending the story had. She wanted to know if it had a happy ending- if the Archer kissed his Fox girl or if he killed her. And maybe seeing all these books felt like a sign. She was starting to think that sometimes she imagined things were signs when they weren't. But that didn't mean they were not actual signs. She opened the first book, but the pages in the back were all ripped out. And unfortunately, she did not have better luck with any of the other volumes. Every copy fought her. One book kept falling from her hands every time she tried to open it. Another book only had blank pages at the end.

The knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our existence, our natural and unalienable inheritance; the other is a personal and individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man of science seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor; he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, ‘that he looks before and after.’ He is the rock of defence for human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love. In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs: in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed; the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The objects of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge—it is as immortal as the heart of man.

People tell boring lies about politics, God and love. You know everything you need to know about a person from the answer to the question: What is your favourite book?

anyone can have pretty eyes, but only the right kind of person can hum the alphabet and make it your new favourite beat.

His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story.

People tell boring lies about politics, God and love. You know everything you need to know about a person from the answer to the question: What is your favourite book? A.J.F.

But, Soph, I know that I like you more than anyone else in the world. And that's it, isn’t it – the thing that matters? Fuck love and relationships, I just want to be with you because you're my goddamn favourite person. And I feel like it's going to be impossible for you not to trust my feelings because you're going to see them in my eyes every time I look at you.

Never meet your heroes. Never check which political party a singer supported. And never, ever, read celebrity gossip about your favourite actors. Because knowing about the real person would break the spell.

I judge people two ways – on how they treat animals, and on what they like to eat. If their favourite food is some kind of salad, they are definitely a bad person. Anything with cheese, they are probably OK.

He sat with me, chattering away about our triumphant return to Cambridge and ICODEF, and myriad other things, and not expecting anything substantial in reply, which is one of my favourite qualities about him. It sounds odd to admit that I find the company of such a boisterous person restful, but perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature.

He'd kept every note she'd written him, and kept his three or four favourites in the envelope in his pocket, always. And the envelope was gone. [...] "What's wrong?" said Hava, who was watching him with rising impatience. What was wrong was that Giddon was realizing, with a bright white clarity he'd never had before, that a person did not keep notes like that from a friend, carrying them around like something precious, like treasure, for no reason. It wasn't normal, it wasn't a routine thing to do, and Giddon had never wanted to be Bitterblue's confidant and counselor when she searched for a husband. He'd loved her.

we as authors have been writing about people we aren't for forever. We find a way to empathise, we find a way in. Female characters are no different. All they are are characters. They are people too. Instead of asking yourself, "How do I write this female soldier?" ask yourself, "How do I write this soldier? Where is she from, how was she raised, does she have a sense of humour? Is she big and tall, is she short and petite? How does her size affect her ability to fight? What is her favourite weapon, her least favourite? Why? Is she more logical than emotional? The other way around? Was she an only child and spoiled, was she the eldest of six siblings and a surrogate mother? How does that upbringing affect how she interacts with her team? etc etc and so forth." Notice how the first question gets you some kind of broad, generalised answer, likely resulting in a stereotype, and how the second version asks lots and lots of smaller questions with the goal of creating someone well rounded. One would hope, really, that we as authors ask such detailed questions of all our characters, regardless of gender. So let me, at long last, actually answer the original question: "How do I write a female character?" Write her the way you would write any other character. Give her dimension, give her strength but please also don't forget to give her weaknesses (for a totally strong nothing can beat her kind of girl is not a person, she's again a type - the polar opposite yet exactly the same as the damsel in distress). Create a person.

my personal favourite, which I took home with me from the heart of rural Wales and will treasure forever: ‘Well, we’ve had a think about it, and we reckon you probably did it. You did, didn’t you? Go on. No? Well we think you did.

The Brandy Diet is one of my personal favourites – you don’t lose any weight, but if you drink enough of the stuff then you neither care what you look like nor what people think of you. Also, if you’re very lucky, you can lose days.

One of the disadvantages of almost universal education was the fact that all kinds of persons acquired a familiarity with one's favourite writers. It gave one a curious feeling; it was like seeing a drunken stranger wrapped in one's dressing gown.

In an age like our own, when the artist is an altogether exceptional person, he must be allowed a certain amount of irresponsibility, just as a pregnant woman is. Still, no one would say that a pregnant woman should be allowed to commit murder, nor would anyone make such a claim for the artist, however gifted. If Shakespeare returned to the earth to-morrow, and if it were found that his favourite recreation was raping little girls in railway carriages, we should not tell him to go ahead with it on the ground that he might write another King Lear. And, after all, the worst crimes are not always the punishable ones. By encouraging necrophilic reveries one probably does quite as much harm as by, say, picking pockets at the races. One ought to be able to hold in one’s head simultaneously the two facts that Dali is a good draughtsman and a disgusting human being. The one does not invalidate or, in a sense, affect the other. The first thing that we demand of a wall is that it shall stand up. If it stands up, it is a good wall, and the question of what purpose it serves is separable from that. And yet even the best wall in the world deserves to be pulled down if it surrounds a concentration camp. In the same way it should be possible to say, “This is a good book or a good picture, and it ought to be burned by the public hangman.” Unless one can say that, at least in imagination, one is shirking the implications of the fact that an artist is also a citizen and a human being.

The gospel Jesus spreads in the book of Luke has as one of its main themes that Jesus brings a social revolution, in which the previous systems and hierarchies of clean and unclean, sinner and saved, and up and down don't mean what they used to. God is doing a new work through Jesus, calling all people to human solidarity. Everybody is a brother, a sister. Equals, children of the God who shows no favouritism. To reject this new social order was to reject Jesus, the very movement of God in flesh and blood.

