Felicitation Quotes

I’m sure you’d hate to miss everyone’s felicitations.” David had beaten me in the final round of our sixth-grade spelling bee with that word and now, all these years later, he still tried to drop it into conversation whenever he could.

The pause - that impressive silence, that eloquent silence, that geometrically progressive silence which often achieves a desired effect where no combination of words, howsoever felicitous, could accomplish it.

Garbage in, garbage out. Or rather more felicitously: the tree of nonsense is watered with error, and from its branches swing the pumpkins of disaster.

I profess myself an enemy to all other joys, which the most precious square of sense possesses, and find I am alone felicitate in your dear highness love.

My needs were simple. I didn't bother much with themes or felicitous phrases and skipped fine descriptions of weather, landscapes and interiors. I wanted characters I could believe in and I wanted to be made curious about what was to happen to them.

Celui-la seul qui a eprouve l'extreme infortune est apte a ressentir l'extreme felicite. Il faut avoir voulu mourir pour savoir combien el est bon de vivre.

I always have a pad of paper and a pencil within reach, to catch on the wing this turn of phrase which strikes me as felicitous, that idea which I hope to be able to examine more closely in the light of day.

My needs were simple I didn't bother much with themes or felicitous phrases and skipped fine descriptions of weather, landscapes and interiors. I wanted characters I could believe in, and I wanted to be made curious about what was to happen to them. Generally, I preferred people to be falling in and out of love, but I didn't mind so much if they tried their hand at something else. It was vulgar to want it, but I liked someone to say 'Marry me' by the end.

Farewell to a fake friend is the genuine felicitation

Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it? Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes. Shallow-brained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you would say; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicions to that effect arose too frequently in my own mind. But our wishes are like tinder: the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our wishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is kindled in a moment.

George Orwell famously described international sport as 'war minus the shooting'. But for all Orwell's greatness as a thinker, this was one of his least felicitous lines, analogous to 'murder minus the death' or 'life minus the breathing'.

When all is said and done, we are in the end absolutely dependent on the universe; and into sacrifices and surrenders of some sort, deliberately looked at and accepted, we are drawn and pressed as into our only permanent positions of repose. Now in those states of mind which fall short of religion, the surrender is submitted to as an imposition of necessity, and the sacrifice is undergone at the very best without complaint. In the religious life, on the contrary, surrender and sacrifice are positively espoused: even unnecessary givings-up are added in order that the happiness may increase. Religion thus makes easy and felicitous what in any case is necessary.

Francis Galton, whose mission it seems to be to ride other men's hobbies to death, has invented the felicitous expression 'structureless germs'.

As Jung felicitously put it, “There is no such thing as a pure extrovert or a pure introvert. Such a man would be in the lunatic asylum.

Felicitations on the murder of your mother.

Any event that surprises a man has already been experienced by other men before him. The effects of all human possibilities have already been felt. Nothing that might happen to us here, as terrible or as felicitous as it might seem, is new. But what we experience is always new because every man is unique, the way every leaf and every tree is unique. Men share with each other the same lifeblood, but each feeds himself from it differently. Even if the new isn’t really new, it’s always new for those who, ceaselessly, wash up on the world’s shores, generation after generation, wave after wave. So, in order to find yourself in life, to not lose yourself on the path, you must listen to the voice of duty. To think too much about yourself is to falter. Whoever understands this secret has the potential to live in peace. But it’s easier said than done.

For the purpose of securing epithets at once accurate and felicitous, the young author should familiarize himself thoroughly with the general aspect and phenomena of Nature, as well as with the ideas and associations which these things produce in the human mind.

Here the phenomenologist has nothing in common with the literary critic who, as has frequently been noted, judges a work that he could not create and, if we are to believe certain facile condemnations, would not want to create. A literary critic is a reader who is necessarily severe. By turning inside out like a glove an overworked complex that has become debased to the point of being part of the vocabulary of statesmen, we might say that the literary critic and the professor of rhetoric, who know-all and judge-all, readily go in for a simplex of superiority. As for me, being an addict of felicitous reading, I only read and re-read what I like, with a bit of reader's pride mixed in with much enthusiasm.

Say it again.” He crooked a lazy grin. “Really, Felicit—” “No. Not the name she gave me. The name I made for myself.

Simply to render oneself able to understand what other Christian thinkers have themselves come to understand and to more or less felicitously communicate requires that one's mind not be a blank slate but already properly formed, disciplined, and exercised.

Cinismul este singura formă prin care sufletele obişnuite acced la ceea ce se numeşte onestitate; iar omul superior, aflându-se în prezenta cinismului, fie el mai grosolan sau mai rafinat, trebuie să-şi ciulească urechile şi să se felicite de fiece dată când chiar în faţa lui prinde glas bufonul cel neruşinat sau satirul ştiinţific.

Abstractedly speaking, government, as well as liberty, is good; yet could I, in common sense, ten years ago, have felicitated France on her enjoyment of a government (for she then had a government) without inquiry what the nature of that government was, or how it was administered? Can I now congratulate the same nation upon its freedom? Is it because liberty in the abstract may be classed amongst the blessings of mankind, that I am seriously to felicitate a mad-man, who has escaped from the protecting restraint and wholesome darkness of his cell, on his restoration to the enjoyment of light and liberty? Am I to congratulate a highwayman and murderer, who has broke prison, upon the recovery of his natural rights? This would be to act over again the scene of the criminals condemned to the galleys, and their heroic deliverer, the metaphysic knight of the sorrowful countenance.

A sprawling North London parkland, composed of oaks, willows and chestnuts, yews and sycamores, the beech and the birch; that encompasses the city’s highest point and spreads far beyond it; that is so well planted it feels unplanned; that is not the country but is no more a garden than Yellowstone; that has a shade of green for every possible felicitation of light; that paints itself in russets and ambers in autumn, canary-yellow in the splashy spring; with tickling bush grass to hide teenage lovers and joint smokers, broad oaks for brave men to kiss against, mown meadows for summer ball games, hills for kites, ponds for hippies, an icy lido for old men with strong constitutions, mean llamas for mean children and, for the tourists, a country house, its façade painted white enough for any Hollywood close-up, complete with a tea room, although anything you buy there should be eaten outside with the grass beneath your toes, sitting under the magnolia tree, letting the white blossoms, blush-pink at their tips, fall all around you. Hampstead Heath! Glory of London! Where Keats walked and Jarman fucked, where Orwell exercised his weakened lungs and Constable never failed to find something holy.