In fact, this method – of deliberately seeking out stimulation, excitement, even crisis – is one of our favourite human devices for escaping that sense of ‘a cloud weighing upon us’. A depressed housewife goes and buys herself a new hat. A bored man gets drunk. A discontented teenager steals a car or takes his knuckledusters to a a football match. Generally speaking, the greater a person's potentiality for achievement, the greater his or her objection to that feeling of being ‘cut off from one's rightful resources’.

And I want her with me all the time. It’s fucking consuming. But she’s my favourite human in the world. After a certain amount of time together, other people usually get on my nerves. But not Summer. She’s my person. And I’m hers. Two halves of the same whole.

As the childhood leaves a deep mark in a person’s life, there is a strong influence of childhood in choosing the favourite writer. Say, if someone’s childhood passes amid the village, nature, river etc., then Rabindranath Tagore’s name should appear on top as one of the favourites!

Even if you are planning to spend your immortal life with a complete nutter.” “It’s so cute that you two have pet names for each other.” He snorted. “What is it exactly that he calls me?” “My personal favourite is ‘fuck-faced bag of shit’. But mostly he just refers to you as ‘that asshole’.

A romance is never just a romance, there's adventure, mystery and movement. You need a grand, dramatic setting - the Swiss Alps were always an personal favourite of mine - and a chance meeting, on a train, a cruise, or perhaps the hero and heroine find themselves shipwrecked on a desert island. The men are normally rich, well-to-do - but never vulgar with their money. Young men lack the maturity to take control so an older man is essential to provide the reassurance the heroine's needs. There's always a fair amount of turbulence before he sweeps in to save the day. A happy ending is an absolute must.

Vary what the child writes in the home: for example, helping to compose a shopping list, writing and rewriting a favourite family story together, writing a recipe to cook together later, keeping a diary, writing in a photo album that records family experiences, poetry, imaginative or personal stories, and writing jokes and cartoons.

It is the responsibility of all of us to invest time and effort in uncovering our biases and in verifying our sources of information. As noted in earlier chapters, we cannot investigate everything ourselves. But precisely because of that, we need at least to investigate carefully our favourite sources of information – be they a newspaper, a website, a TV network or a person. In Chapter 20 we will explore in far greater depth how to avoid brainwashing and how to distinguish reality from fiction. Here I would like to offer two simple rules of thumb. First, if you want reliable information – pay good money for it. If you get your news for free, you might well be the product. Suppose a shady billionaire offered you the following deal: ‘I will pay you $30 a month, and in exchange, you will allow me to brainwash you for an hour every day, installing in your mind whichever political and commercial biases I want.’ Would you take the deal? Few sane people would. So the shady billionaire offers a slightly different deal: ‘You will allow me to brainwash you for one hour every day, and in exchange, I will not charge you anything for this service. The second rule of thumb is that if some issue seems exceptionally important to you, make the effort to read the relevant scientific literature. And by scientific literature I mean peer-reviewed articles, books published by well-known academic publishers, and the writings of professors from reputable institutions. Science obviously has its limitations, and it has got many things wrong in the past. Nevertheless, the scientific community has been our most reliable source of knowledge for centuries. If you think that the scientific community is wrong about something, that’s certainly possible, but at least know the scientific theories you are rejecting, and provide some empirical evidence to support your claim.

I watched The Sound of Music possibly a hundred times as a small girl. Everyone has their favourite or most memorable scene, mine was when the Baroness was with the Baron von Trapp out on the balcony that night. She saw how he was looking at Maria (the governess, Julie Andrews), and in those moments she chose to be graceful enough not to force his feelings. She told him that she could see the way he looks at her, and the way she looks at him, and she then chose to gracefully step aside. It's strange, but that's what I remembered the most as a child. I said to myself, that someday when I'm a woman, if I am ever with a man who falls in love with someone else, I would have the grace of the Baroness, enough to walk away. I always wanted to be the kind of person who lets people love each other.

Well, I thought you might want to listen to this. I mean, I thought you might be . . . ready for it. "I don't know if you remember, but just before . . . just before Malcolm died, he took me to see a concert in the town. We went to Barbarella's, and we heard all these weird bands. You remember the kind of music he used to like? Well, the people who made this record were playing that night, and they were his favourite. He liked them more than anyone. And I thought that if you heard it, it might remind you . . . might help you to think a bit about the kind of person he was. "And there's another reason too. You see the title of the record? It's called The Rotters' Club. "The Rotters' Club: that's us, Lois, isn't it? Do you see? That's what they used to call us, at school. Bent Rotter, and Lowest Rotter. We're The Rotters' Club. You and me. Not Paul. Just you and me. "I think this record was meant for us, you see. Malcolm never got to hear it, but I think he . . . knows about it, if that doesn't sound too silly. And now it's his gift, to you and me. From - wherever he is. "I don't know if that makes any sense. "Anyway. "I'll just leave it on the table here. "Have a listen, if you feel like it. "I've got to go now. "I've got to go, Lois. "I've got to go.

The plane banked, and he pressed his face against the cold window. The ocean tilted up to meet him, its dark surface studded with points of light that looked like constellations, fallen stars. The tourist sitting next to him asked him what they were. Nathan explained that the bright lights marked the boundaries of the ocean cemeteries. The lights that were fainter were memory buoys. They were the equivalent of tombstones on land: they marked the actual graves. While he was talking he noticed scratch-marks on the water, hundreds of white gashes, and suddenly the captain's voice, crackling over the intercom, interrupted him. The ships they could see on the right side of the aircraft were returning from a rehearsal for the service of remembrance that was held on the ocean every year. Towards the end of the week, in case they hadn't realised, a unique festival was due to take place in Moon Beach. It was known as the Day of the Dead... ...When he was young, it had been one of the days he most looked forward to. Yvonne would come and stay, and she'd always bring a fish with her, a huge fish freshly caught on the ocean, and she'd gut it on the kitchen table. Fish should be eaten, she'd said, because fish were the guardians of the soul, and she was so powerful in her belief that nobody dared to disagree. He remembered how the fish lay gaping on its bed of newspaper, the flesh dark-red and subtly ribbed where it was split in half, and Yvonne with her sleeves rolled back and her wrists dipped in blood that smelt of tin. It was a day that abounded in peculiar traditions. Pass any candy store in the city and there'd be marzipan skulls and sugar fish and little white chocolate bones for 5 cents each. Pass any bakery and you'd see cakes slathered in blue icing, cakes sprinkled with sea-salt.If you made a Day of the Dead cake at home you always hid a coin in it, and the person who found it was supposed to live forever. Once, when she was four, Georgia had swallowed the coin and almost choked. It was still one of her favourite stories about herself. In the afternoon, there'd be costume parties. You dressed up as Lazarus or Frankenstein, or you went as one of your dead relations. Or, if you couldn't think of anything else, you just wore something blue because that was the colour you went when you were buried at the bottom of the ocean. And everywhere there were bowls of candy and slices of special home-made Day of the Dead cake. Nobody's mother ever got it right. You always had to spit it out and shove it down the back of some chair. Later, when it grew dark, a fleet of ships would set sail for the ocean cemeteries, and the remembrance service would be held. Lying awake in his room, he'd imagine the boats rocking the the priest's voice pushed and pulled by the wind. And then, later still, after the boats had gone, the dead would rise from the ocean bed and walk on the water. They gathered the flowers that had been left as offerings, they blew the floating candles out. Smoke that smelt of churches poured from the wicks, drifted over the slowly heaving ocean, hid their feet. It was a night of strange occurrences. It was the night that everyone was Jesus... ...Thousands drove in for the celebrations. All Friday night the streets would be packed with people dressed head to toe in blue. Sometimes they painted their hands and faces too. Sometimes they dyed their hair. That was what you did in Moon Beach. Turned blue once a year. And then, sooner or later, you turned blue forever.

Her lips are moving silently around words I recognize. 'I carry you like my own personal Time Machine, as I put on my lipstick, smile, and head out to the party.' It's a line by one of her favourite poets, a woman named Donna Carnes, whose husband went out to sail in San Francisco Bay and had not been seen since. I love it too. How many parties have I gone to over the years, and laughed, and had a good time, while still managing to hold Denise close?

From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow, and, as we grew older, my friend. She was docile and good tempered, yet gay and playful as a summer insect. Although she was lively and animated, her feelings were strong and deep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more grace than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination was luxuriant, yet her capability of application was great. Her person was the image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although as lively as a bird's, possessed an attractive softness. Her figure was light and airy; and, though capable of enduring great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in the world. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to tend on her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I never saw so much grace both of person and mind united to so little pretension.

No, I’m luckier. I fell in love with him at first sight. We’ve only shared the briefest of time together, but it’s been the happiest and saddest experience of my life. Through loving him, I’ve discovered I’m strong enough to do anything. I’m a better, braver person.’ I wet my dry lips. ‘When you meet that person, everything falls into place. They feel like home. It’s like returning to your favourite painting and loving each brush stroke all over again.

Nico had once read a story from Plato, who claimed that in the ancient times, all humans and been a combination of male and female. Each person had two heads, four arms, four legs. Supposedly, these combo-humans had been so powerful they made the gods uneasy, so Zeus split them in half—man and woman. Ever since, humans had felt incomplete. They spent their lives searching for their other halves. And where does that leave me? Nico wondered. It wasn't his favourite story.

Duiri Tal, a small lake, lies cradled on the hill above Okhimath, at a height of 8,000 feet. It was a favourite spot of one of Garhwal's earliest British Commissioners, J.H. Batten, whose administration continued for twenty years (1836-56). He wrote:   The day I reached there, it was snowing and young trees were laid prostrate under the weight of snow; the lake was frozen over to a depth of about two inches. There was no human habitation, and the place looked a veritable wilderness. The next morning when the sun appeared, the Chaukhamba and many other peaks extending as far as Kedarnath seemed covered with a new quilt of snow, as if close at hand. The whole scene was so exquisite that one could not tire of gazing at it for hours. I think a person who has a subdued settled despair in his mind would all of a sudden feel a kind of bounding and exalting cheerfulness which will be imparted to his frame by the atmosphere of Duiri Tal.   This

When the chants came on, one of her favourites happened to be chosen among the rest—the old double chant “Langdon”—but she did not know what it was called, though she would much have liked to know. She thought, without exactly wording the thought, how strange and god-like was a composer’s power, who from the grave could lead through sequences of emotion, which he alone had felt at first, a girl like her who had never heard of his name, and never would have a clue to his personality.