To envy is to felicitate your inability

The greatest boon of your life is to get felicitated by your fake friends and hidden enemies

The prankquean was to hold her dummyship and the jimminies was to keep the peacewave and van Hoother was to git the wind up. Thus the hearsomeness of the burger felicitates the whole of the polis.

I am shocked— excessively shocked! Your father would have been very glad to have left his ring to Martin, let me tell you, only he thought it not right to leave it away from the heir!" "Was it indeed a personal bequest?" inquired Gervase, interested. "That certainly must be held to enhance its value. It becomes, in fact, a curio, for it must be quite the only piece of unentailed property which my father did bequeath to me. I shall put it in a glass cabinet." Martin, reddening, said: "I see what you are at! I'm not to be blamed if my father preferred me to you!" "No, you are to be felicitated," said Gervase.

This. This is exactly it. "It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside — but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond — only a glimpse — and heard a note of unearthly music. This moment came rarely — went swiftly, leaving her breathless with the inexpressible delight of it. She could never recall it — never summon it — never pretend it; but the wonder of it stayed with her for days. It never came twice with the same thing. Tonight the dark boughs against that far-off sky had given it. It had come with a high, wild note of wind in the night, with a shadow wave over a ripe field, with a grey bird lighting on her windowsill in a storm, with the singing of “Holy, holy, holy” in church, with a glimpse of the kitchen fire when she had come home on a dark autumn night, with the spirit-like blue of ice palms on a twilit pane, with a felicitous new word when she writing down a ‘description’ of something. And always when the flash came to her Emily felt that life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty.

How kind of you to pay us a call, Uncle,” came the biting lash of Sebastian’s voice. “Come to offer us felicitations, have you?” “I’ve come to collect my niece,” Peregrine snarled. “She is promised to my son. Your illicit marriage will not stand!” “She’s mine,” Sebastian snapped. “Surely you can’t be so dim-witted as to think I would simply let her go without a protest.” “I will have the marriage annulled,” Peregrine assured him. “That would only be possible if the marriage hasn’t been consummated. And I assure you, it has.” “We have a physician who has promised to testify that her maidenhead is still intact.” “Like hell,” Sebastian said with chilling pleasantness. “Do you know what kind of reflection that would have on me? I’ve worked too hard to cultivate my reputation— I’ll be damned if I’ll allow any suggestion of impotence to mar it.” He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to Cam, who caught it in one fist. Sebastian’s lethal gaze never left Peregrine’s livid features. “Has it occurred to you that I may have made her pregnant by now?” “If so, that will be remedied.” Not fully comprehending what her uncle meant, Evie shrank back into Cam’s protective hold. His arms tightened, even as he regarded Peregrine with a rare flash of hatred in his golden eyes. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered to Evie. Sebastian’s color rose at Peregrine’s words, making his eyes appear like splintered glass. “Charming,” he said. “I would kill her myself before I’d let you have her.

Is this what you did at Death’s?” Jack demanded. “Let him touch your face, you? After you danced for him?” “Why didn’t you answer the radio?” I didn’t hear anything.” “Because I turned off the volume,” Aric said with a shrug. Precarious moments eked by before he lowered the pistol. “You’re right. I’m sorry, bébé.” “She refuses both our advances, mortal.” “Until she sees her way clear to me.” “Advances? You mean you messed with her head some more and reminded her of old games?” “Not at all. I merely pointed out some of the countless ways I’m better for her than you are. Even you recognize this.” When Jack clenched his hands, I shot to my feet. “Don’t touch him!” “Not goan to poison myself, no. Not when I have a future to look forward to.” “Ah, yes, a new start with Selena. My wife and I extend our felicitations.” “You think she’s goan to pick you over me? Imbécile!” “I have no doubt in my mind.” Where was Aric’s unnerving confidence coming from? If his gift would skew my decision, then was there even a choice? “When we return the Archer to the outpost,” Aric said, “you’ll kindly give us your answer. The suitor you pass over will leave you alone.” He offered Jack his deadly hand. “Come, let’s shake on it.” “Sheathe your goddamned weapons, Reaper, or I’ll pull my own again.” He asked me, “You agree to this?

But my research had taught me that the tissue of contradictions that was my personality was itself, at best, a poem, where “poem” is understood as referring to a failure of language to be equal to the possibilities it figures; only then could my fraudulence be a project and not merely a pathology; only then could my distance from myself be redescribed as critical, aesthetic, as opposed to a side effect of what experts might call my substance problem, felicitous phrase, the origins of which lay not in my desire to evade reality, but in my desire to have a chemical excuse for reality’s unavailability.

Sometimes when a person is not being heard, it is appropriate to blame him or her. Perhaps he or she is speaking obscurely; perhaps he is claiming too much; perhaps she is speaking rather too personally. And one can, perhaps, charge Spielrein on all three counts. But, on balance, her inability to win recognition for her insight into repression was not her fault; it was Freud’s and Jung’s. Preoccupied with their own theories, and with each other, the two men simply did not pause even to take in the ideas of this junior colleague let alone to lend a helping hand in finding a more felicitous expression for her thought. More ominously still, both men privately justified their disregard by implicitly casting her once more into the role of patient, as though that role somehow precluded a person from having a voice or a vision of his or her own. It was and remains a damning comment on how psychoanalysis was evolving that so unfair a rhetorical maneuver, one so at odds with the essential genius of the new therapeutic method, came so easily to hand. In the great race between Freud and Jung to systematize psychoanalytic theory, to codify it once and for all, a simpler truth was lost sight of: Sometimes a person is not heard because she is not listened to.

A woman’s judgment: intuitive, clever, expressed with felicitous charm—infallible. A judgment that has nothing to do with justice. The critic and the judge seems to think that in those distant lands all joy is a yell and a war dance, all pathos is a howl and a ghastly grin of filed teeth, and that the solution of all problems is found in the barrel of a revolver or on the point of an assegai. And yet it is not so. But the erring magistrate may plead in excuse the misleading nature of the evidence.