Here’s the thing about true love. If there are seven billion people on the planet, there are seven billion different ways to see it. There is no such thing as the most beautiful woman in the world. What looks like love for one person doesn’t for another. Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, could become any woman because any woman could be the most beautiful woman in the world to someone. I’ve always loved that about Aphrodite. Even though she'd picked her favourite, she knew that every face was worthy of adoration.

Was it love when we met on the Internet? Was it love when he pursued me with silly messages and praise for my writing and a picture drawn in my favourite candy? When an attractive person pursues you, there is the luxury of not having to worry about whether it is love, because you are not the one don't the pursuing. At least, not at first. My usual habit of falling for people, when I think I am not falling, seemed irrelevant. He poked and messaged and "liked" and faved my every Internet itch. I had feelings, any feelings, under control.

The dreadful superstition that it is possible to foresee the future shape of society serves to justify all kinds of violence in the name of that structure. It is enough for a person to free his thoughts, even temporarily, of this superstition and to look sincerely and seriously at the life of the nation for it to become clear to him that acceptance of the need to oppose evil with violence is nothing other than the justification people give to their habitual and favourite vices: vengeance, avarice, envy, ambition, pride, cowardice and spite.

Some years ago I adjourned with a friend to a nearby schoolyard net for a recreational hit. On the way, we exchanged philosophies of cricket, and a few personal partialities. What, my friend asked, did I consider my favourite shot? 'Easy,' I replied ingenuously. 'Back-foot defensive stroke.' My friend did a double take and demanded a serious response. When I informed him he'd had one, he scoffed: 'You'll be telling me that Chris Tavaré's your favourite player next.' My guilty hesitation gave me away. 'You Poms!' he protested. 'You all stick together!

her mother told her stories of the Senoi people of Malaysia, who believe each person has a ‘partner’ tree, a specific tree that they ‘bond’ with. This could go on through the generations, her mother told her, with trunks growing from the roots of an original tree, providing new trees for generations to bond with. She would take Melissa’s small hand and place it against this old oak. ‘This is our tree,’ she would say. ‘We belong to it. It belongs to us.’ It was her mother’s favourite topic, the healing properties of the forest, both physical and spiritual.

THE CLOWN AND THE COUNTRYMAN A Nobleman announced his intention of giving a public entertainment in the theatre, and offered splendid prizes to all who had any novelty to exhibit at the performance. The announcement attracted a crowd of conjurers, jugglers, and acrobats, and among the rest a Clown, very popular with the crowd, who let it be known that he was going to give an entirely new turn. When the day of the performance came, the theatre was filled from top to bottom some time before the entertainment began. Several performers exhibited their tricks, and then the popular favourite came on empty-handed and alone. At once there was a hush of expectation: and he, letting his head fall upon his breast, imitated the squeak of a pig to such perfection that the audience insisted on his producing the animal, which, they said, he must have somewhere concealed about his person. He, however, convinced them that there was no pig there, and then the applause was deafening. Among the spectators was a Countryman, who disparaged the Clown's performance and announced that he would give a much superior exhibition of the same trick on the following day. Again the theatre was filled to overflowing, and again the Clown gave his imitation amidst the cheers of the crowd. The Countryman, meanwhile, before going on the stage, had secreted a young porker under his smock; and when the spectators derisively bade him do better if he could, he gave it a pinch in the ear and made it squeal loudly. But they all with one voice shouted out that the Clown's imitation was much more true to life. Thereupon he produced the pig from under his smock and said sarcastically, "There, that shows what sort of judges you are!

One of my favourite things to do is to show people how much they can shine! I am absolutely in love with watching people step into their full capacity to illuminate. Self-love does not cause arrogance; it is insecurity and abandonment at the root of arrogance. At the root of arrogance you'll find low self esteem. There is space enough for everyone to shine just like there is space enough for all of the stars in the sky. There's nothing I dislike more than people who have to dim down another's light because they're afraid of it. Let a person be the luminary that they are.

personal, personally. When it is necessary to emphasize that a person is acting on his own rather than as a spokesman or that he is addressing people individually rather than collectively, personal and personally are unexceptionable. But usually the context makes that clear and the word is used without purpose, as it was here: ‘Dr Leonard has decided to visit personally the Oklahoma parish which is the centre of the dispute …’ (Daily Telegraph). He could hardly do otherwise. Personal in many other common terms – personal friend, personal opinion, personal favourite – is nearly always equally redundant.

The odd sensation I had while cooking would often last through the meal, then dissolve as I climbed the stairs. I would enter my room and discover the homework books I had left on the bed had disappeared into my backpack. I’d look inside my books and be shocked to find that the homework had been done. Sometimes it had been done well, at others it was slapdash, the writing careless, my own handwriting but scrawled across the page. As I read the work through, I would get the creepy feeling that someone was watching me. I would turn quickly, trying to catch them out, but the door would be closed. There was never anyone there. Just me. My throat would turn dry. My shoulders would feel numb. The tic in my neck would start dancing as if an insect was burrowing beneath the surface of the skin. The symptoms would intensify into migraines that lasted for days and did not respond to treatment or drugs. The attack would come like a sudden storm, blow itself out of its own accord or unexpectedly vanish. Objects repeatedly went missing: a favourite pen, a cassette, money. They usually turned up, although once the money had gone it had gone for ever and I would find in the chest of drawers a T-shirt I didn’t remember buying, a Depeche Mode cassette I didn’t like, a box of sketching pencils, some Lego.

Louis XIV was a very proud and self-confident man. He had such and such mistresses, and such and such ministers, and he governed France badly. The heirs of Louis XIV were also weak men, and also governed France badly. They also had such and such favourites and such and such mistresses. Besides which, certain persons were at this time writing books. By the end of the eighteenth century there gathered in Paris two dozen or so persons who started saying that all men were free and equal. Because of this in the whole of France people began to slaughter and drown each other. These people killed the king and a good many others. At this time there was a man of genius in France – Napoleon. He conquered everyone everywhere, i.e. killed a great many people because he was a great genius; and, for some reason, he went off to kill Africans, and killed them so well, and was so clever and cunning, that, having arrived in France, he ordered everyone to obey him, which they did. Having made himself Emperor he again went to kill masses of people in Italy, Austria and Prussia. And there too he killed a great many. Now in Russia there was the Emperor Alexander, who decided to reestablish order in Europe, and therefore fought wars with Napoleon. But in the year ’07 he suddenly made friends with him, and in the year ’11 quarrelled with him again, and they both again began to kill a great many people. And Napoleon brought six hundred thousand men to Russia and conquered Moscow. But then he suddenly ran away from Moscow, and then the Emperor Alexander, aided by the advice of Stein and others, united Europe to raise an army against the disturber of her peace. All Napoleon’s allies suddenly became his enemies; and this army marched against Napoleon, who had gathered new forces. The allies conquered Napoleon, entered Paris, forced Napoleon to renounce the throne, and sent him to the island of Elba, without, however, depriving him of the title of Emperor, and showing him all respect, in spite of the fact that five years before, and a year after, everyone considered him a brigand and beyond the law. Thereupon Louis XVIII, who until then had been an object of mere ridicule to both Frenchmen and the allies, began to reign. As for Napoleon, after shedding tears before the Old Guard, he gave up his throne, and went into exile. Then astute statesmen and diplomats, in particular Talleyrand, who had managed to sit down before anyone else in the famous armchair1 and thereby to extend the frontiers of France, talked in Vienna, and by means of such talk made peoples happy or unhappy. Suddenly the diplomats and monarchs almost came to blows. They were almost ready to order their troops once again to kill each other; but at this moment Napoleon arrived in France with a battalion, and the French, who hated him, all immediately submitted to him. But this annoyed the allied monarchs very much and they again went to war with the French. And the genius Napoleon was defeated and taken to the island of St Helena, having suddenly been discovered to be an outlaw. Whereupon the exile, parted from his dear ones and his beloved France, died a slow death on a rock, and bequeathed his great deeds to posterity. As for Europe, a reaction occurred there, and all the princes began to treat their peoples badly once again.

unless you take the view that footballers should be picked on their form as players, and not for personal considerations.’ ‘Ah!’ said Mr Bowles, ‘but that’s what Vicar would call a counsel of perfection. People talk a lot about the team spirit and let the best side win, but if you was to sit in this bar and listen to what goes on, it’s all spite and jealousy, or else it’s how to scrape up enough money to entice away some other team’s centre-forward, or it’s complaints about favouritism or wrong decisions, or something that leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. The game’s not what it was when I was a lad. Too much commercialism, and enough back-biting to stock an old maids’ tea-party.

I saw my mother looking at him suspiciously. She is a suspicious person, my mother. She is especially suspicious of two things—strange men and boiled eggs. When she cuts the top off a boiled egg, she pokes around inside it with her spoon as though expecting to find a mouse or something. With strange men, she has a golden rule which says, “The nicer the man seems to be, the more suspicious you must become.” This little old man was particularly nice. He was polite. He was well spoken. He was well dressed. He was a real gentleman. The reason I knew he was a gentleman was because of his shoes. “You can always spot a gentleman by the shoes he wears,” was another of my mother’s favourite sayings. This man had beautiful brown shoes.

Hope, though; now there’s a real pest. Hope doesn’t just nibble your cheese and chew holes in your skirting boards. Hope keeps you plodding on when it really is time to call it quits. Hope drags you to sixteen auditions in a single day, when there’s a nice job in your brother-in-law’s tannery just waiting for you. Hope keeps you going in Old Stairs or Paradise, even though there’s no money and nothing to eat and the landlord just took your chair and your chamber pot. Personally, I can see no great merit in simply being alive if you’re miserable and in pain, but Hope won’t let you go. She’s a tease, like bad children teasing a dumb animal, and I’ve made a point of avoiding her whenever I can. Still, sometimes she runs you down and there’s nowhere left for you to go. You can turn and fight her and lose, or let her scoop you up and turn your brain to mush. Hope against hope. We had human chains shifting those blocks with levers and rollers, through the narrow alleys where carts couldn’t go. We had shifts digging the ditch by lamplight, in the rain. And in every working party there was at least one man who cheerfully announced that it wasn’t going to work, the whole idea was stupid, the enemy’ll find a way round this in two shakes, just you see; and even he didn’t really believe it, because of Hope. Hope turns a hundred men and women ripping the skin off their hands on a coarse hemp rope into a street party. Someone tells a joke, or clowns around, or starts singing a favourite song from one of the shows, and Hope bursts through, like sappers, and next thing you know she’s everywhere, like smoke, or floodwater, or rats. We’re going to beat Ogus, she whispers in every ear, and this time it’ll be different.