Both incest and the Holocaust have been subject to furious denial by perpetrators and other individuals and by highly organised groups such as the False Memory Syndrome Foundation and the Committee for Historical Review. Incest and the Holocaust are vulnerable to this kind of concerted denial because of their unfathomability, the unjustifiability, and the threat they pose to the politics of patriarchy and anti-Semitism respectively. Over and over, survivors of the Holocaust attest that they were warned of what was happening in Poland but could not believe it at the time, could not believe it later as it was happening to them, and still to this day cannot believe what they, at the same time, know to have occurred. For Holocaust deniers this is a felicitous twist, for their arguments denying the Holocaust and therefore the legitimacy of Israel as a Jewish state capitalize on the discrepancies of faded memory. In the case of incest, although post-traumatic stress disorder, amnesia, and dissociation represent some of the mind's strategies for comprehending the incomprehensible, incest deniers have taken advantage of inconsistencies to discredit survivor testimony.

There is nothing less apt to touch a work of art than critical words: all we end up with there is more or less felicitous misunderstandings. Things are not all as graspable and sayable as on the whole we are led to believe; most events are unsayable of all are works of art, mysterious existences whose life endures alongside ours, which passes away.

The instruction received at the mother's knee, and the paternal lessons, together with the pious and sweet souvenirs of the fireside, are never effaced entirely from the soul.

Любовта винаги е удачна. Неудачните са тези, които я ползват.

In the felicitous words of one early Burr biographer, “The Clintons had power, the Livingstons had numbers, and the Schuylers had Hamilton.

But even felicitous marriages cannot last for ever, since if the love does not die the lovers do.

But now a thought occurs to me. My own history would really seem so tame contrasted with that of my ancestors, that it is simply wisdom to leave it unwritten until I am hanged. If some other biographies I have read had stopped with the ancestry until a like event occurred, it would have been a felicitous thing, for the reading public. How does it strike you? AWFUL,

how a man who had sworn to uphold the Constitution, and maintain the laws of the country could, at such a time as that, be receiving the felicitations of a rebel cause…yet so it was, and there they all went, drunk and sober, to call upon James Buchanan at eleven o’clock at night, when he should have been in session with his cabinet, calling out his armies and manning the Navy,

Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. Chapter Ten The felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke, that the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to get out of Biddy everything she knew.

Is it that God has at last removed his blessing from the U.S.A. and what we feel now is just the clank of the old historical machinery, the sudden jerking ahead of the roller-coaster cars as the chain catches hold and carries us back into history with its ordinary catastrophes, carries us out and up toward the brink from that felicitous and privileged siding where even unbelievers admitted that if it was not God who blessed the U.S.A., then at least some great good luck had befallen us, and that now the blessing or the luck is over, the machinery clanks, the chain catches hold, and the cars jerk forward?

There is nothing less apt to touch a work of art than critical words: all we end up with there is more or less felicitous misunderstandings. Things are not all as graspable and sayable as on the whole we are led to believe;

The greatest secret he taught us was that it isn’t the man who controls events but events that control the man. Any event that surprises a man has already been experienced by other men before him. The effects of all human possibilities have already been felt. Nothing that might happen to us here, as terrible or as felicitous as it might seem, is new. But what we experience is always new because every man is unique, the way every leaf and every tree is unique. Men share with each other the same lifeblood, but each feeds himself from it differently. Even if the new isn’t really new, it’s always new for those who, ceaselessly, wash up on the world’s shores, generation after generation, wave after wave. So, in order to find yourself in life, to not lose yourself on the path, you must listen to the voice of duty. To think too much about yourself is to falter. Whoever understands this secret has the potential to live in peace. But it’s easier said than done.

Incidentally, at a reception at Governor House, Atal recited his poem ‘Ab jung naa hone denge hum’. Atal was felicitated at Lahore Fort where, hinting at the common heritage of the two nations, he pointed out how Shah Jahan was born in the fort and Akbar had spent close to a decade there. The audience was so impressed by Atal’s speech that Nawaz Sharif quipped, ‘Vajpayee sahab ab toh Pakistan mein bhi election jeet sakte hain. [Mr Vajpayee can now win elections even in Pakistan.]

I understand felicitations are in order.” Ian started. His betrothal to Christina, which was about to be broken, was not yet common knowledge. “Christina Taylor is a lovely young woman. I knew her grandfather and her uncles, and, of course, her father, the Earl of Melbourne. She’ll make you a fine wife, Ian.” “Inasmuch as bigamy is a crime in this country, I find that unlikely.” Startled by the discovery that his information was apparently incorrect, Edward took another swallow of champagne and asked, “May I ask who the fortunate young woman is, then?” Ian opened his mouth to tell him to go to hell, but there was something alarming about the way his grandfather was slowly putting his glass down.

Yet the ailment is virtually nonexistent in Iceland. There is a higher prevalence of the disorder in the northeastern United States than in Iceland. Perplexed by the results, psychologists theorize that over the centuries Icelanders developed a genetic immunity to the disease. Those who got SAD died out, taking their gene pool with them. Survival of the felicitous.

We wished to go to the Ambrosian Library, and we did that also. We saw a manuscript of Virgil, with annotations in the handwriting of Petrarch, the gentleman who loved another man's Laura, and lavished upon her all through life a love which was a clear waste of the raw material. It was sound sentiment, but bad judgment. It brought both parties fame, and created a fountain of commiseration for them in sentimental breasts that is running yet. But who says a word in behalf of poor Mr. Laura? (I do not know his other name.) Who glorifies him? Who bedews him with tears? Who writes poetry about him? Nobody. How do you suppose he liked the state of things that has given the world so much pleasure? How did he enjoy having another man following his wife every where and making her name a familiar word in every garlic-exterminating mouth in Italy with his sonnets to her pre-empted eyebrows? They got fame and sympathy--he got neither. This is a peculiarly felicitous instance of what is called poetical justice. It is all very fine; but it does not chime with my notions of right. It is too one-sided--too ungenerous.

Just as Clara Gazul is the female pseudonym of a distinguished male writer, George Sand the masculine pseudonym of a woman of genius, so Camille Maupin was the mask behind which was long hidden a charming young woman, very well-born, a Breton, named Felicite des Touches, the person who was now causing such lively anxiety to the Baronne du Guenic and the excellent rector of Guerande.