From Sister by ROSAMUND LUPTON    The rain hammered down onto your coffin, pitter-patter; ‘Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, I hear raindrops’; I was five and singing it to you, just born. Your coffin reached the bottom of the monstrous hole. And a part of me went down into the muddy earth with you and lay down next to you and died with you. Then Mum stepped forwards and took a wooden spoon from her coat pocket. She loosened her fingers and it fell on top of your coffin. Your magic wand. And I threw the emails I sign ‘lol’. And the title of older sister. And the nickname Bee. Not grand or important to anyone else, I thought, this bond that we had. Small things. Tiny things. You knew that I didn’t make words out of my alphabetti spaghetti but I gave you my vowels so you could make more words out of yours. I knew that your favourite colour used to be purple but then became bright yellow; (‘Ochre’s the arty word, Bee’) and you knew mine was orange, until I discovered that taupe was more sophisticated and you teased me for that. You knew that my first whimsy china animal was a cat (you lent me 50p of your pocket money to buy it) and that I once took all my clothes out of my school trunk and hurled them around the room and that was the only time I had something close to a tantrum. I knew that when you were five you climbed into bed with me every night for a year. I threw everything we had together - the strong roots and stems and leaves and beautiful soft blossoms of sisterhood - into the earth with you. And I was left standing on the edge, so diminished by the loss, that I thought I could no longer be there. All I was allowed to keep for myself was missing you. Which is what? The tears that pricked the inside of my face, the emotion catching at the top of my throat, the cavity in my chest that was larger than I am. Was that all I had now? Nothing else from twenty-one years of loving you. Was the feeling that all is right with the world, my world, because you were its foundations, formed in childhood and with me grown into adulthood - was that to be replaced by nothing? The ghastliness of nothing. Because I was nobody’s sister now. I saw Dad had been given a handful of earth. But as he held out his hand above your coffin he couldn’t unprise his fingers. Instead, he put his hand into his pocket, letting the earth fall there and not onto you. He watched as Father Peter threw the first clod of earth instead and broke apart, splintering with the pain of it. I went to him and took his earth-stained hand in mine, the earth gritty between our soft palms. He looked at me with love. A selfish person can still love someone else, can’t they? Even when they’ve hurt them and let them down. I, of all people, should understand that. Mum was silent as they put earth over your coffin. An explosion in space makes no sound at all.

Nietzsche is a favourite, since he made the point explicitly: ‘There are no truths,’ he wrote, ‘only interpretations.’ Either what Nietzsche said is true – in which case it is not true, since there are no truths – or it is false. But it is only from the standpoint of the Enlightenment that this response seems like a refutation. The new curriculum is in the business of marginalizing refutation, just as it marginalizes truth. This explains the appeal of those recent thinkers – Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and Richard Rorty – who owe their intellectual eminence not to their arguments but to their role in giving authority to the rejection of authority, and to their absolute commitment to the impossibility of absolute commitments. In each of them you find the view that truth, objectivity, value or meaning are chimerical, and that all we can have, and all we need to have, is the warm security of our own opinion.1 Hence it is in vain to argue against the new authorities. No argument, however rational, can counter the massive ‘will to believe’ that captures their normal readers. After all, a rational argument assumes precisely what they ‘put in question’ – namely, the possibility of rational argument. Each of them owes his reputation to a kind of religious faith: faith in the relativity of all opinions, including this one. For this is the faith on which a new form of membership is founded – a first-person plural of denial.

Thorn in My Side     “Cast your cares on the LORD and He will sustain you” (Psalm 55:22).     I have a certain person in my life who causes me grief on a regular basis. It seems in order for his day to be complete he must have conflict. If there’s not conflict, then he creates it. And I seem to be his favourite target.   I refer to this person as the “thorn in my side”.  He is a constant reminder to me that fear and anxiety are real feelings. Some days, I think that my life would be absolutely stress free without him and the problems he creates. However, through studying God’s Word, I have been able to see him in a different light. Although I don’t enjoy the trials he puts me through, I’ve realized that because of these things I have come to rely more on God.   I find myself leaning on God’s wisdom and knowledge to help me reply to this man. I find myself praying for the Holy Spirit to fill me with peace when I must confront him. I find myself praying to God for forgiveness – the need to be forgiven for what I think and do, and the need to forgive this man. And recently, I find myself praying for this man. Jesus commanded that we pray for our enemies:   “But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44).   I am truly learning what this means in my life. Although this man causes me great sorrow and pain, it is through these actions that I have come closer to God. It is through his acts that I have developed a deeper relationship with my Lord. And although I don’t know that I can ever thank him for the anxiety and hurt, I am thankful that through this I have come to know Jesus closer.       Paradoxically, prayer is the activity done in total solitude that reminds me that I am never alone. It is the counter to my illusion of self-sufficiency, a plea for help after much bravado and floundering. Prayer is my signed Declaration of Dependence. ~ Dr. Ramon Presson         Complaining    

Take care, ye philosophers and friends of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Of suffering "for the truth's sake"! even in your own defense! It spoils all the innocence and fine neutrality of your conscience; it makes you headstrong against objections and red rags; it stupefies, animalizes, and brutalizes, when in the struggle with danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of enmity, ye have at last to play your last card as protectors of truth upon earth—as though "the Truth" were such an innocent and incompetent creature as to require protectors! and you of all people, ye knights of the sorrowful countenance, Messrs Loafers and Cobweb-spinners of the spirit! Finally, ye know sufficiently well that it cannot be of any consequence if YE just carry your point; ye know that hitherto no philosopher has carried his point, and that there might be a more laudable truthfulness in every little interrogative mark which you place after your special words and favourite doctrines (and occasionally after yourselves) than in all the solemn pantomime and trumping games before accusers and law-courts! Rather go out of the way! Flee into concealment! And have your masks and your ruses, that ye may be mistaken for what you are, or somewhat feared! And pray, don't forget the garden, the garden with golden trellis-work! And have people around you who are as a garden—or as music on the waters at eventide, when already the day becomes a memory. Choose the GOOD solitude, the free, wanton, lightsome solitude, which also gives you the right still to remain good in any sense whatsoever! How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, which cannot be waged openly by means of force! How PERSONAL does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies! These pariahs of society, these long-pursued, badly-persecuted ones—also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giordano Brunos—always become in the end, even under the most intellectual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, refined vengeance-seekers and poison-Brewers (just lay bare the foundation of Spinoza's ethics and theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that the sense of philosophical humour has left him. The martyrdom of the philosopher, his "sacrifice for the sake of truth," forces into the light whatever of the agitator and actor lurks in him; and if one has hitherto contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his deterioration (deteriorated into a "martyr," into a stage-and-tribune-bawler). Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear WHAT spectacle one will see in any case—merely a satyric play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy IS AT AN END, supposing that every philosophy has been a long tragedy in its origin.