Albert wrote to his ‘dearest cousin’ on 26 June to offer his 'sincerest felicitations on that great change which had taken place in your life’. It was a difficult letter to compose. Now that she was 'Queen of the mightiest land of Europe’, he went on, 'the happiness of millions’ lay in her hands, and he trusted that Heaven would assist her in 'that high but difficult task.” He hoped for a long and happy - and glorious - reign, in which she would achieve the 'thankfulness and love’ of her subjects. He wished neither to be indiscreet nor to 'abuse’ her time, but, he closed, 'May I pray you to think likewise sometimes of your cousins in Bonn, and to continue to them that kindness you favoured them with till now.’ And he signed it as 'your Majesty’s most obedient and faithful servant, Albert’.

A personal essay is probably the most malleable form of writing style, because it enables a writer to engage in a felicitous conversation with oneself. The more formal rules that govern academic writing are largely inapplicable to personal essay writing. Personal essays are free from the forbidding cadence and rigid structure of thesis writing. A personal essay’s lilt reflects the movement of the writer’s mind.

If you meet life squarely, you are likely to make mistakes, do things you wish you hadn't, say things you wish you could retract or phrase more felicitously, and, in short, fumble your way along. Those "mature" people whose lives are even without a single sour note or a single mistake, who never fumble, manage only at the cost of original thought and original action. They do without the successes as well as the failures.

I wanted to say a certain thing to a certain man, a certain true thing that had crept into my head. I opened my head, at the place provided, and proceeded to pronounce the true thing that lay languishing there—that is, proceeded to propel that trueness, that felicitous trularity, from its place inside my head out into world life. The certain man stood waiting to receive it. His face reflected an eager accepting-ness. Everything was right. I propelled, using my mind, my mouth, all my muscles. I propelled. I propelled and propelled. I felt trularity inside my head moving slowly through the passage provided (stained like the caves of Lascaux with garlic, antihistamines, Berloiz, a history, a history) toward its debut on the world stage. Past my teeth, with their little brown sweaters knitted of gin and cigar smoke, toward its leap to critical scrutiny. Past my lips, with their tendency to flake away in cold weather—

I [Christopher Hitchens] moved into Mart's sock—where you lived was your 'sock.' Your rug was your 'hair.' Your knee was still your knee: we couldn't think of another word for it. We called our penises our 'willie winkies' and our shared lavatory 'the bog.' There were a lot of brilliantly inventive word games of that kind. What if you changed 'heart' to 'dick' in any well-known song or phrase? Bury my dick at Wounded Knee. Dick-break Hotel. Don't go breaking my dick ... They may, in retrospect, seem infantile, but they built intellectual muscle and taught us all we knew about philosophy, psychology, and other -ologies too numerous (and humorous!) to mention. It was at the time of the wholly reprehensible bombing of Cambodia. These dazzling jests were part of the reason why, when Mart and I got together, nobody felt able to leave the room, or sock-toe. A glimpse, if you will, of another era, a time when Mr. Wilde had sparred so felicitously with Mr. Whistler across their effortlessly groaning table at the imperious Cafe Royal.

In good reading there ought to be no ‘problem of belief’. I read Lucretius and Dante at a time when (by and large) I agreed with Lucretius. I have read them since I came (by and large) to agree with Dante. I cannot find that this has much altered my experience, or at all altered my evaluation, of either. A true lover of literature should be in one way like an honest examiner, who is prepared to give the highest marks to the telling, felicitous and well-documented exposition of views he dissents from or even abominates.

Flick," he whispered, half groan, half prayer. She pulled back slightly, staring up at him with something like wonder and delight. "Say it again." He crooked a lazy grin. "Really, Felicit-" "*No.* Not the name she gave me. The name I made for myself." And he was so stunned by the force of her words, by the fervor of her spirit, that he did. "Flick." He pressed a kiss to the bridge of her nose, where freckles fanned like stars in the night, "Flick." He pressed another to the edge of her mouth, cherishing the sound of her irritation. "Flick.

But why should you wish to leave a state of society which you so politely allow to be more felicitous than your own?” “Oh, Aph-Lin! My answer is plain. Lest in naught, and unwittingly, I should betray your hospitality; lest, in the caprice of will which in our world is proverbial among the other sex, and from which even a Gy is not free, your adorable daughter should deign to regard me, though a Tish, as if I were a civilised An, and—and—and—-“ “Court you as her spouse,” put in Aph-Lin, gravely, and without any visible sign of surprise or displeasure.

So he came up with a plan to first crush Keimer’s paper by using the most powerful weapon at his disposal: the fact that he was the best writer in Philadelphia, and probably, at 23, the most amusing writer in all of America. (Carl Van Doren, a Franklin biographer and great literary critic of the 1930s, flatly declared of Franklin that in 1728, “he was the best writer in America.” The closest rival for that title at the time would probably be the preacher Jonathan Edwards, who was certainly more intense and literary, though far less felicitous and amusing.)

But you do just the opposite. You strengthen your thought-waves. You are seized by worthless thoughts and you co-operate with them. You are sitting alone, there is nothing to do and you start thinking of fighting the coming election. The dream begins! Nothing will please you short of reaching the president’s chair. You have become a president in your dream. There are felicitations and you are enjoying them thoroughly! You never stop to think – what kind of stupidity is this! What are you doing? You are just giving energy to worthless fantasies. Your mind is filled with useless illusions of this kind. The constant flow of dreams eats up a large amount of your energy. It is not for free! You purchase it at the cost of your life. If we examine human life in detail, we will find that ninety-nine percent of the life is lost in fruitless dreams like this. Some dream of wealth, others of power, and others of various conquests. What will you gain even if you attain them all? Thought-waves are nothing but dreams. Do not strengthen them. When the dream starts running within, shake yourself and break the dream as quickly as you can.

Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it? Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening, a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes. Shallow-brained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you would say; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicions to that effect arose too frequently in my own mind. But our wishes are like tinder: the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the tinder of our wishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of hope is kindled in a moment.

That Socrates stood in close relationship to Euripides in the tendency of his teaching, did not escape the notice of contemporaneous antiquity; the most eloquent expression of this felicitous insight being the tale current in Athens, that Socrates was accustomed to help Euripides in poetising. Both names were mentioned in one breath by the adherents of the "good old time," whenever they came to enumerating the popular agitators of the day: to whose influence they attributed the fact that the old Marathonian stalwart capacity of body and soul was more and more being sacrificed to a dubious enlightenment, involving progressive degeneration of the physical and mental powers.

Monsieur de Faucombe, an old man sixty years of age, had married a young woman to whom he left the management of his affairs. He busied himself in archaeology, — a passion, or to speak more correctly, one of those manias which enable old men to fancy themselves still living. The education of his ward was therefore left to chance. Little cared-for by her uncle’s wife, a young woman given over to the social pleasures of the imperial epoch, Felicite brought herself up as a boy. She kept company with Monsieur de Faucombe in his library; where she read everything it pleased her to read. She thus obtained a knowledge of life in theory, and had no innocence of mind, though virgin personally

The greatest secret he taught us was that it isn’t the man who controls events but events that control the man. Any event that surprises a man has already been experienced by other men before him. The effects of all human possibilities have already been felt. Nothing that might happen to us here, as terrible or as felicitous as it might seem, is new. But what we experience is always new because every man is unique, the way every leaf and every tree is unique. Men share with each other the same lifeblood, but each feeds himself from it differently. Even if the new isn’t really new, it’s always new for those who, ceaselessly, wash up on the world’s shores, generation after generation, wave after wave.

The priest first read a condensed lesson of sacred history. Felicite evoked Paradise, the Flood, the Tower of Babel, the blazing cities, the dying nations, the shattered idols; and out of this she developed a great respect for the Almighty and a great fear of His wrath. Then, when she had listened to the Passion, she wept. Why had they crucified Him who loved little children, nourished the people, made the blind see, and who, out of humility, had wished to be born among the poor, in a stable? The sowings, the harvests, the wine-presses, all those familiar things which the Scriptures mention, formed a part of her life; the word of God sanctified them; and she loved the lambs with increased tenderness for the sake of the Lamb, and the doves because of the Holy Ghost. She

There are people who cannot read Tom Jones. I am not thinking of those who never read anything but the newspapers and the illustrated weeklies, or of those who never read anything but detective stories; I am thinking of those who would not demure if you classed them as members of the intelligentsia, of those who read and re-read Pride and Prejudice with delight, Middlemarch with self-complacency, and The Golden Bowl with reverence. The chances that it has never occurred to them to read Tom Jones; but, sometimes, they have tried and not been able to get on with it. It bores them. Now it is no good saying that they ought to like it. There is no 'ought' about the matter. You read a novel for its entertainment, and, I repeat, if it does not give you that, it has nothing to give you at all. No one has the right to blame you because you don't find it interesting, any more than anyone has the right to blame you because you don't like oysters. I cannot but ask myself, however, what it is that puts readers off a book which Gibbon described as an exquisite picture of human manners, which Walter Scott praised as truth and human nature itself, which Dickens admired and profited by, and of which Thackeray wrote: "The novel of Tom Jones is indeed exquisite; as a work of construction quite a wonder; the by-play of wisdom, the power of observation, the multiplied felicitous turns and thoughts, the varied character of the great comic epic, keep the reader in a perpetual admiration and curiosity.

If you’re still not sure where you fall on the introvert-extrovert spectrum, you can assess yourself here. Answer each question “true” or “false,” choosing the answer that applies to you more often than not.* ______ I prefer one-on-one conversations to group activities. ______ I often prefer to express myself in writing. ______ I enjoy solitude. ______ I seem to care less than my peers about wealth, fame, and status. ______ I dislike small talk, but I enjoy talking in depth about topics that matter to me. ______ People tell me that I’m a good listener. ______ I’m not a big risk-taker. ______ I enjoy work that allows me to “dive in” with few interruptions. ______ I like to celebrate birthdays on a small scale, with only one or two close friends or family members. ______ People describe me as “soft-spoken” or “mellow.” ______ I prefer not to show or discuss my work with others until it’s finished. ______ I dislike conflict. ______ I do my best work on my own. ______ I tend to think before I speak. ______ I feel drained after being out and about, even if I’ve enjoyed myself. ______ I often let calls go through to voice mail. ______ If I had to choose, I’d prefer a weekend with absolutely nothing to do to one with too many things scheduled. ______ I don’t enjoy multitasking. ______ I can concentrate easily. ______ In classroom situations, I prefer lectures to seminars. The more often you answered “true,” the more introverted you probably are. If you found yourself with a roughly equal number of “true” and “false” answers, then you may be an ambivert—yes, there really is such a word. But even if you answered every single question as an introvert or extrovert, that doesn’t mean that your behavior is predictable across all circumstances. We can’t say that every introvert is a bookworm or every extrovert wears lampshades at parties any more than we can say that every woman is a natural consensus-builder and every man loves contact sports. As Jung felicitously put it, “There is no such thing as a pure extrovert or a pure introvert. Such a man would be in the lunatic asylum.” This is partly because we are all gloriously complex individuals, but also because there are so many different kinds of introverts and extroverts. Introversion and extroversion interact with our other personality traits and personal histories, producing wildly different kinds of people. So