People who say you’ll never amount to much as a writer (or even those exhibiting indifference) are speaking from gross ignorance. They are comparing your stumbling, incomplete draft – seen or unseen – and their anecdotal knowledge of you as a person to their favourite writer’s best-selling novel. Unfair in the extreme.

Redwing had read somewhere that one of his favourite writers, Ernest Hemingway, had been asked what was the best training for a novelist. He had said “an unhappy childhood.” Redwing had enjoyed a fine time growing up, but he wondered if this whole expedition was unfolding more like a novel, and would be blamed on one person, one character, the guy in charge: him. Maybe you got a happy childhood and then an unhappy adulthood, and that’s how novels worked.

This is a favourite fallacy of today’s economics, which lacks a coherent concept of time—or, at least, it has a mechanical technique for dealing with time which can be applied uncritically. The key principle underlying the treatment of time here is the rate of interest. Economics recognises that if a person needs to borrow money from another person with whom he or she is not in a close reciprocal relationship, then the lender will reasonably expect to get something back for the money he provides (usually interest), in the same way as any other provider of goods and services. That introduces the principle of “discount”—money you won’t have until a future time is worth less than it would be worth if you had it now. The problem arises when the discount principle is applied to other assets. For example, the value in a hundred years’ time of a stock—such as a fishery—discounted at a rate of 3% per year, is just 5% of its present value, and if a valuation of this kind is taken literally, it can be used as a justification for fishing it to destruction now, because it is a depreciating asset. The fact that the interest rate calculation can be made does not necessarily mean that people will be foolish enough to make it, or to apply it uncritically, but, if they do, economics provides an apparent justification.

No one wants to suffer. But much as we would all like to live a totally happy life, suffering is an inescapable fact of our human existence. The observation that ‘Man is born unto trouble, as sparks fly upward’ may not have been much consolation to Job but, nevertheless, remains an uncomfortable truth. Generally speaking, suffering arises through our encounters with problems and difficulties; this is why much of our time is spent trying to avoid them, even though they are inherent in life. In trying to avoid problems, however, we are often simply putting off the inevitable to a future date, by which time the trouble has usually grown much more difficult to resolve. Personal relationships are a good example of this. The failure to tackle a problem between two people — a clash of desires, for instance – usually for fear of not knowing what the consequences will be, or perhaps simply because of a dislike of conflict, can very easily lead to a build-up of resentments which, when finally expressed, can be immensely destructive. The story of the ‘mild-mannered’ civil servant who, in 1987, was jailed for strangling his wife after twenty-six years of marriage, ostensibly because she simply moved his favourite mustard from its usual place at the dinner table, is an extreme, but true, example of this.

I have been here, ever since our eyes met but you never came to this place. I have been waiting here to see your smile once more, to feel your warmth, to see your eyes which are deep enough to drown anyone at any time but you never returned. You never thought of looking back at me. I waited here every day from the day you left with the false hope that you would return. I was known yet chose to remain ignorant for I didn't want to lose you before you could even be mine. Each day I used to watch over people, used to sip in your favourite coffee in your favourite cafeteria, used to write about your favourite topics, but it never worked out. You never returned. Everybody told me I was turning insane day by day coz I was locked in my room, for almost a month but I felt they were crazy coz daily I used to stroll around your favourite places. Everything was making sense to me, this waiting thing, this restlessness, this fetish but I was asked to come out of my Nuisance world. I didn't get it, why were they restricting me from finding you? Were they jealous of me? Envious of the fact that I would then be the happiest person in the entire world? But they said otherwise. They said I was obsessed with the idea of you and that they were really concerned for me. Leave everything aside why didn't you return? I faithfully still wait for you, to feel you, to feel myself again, to feel that liveliness which only came in me, when I was with you. I wish, I could show them what you mean to me and what you did to my heart but I think even then they won't understand coz love isn't everyone's cup of tea. I miss you, Hope you would return soon though now I am coming in terms with the reality that you won't please still, listen to my heart the way you used to or to years at least. Iloveyou

Being single is wonderful! Doing whatever you want whenever you want to — nothing beats that. Some of my personal favourites are finding the food you left in the fridge is still there when you get home, not having to compromise, sleeping diagonally in the bed, never dealing with your partner’s mood swings, and not having to pretend to be asleep to avoid having sex when you’re not in the mood. Another part of my relationship phobia was letting a new person get to know me. I’m not talking about the surface me — I’m talking about the bad-breath-in-the morning, clip-my-toenails-on-the-toilet, farting, and head-tie-wearing me. To be loved, you have to let a person see all of you — that means both the best and the worst. My fear was whether, when they saw the worst, they would actually want to stay.