Unor astfel de oameni ma voi arta asa cum sunt 5. Dar cu ce folos vor ei lucrul acesta? Doresc cumva sa ma felicite, dupa ce vor fi aflat cit de mult m-am apropiat de Tine prin darul pe care Tu mi l-ai dat, si sa se roage pentru mine cind vor fi aflat cit de mult zabovesc sub povara greutatii mele? Ma voi arata lor, celor care sint in acest fel. Caci, o, Dumnezeule al meu, nu e putin lucru ca tie sa ti se aduca multumiri de catre multi dintre noi si sa-Ti se adreseze multe rugaciuni pentru noi. Sufletul lor fratesc sa iubeasca in mine ceea ce Tu le arati ca merita sa fie iubit, si sa deplinga ceea ce Tu le arati ca trebuie sa fie deplins. Acest lucru sa-l realizeze acel suflet fratesc, nu un altul din afara, nu al altor fii, a caror gura a grait desertaciune si a caror dreaptat este dreapta nedreptatii , ci sufletul acela fratesc, care, atunci cind ma aproba, se bucura de mine; dar care, atunci cind ma dezaproba, se intristeaza de mine: deoarece, fie ca ma aproba, fie ca ma dezaproba, acela ma iubeste. Unor asemenea oameni ma voi arata: cei care isi potrivesc respiratia cu mine in cele bune ale mele si care suspina cu mine in cele rele. Or, bunurile mele sint rinduielile Tale si darurile Tale; iar relele mele sint pacatele mele si judecatile Tale; sa-si potriveasca respiratia cu mine in unele, si sa suspine cu mine in celelalte, si cintul de preamarire si plinsul sa se urce pina la Tine din inimile fratesti, cadelnitele Tale. Iar Tu, o, Doamne, desfatat de mireasma templului Tau cel sfint, ai mila de mine dupa mare mila Ta , pentru numele Tau si, neparasind nicidecum cele pe care deja le-ai inceput, pune capat neajunsurilor mele. 6. Acesta este rostul marturisirilor mele, nu in ce fel voi fi fost eu, ci in ce fel sint acum, intrucit nu numai in fata Ta ma marturisesc intr-o tainica preamarire plina de cutremur si intr-o tainica jale plina de speranta, ci ma marturisesc chiar in urechile fiilor oamenilor care cred in Tine, ei, partasii bucuriilor mele si ai destinului meu muritor, in urechile concetatenilor mei si in ale celor care calatoresc cu mine in lumea aceasta, ale celor care au fost inaintea mea si ale celor care vin dupa mine, in ale tuturor celor ce-mi urmeaza pasii, si devin partasi la calea mea. Acestia sint robii Tai, fratii mei, cei pe care Tu ai voit sa-i numesti fiii Tai, stapinii mei, cei carora Tu ai poruncit sa le slujesc, daca vreau sa traiesc cu Tine si din Tine. Si cuvintul acesta al Tau ar fi fost putin pentru mine, daca el m-ar fi instruit vorbind doar, si nu ar fi mers inaintea mea lucrind. Iar eu fac acest lucru prin fapte si prin vorbe, savarsesc asta sub acoperamintul aripilor Tale ; sub amenintarea unei primejdii prea mari, daca sufletul meu n-ar fi fost pus sub acoperamintul aripilor Tale si daca slabiciunea mea nu Ti-ar fi cunoscuta. Eu sint mititel, dar Tatal meu traieste vesnic, si Ocrotitorul meu este potrivit pentru mine: caci acelasi este si Cel Care m-a nascut si Cel Care ma pazeste. Tu insuti esti toate bunurile mele, Tu, CeL Atotputernic, Tu CeL Care esti cu mine inainte ca eu sa fiu cu Tine. Asadar, ma voi arata unor astfel de oameni, carora Tu imi poruncesti sa le slujesc, nu cum am fost eu cindva, ci in ce fel am fost pina acum si inca sint. De altfel, nici eu nu ma judec pe mine insumi ; deci in felul acesta sa fiu ascultat.

I'm Lady Codell-Fitch, and like so many of us, I wish to offer congratulations on your betrothal." "Yes, congratulations." "Congratulations!" "Amazing betrothal!" The felicitations were insincere and accompanied by many an ogling stare, but Eleanor pretended, as Madeline would, to be pleased. Taking Mr. Knight's arm, she pressed it. "He is quite handsome." She found herself daring to defy them all with an up-tilted chin. "I wish you all could be so lucky." The lushly garbed and overly perfumed people were obviously taken aback. They must have expected her to align herself with them, the English nobility, and with a wink and a sigh show how very much she hated this match. But she didn't even have to wonder how Madeline would react to this situation, for in this instance the two cousins thought as one. Neither of them would allow Mr. Knight to suffer the slights of society. They might not wish for this marriage, but the de Lacy pride wouldn't allow them to let anyone else know. Close by her ear, Mr. Knight said quietly, "A pretty pretense, yet lest you imagine I'm impressed, let me assure you I remember this morning when you tried to escape. Tonight you defied me in the matter of your hair and your clothing, and lied to me to get your way. I take your words with a grain of salt." He chuckled deeply.

He glanced at the woman in purple, who was smirking fondly at Jack’s father in a way that filled Jack with darkest foreboding. “We wanted to surprise you.” Jack looked from his father to the woman in purple. He thought he knew what was coming and he didn’t like it. “We?” His father slid his arm through that of the woman in purple. He cleared his throat. “Jack, may I present my wife, your new—” “Felicitations.” If his father thought he was going to call this woman mother, he had to be mad. But then, that was his father, wasn’t it? He always saw the world as he wished it to be. It was stupid, at Jack’s age, to feel disappointment. Jack nodded crisply to his new stepmother. “Congratulations, madam. Had I been informed, I would have sent a gift.” “That didn’t sound terribly celebratory,” whispered Lady Henrietta to her husband.

felicitous intuition so prevalent in the bourgeoisies of non-Western countries, and most particularly Muslim countries, saw psychoanalysis as a “scientific sharing of confidences” invented for Westerners unaccustomed to the curative traditions of family solidarity and shared secrets.

They say no one reads anymore, but I find that's not the case. Prisoners read. I guess they're not given much access to computers. A felicitous injustice for me. The nicest reader letters I've received– also the only reader letters I've received– have come from prisoners. Maybe we're all prisoners? In our lives, our habits, our relationships?

Love loves and in loving always looks beyond what it has in hand and possesses. The driving impulse [*Triebimpuls*] which arouses may tire out; love itself does not tire. This *sursum corda* which is the essence of love may take on fundamentally different forms at different elevations in the various regions of value. The sensualist is struck by the way the pleasure he gets from the objects of his enjoyment gives him less and less satisfaction while his driving impulse stays the same or itself increases as he flies more and more rapidly from one object to the next. For this water makes one thirstier, the more one drinks. Conversely, the satisfaction of one who loves spiritual objects, whether things or persons, is always holding out new promise of satisfaction, so to speak. This satisfaction by nature increases more rapidly and is more deeply fulfilling, while the driving impulse which originally directed him to these objects or persons holds constant or decreases. The satisfaction always lets the ray of the movement of love peer out a little further beyond what is presently given. In the highest case, that of love for a person, this movement develops the beloved person in the direction of ideality and perfection appropriate to him and does so, in principle, beyond all limits. However, in both the satisfaction of pleasure and the highest personal love, the same *essentially infinite process* appears and prevents both from achieving a definitive character, although for opposite reasons: in the first case, because satisfaction diminishes; in the latter, because it increases. No reproach can give such pain and act so much as a spur on the person to progress in the direction of an aimed-at perfection as the beloved's consciousness of not satisfying, or only partially satisfying, the ideal image of love which the lover brings before her―an image he took from her in the first place. Immediately a powerful jolt is felt in the core of the soul; the soul desires to grow to fit this image. "So let me seem, until I become so." Although in sensual pleasure it is the *increased variety* of the objects that expresses this essential infinity of the process, here it is the *increased depth of absorption* in the growing fullness of one object. In the sensual case, the infinity makes itself felt as a self-propagating unrest, restlessness, haste, and torment: in other words, a mode of striving in which every time something repels us this something becomes the source of a new attraction we are powerless to resist. In personal love, the felicitous advance from value to value in the object is accompanied by a growing sense of repose and fulfillment, and issues in that positive form of striving in which each new attraction of a suspected value results in the continual abandonment of one already given. New hope and presentiment are always accompanying it. Thus, there is a positively valued and a negatively valued *unlimitedness of love*, experienced by us as a potentiality; consequently, the striving which is built upon the act of love is unlimited as well. As for striving, there is a vast difference between Schopenhauer's precipitate "willing" born of torment and the happy, God-directed "eternal striving" in Leibniz, Goethe's Faust, and J. G. Fichte." ―from_Ordo Amoris_

FAREWELL TO A FAKE SMILE IS THE GENUINE HAPPINESS; FAREWELL TO A FAKE LOVE IS THE GENUINE KISS; FAREWELL TO A FAKE PERSON IS THE GENUINE INSPIRIT; FAREWELL TO A FAKE FRIEND IS THE GENUINE FELICITATION

So what does Madame Felicitator make,” he said, looking up at Helen, “of our little committee?” “It’s not little enough,” Helen said,

In the far reaches of an infinite cosmos, there’s a galaxy that looks just like the Milky Way, with a solar system that’s the spitting image of ours, with a planet that’s a dead ringer for earth, with a house that’s indistinguishable from yours, inhabited by someone who looks just like you, who is right now reading this very book and imagining you, in a distant galaxy, just reaching the end of this sentence. And there’s not just one such copy. In an infinite universe, there are infinitely many. In some, your doppelgänger is now reading this sentence along with you. In others, he or she has skipped ahead, or feels in need of a snack and has put the book down. In others, he or she has, well, a less than felicitous disposition and is someone you’d rather not meet in a dark alley.

we suffer also from our inevitable confrontation with the human condition-the "givens" of existence. What precisely are these "givens"? The answer is within each of us and readily available. Set aside some time and meditate on your own existence. Screen out diversions, bracket all preexisting theories and beliefs, and reflect on your "situation" in the world. In time you will inevitably arrive at the deep structures of existence or, to use the theologian Paul Tillich's felicitous term, ultimate concerns. In my view, four ultimate concerns are particularly germane to the practice of therapy: death, isolation, meaning in life, and freedom. These four ultimate concerns constitute the spine of my 1980 textbook, Existential Psychotherapy, in which I discuss, in detail, the phenomenology and the therapeutic implications of each of these concerns.

I am shocked— excessively shocked! Your father would have been very glad to have left his ring to Martin, let me tell you, only he thought it not right to leave it away from the heir!" "Was it indeed a personal bequest?" inquired Gervase, interested. "That certainly must be held to enhance its value. It becomes, in fact, a curio, for it must be quite the only piece of unentailed property which my father did bequeathe to me. I shall put it in a glass cabinet." Martin, reddening, said: "I see what you are at! I'm not to be blamed if my father preferred me to you!" "No, you are to be felicitated," said Gervase.

Cultiv oroarea mea faţă de acţiune ca pe o plantă de seră.Mă felicit pe mine însumi pentru disidenţa mea faţă de viaţă.

Stoic moral training depends upon the defensibility of these schematic propositions: (a) Rational deliberative power (rational agency) is a defining feature of mature human consciousness. (b) Every agent’s rational powers, whenever exercised, operate in a particular and intricate deliberative field, in Barbara Herman’s felicitous phrase, that is laden with projects, preferences, affects, and attachments. (c) Each person’s deliberative field evolves continuously. Its initial information gathering and deliberative routines are givens (as if programmed) and, together with the initial situation, yield explicable beliefs. Initial sensibilities, sensitivities, values, aims, commitments, and preferences are also givens and, together with beliefs and deliberative routines, yield normative propositions for conduct. The circumstances in which such normative propositions are acted out or abandoned (that is, the relative strength or weakness of the will) are given, and actions follow. Each process from information gathering to action then becomes information for the next process. (d) The agent’s awareness of and reflection upon these iterated processes varies. But when awareness is high, it is fair to say rational agency is a self-transformative power: over time, its reflexive, recursive operations can transform its own powers, deliberative field, and operations—hence its norms and actions. (e) Agents can thus remake their characters over time. Note, however, that no uniform, essentially human content is specified for the deliberative field

We were going to go see Lady Ophelia’s brand new piglets. There are twelve, and when we went to wish them Happy Christmas, our papa said there isn’t a damned runt in the batch, and our mama didn’t scold him at all because it’s Christmas. You can play with our puppies if you don’t want to go to the barn. This one has the same name as you.” “Lou will pay for that,” said the other fellow. He was as tall as Westhaven, but he had darker hair, and he was smiling a little. “Our felicitations to Lady Ophelia, whose acquaintance we’ll make some other day.