The typical person consults these clocks several dozen times a day, because almost everything we do has to be done on time. An alarm clock wakes us up at 7 a.m., we heat our frozen bagel for exactly fifty seconds in the microwave, brush our teeth for three minutes until the electric toothbrush beeps, catch the 07:40 train to work, run on the treadmill at the gym until the beeper announces that half an hour is over, sit down in front of the TV at 7 p.m. to watch our favourite show, get interrupted at preordained moments by commercials that cost $1,000 per second, and eventually unload all our angst on a therapist who restricts our prattle to the now standard fifty-minute therapy hour.

If you want to be interesting for your own God, you must have something that your God does not know about.

Emma Stone clearly emerges as a favourite of the studio, and when Pascal emails to ask what she would like to do following the end of the Spiderman franchise, she makes it clear that she is tired of playing quirky, charming love interests, and replies: 'I want to play a crazy person or a bitch or something extreme really different and fun.

Sometimes criminals work and for cops and criminals have favourite cops... (Person of Interest)

Can I ask you a question?” he asks as we complete our first loop on the train. “Okay,” I say, warily, not sure what to expect from him at this point. I mean, he arranged a date that I had no idea about. The possibilities here are endless. “You’re writing this big love story,” he says, his arm casually slung over my shoulder. “What do you think love is?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “What?” he asks. “That’s not a question, that’s thequestion,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Okay,” he starts again. “Can I ask you the question?” I look at him for a minute, trying to think if I’m ready to answer this question considering all the things that are happening right now. “Do you know who my favourite fictional character is?” I ask him instead. He shakes his head. “Mr. Darcy,” I answer. “He’s every girl’s favourite character,” Travis says. “And there is a reason why,” I say. “Mr. Darcy was a self-important man. He met Elizabeth Bennet and immediately dismissed her because she didn’t fit into the life that he was comfortable with. Once he got to know her, he discovered that what he should have wanted and what he actually wanted were two completely different things.” “That’s every chick flick I’ve ever watched,” Travis says as he we pass the bumper cars again. “Yes, but here’s the kicker. Hechanges. Not because Elizabeth wants him to, or tells him to. He changes because he wants to be a different person, a better person. Someone who is worthy of her. And in order to do that he has to act in a selfless way with absolutely no hope of reward,” I say, and I know my voice has taken on a slightly dreamy tone. “That’s what I think love is. Loving someone who makes you want to be a better person.” As we make the final turn and the train comes to a stop, Travis still hasn’t said anything. I lightly laugh. “At least I hope that’s what love is. I dart my eyes in Travis’s direction, expecting him to be a little uncomfortable with my declaration, but his face is soft and he seems pleased with my answer. As we stand in line waiting to get on the Merry-Go-Round I turn to him. “So, who is your favourite fictional couple?” I ask. Travis seems to think about it, scrunching up his mouth with the effort. “Mickey and Minnie,” he nods decisively. “As in Mouse?” I laugh. “They like each other, they’re nice to each other, and they always look like they’re having a fun time,” he says, shrugging at his explanation. And the more I think about it, it’s actually a pretty good choice. I mean, obviously it isn’t Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, but it has some worth.

Here are few words to the unknown person who hurted me in a way nobody else did. This has been very impacting, the words still bang my head like marijuana. Even though I didn't knew much about you, I had no idea of the vulgarity of your mind which was so flithy for me but beautifuly coated with saccharine tales and rains with utmost fake sympathy. I sigh almost in tears for the words I never ever imagined to hear from anybody, but you broke that thought away henceforth believing that Satan did existed in the harmony of Angels. We could have been such good friends talking secretly about you to my besty that 'Maris is so warmest being'. You didn't had any idea how much I respected you and your struggles. I wonder how could you do this to a stranger like me who had been happily good to your gestures ever since I Mailed you. That mail just said to take care of my favourite thing and you took a revenge of my kindness. I sigh my pity on you that I cared for you beyond I thought I would do. But my dear, I still have care for you and never wish to accept your apology because you were in anger and wrath does Mahabharata. I just want to tell you that everything you did,hurted me and the challenges are really unbearable, the consequence is worst, you making me alone in such darkness that I wish to sleep in weepy rain and wake up in never.

Another important thing to do is to stay away from Netflix documentaries – Netflix is there to entertain, not educate. It’s almost as if I need to tell you that Stranger Things and Breaking Bad are also fiction.

Wherever I am, whatever else I'm doing, you're in my thoughts. Always. Whatever seeds you plant will have my eye on them. Whatever plants you make I'll cheer for you. Whatever kind of person you become, no matter how different from my daydreams, I will treasure you. No matter how lonely you ever have felt, I've been there, and no matter how dark things get as you grow older, I'll be there as well. You are my favourite person in the world and the thing I am proudest of. Love you forever, Mom

Social Media is a place where you share your favourite poetry, quotes, songs, news, social activities, and reports. You can like something, you can comment, and you can make humour in a civilised way. It is social media, but it is not a place to love or to be loved. Any lover does not exist here, nor anyone is serious in this regard. Just enjoy and do not try to fool any person if you do that; it means you are making yourself a fool. It is the wasting of time and your defeat too.

I’m not going to get married at all,’ I said. ‘It’s too easy to pick the wrong person. I’m going to live all by myself and I’m going to eat all my favourite things every day and stay up as late as I like, and I shall read all day and write stories and draw pictures with no one bothering me or fussing or needing to be looked after.