I’ve always resented the word maturity, primarily, I think, because it is most often used as a club. If you do something that someone doesn’t like, you lack maturity, regardless of the actual merits of your action. Too, it seems to me that what is most often called maturity is nothing more than disengagement from life. If you meet life squarely, you are likely to make mistakes, do things you wish you hadn’t, say things you wish you could retract or phrase more felicitously, and, in short, fumble your way along. Those “mature” people whose lives are even without a single sour note or a single mistake, who never fumble, manage only at the cost of original thought and original action. They do without the successes as well as the failures. This has never appealed to me and that is another reason I could never accept the common image of maturity that was presented to me. It was only after I came back from Trial that I came to a notion of my own as to what maturity consists of. Maturity is the ability to sort the portions of truth from the accepted lies and self-deceptions that you have grown up with. It is easy now to see the irrelevance of the religious wars of the past, to see that capitalism in itself is not evil, to see that honor is most often a silly thing to kill a man for, to see that national patriotism should have meant nothing in the twenty-first century, to see that a correctly-arranged tie has very little to do with true social worth. It is harder to assess as critically the insanities of your own time, especially if you have accepted them unquestioningly for as long as you can remember, for as long as you have been alive. If you never make the attempt, whatever else you are, you are not mature.

Ca de obicei, în casa Krasser (din Sibiu) oaspeții erau cu toți adunați în jurul mesei. Membri ai familiei și prieteni s-au adunat să-l felicite pe Friedrich Krasser, autorul Vizierei deschise (Offenes Visier) și să petreacă în mod plăcut duminica de iulie. Bineînțeles că nu puteau lipsi arhitectul municipal Dietrich, biologul Carl Jickeli și al doilea arhitect municipal Samuel Jickeli. Toți erau iluminiști și anticlericali și credeau, ca și gazda, în victoria științei. Se făceau anticipări și se cutezau precizeri la care gazda nu era deloc ultima. Ceea ce-și îngăduie să gândească frizează de-a dreptul fantezia. “Oameni buni”, poate fi el auzit spunând, “puteți crede ce vreți. Dar să știți că peste o sută de ani oamenii vor debarca pe Lună” Era atunci luna iulie a anului 1869. Ziua exactă nu poate fi dedusă din documente (…). O sută de ani mai târziu, la 22 iulie 1969, ora 04:00 (ora Bucureștiului), primul om a coborât pe satelitul natural al pământului. “Un pas mic pentru om, dar un salt uriaș pentru omenire!”, au fost, după cum se știe, cuvintele ce le-a rostit primul om, Neil Armtrong, când a pășit pe suprafața Lunii. Dacă medicul și poetul progresist Friendrich Krasser ar mai fi bănuit pe deasupra că unul din nepoții săi va aduce contribuția cea mai însemnată la această realizare, fără îndoială că ar fi părăsit viața cel mai fericit dintre cei “șapte fericiți”. Herman Oberth a aflat cuvintele bunicului său indirect, de la mama sa.

Like the last three British prime ministers, Barack Obama has had a philosophy and plan to win the hearts and minds of Muslims, both overseas and at home. It has been an American variant of British multiculturalism. Beyond withdrawing from the Muslim Middle East, he stressed his reverence for Islam and Islamic civilization, and the (mostly illusory) bonds between Americans and Muslims around the world. In Cairo in 2009, he even said that it was “part of my responsibility as president of the United States to fight against negative stereotypes of Islam wherever they appear.” He suggested that Americans would not interfere in how Muslims (that is, Muslim rulers) ran their own affairs. This fraternal and felicitous experiment doesn’t seem to be going well. It might be wise if he, too, considered an alternative approach. A good first step might be to say unequivocally that there is a serious problem within the House of Islam. And it’s not incidental to the faith.

It is also possible to exaggerate the impact of ERP on the European economies. Americans, certain of their rectitude, power, and wealth, tend to do this without recognizing the important role that the industrious and efficient west Europeans played in their own recovery. Indeed, the Europeans deserve much of the credit for their economic revitalization after 1948. The plan gave them considerable autonomy and initiative, and they took it, reviving their historical possibilities in rapid time.58 In later years, when the United States directed aid at other less developed parts of the world, the results were by no means so felicitous.

Pragmatist William James put the matter with characteristic realism: Atheists are like people who live on a frozen lake surrounded by cliffs that offer no means of escape. They know that the ice is melting and the inevitable day is coming when they must plunge ignominiously into the water. This prospect is as meaningless as it is horrifying. The Christian too must endure the chill and the inevitability of death, but his faith enables him to endure them much better. When it comes to suffering, James writes, “Religion makes easy and felicitous what is in any case necessary.” When it comes to death, he adds, Christianity offers at least the prospect of the afterlife and the chance of salvation. “No fact in human nature is more characteristic than its willingness to live on a chance. The existence of chance makes the difference . . . between a life of which the keynote is resignation and a life of which the keynote is hope.”7

Gareth. I see you've returned to town for my wedding. Thank you for your fine felicitations. Your manners, as always, are impeccable." "Hang your wedding," Gareth said. "Hang Ware and his daughter and your mother. And hang you, for not answering my question.

And he was perfectly adapted to the ancient form of weaving, where you can’t tell rhythm from lead guitar, the style I’d developed with Brian, the old bedrock of the Rolling Stones sound. The division between guitar players, rhythm and lead, that we had with Mick Taylor melted away. You have to be intuitively locked to do that, and Ronnie and I are like that. “Beast of Burden” is a good example of the two of us twinkling felicitously together.

All [the inhabitants of this land] believe in the unity of God. As for the honor they show to images made of stone, wood, and other things that idiots consider idol worship, it is not so. The writer of this felicitous book has sat conversing with many wise and righteous men, and it is clear that they fashion images of some who have approached the court of the Purified One as aids to prevent the mind from wandering and render worship of God indispensable. In all their practices and customs, they seek favor from the world-illuminating sun and count the holy essence of incomparable God as higher than action.75

To all my friends and relatives in Alcoholics Anonymous, I say that they were right to become intoxicated. Life without moments of intoxication is not worth ‘a pitcher of spit,’ as the felicitous saying goes. They simply chose what was for them a deadly poison on which to get drunk. Good examples of harmless toots are some of the things children do. They get smashed for hours on some strictly limited aspect of the Great Big Everything, the Universe, such as water or snow or mud or colors or rocks

Is it because liberty in the abstract may be classed amongst the blessings of mankind, that I am seriously to felicitate a madman who has escaped from the protecting restraint and wholesome darkness of his cell on his restoration to the enjoyment of light and liberty? Am I to congratulate a highwayman and murderer who has broke prison upon the recovery of his natural rights? This would be to act over again the scene of the criminals condemned to the galleys, and their heroic deliverer, the metaphysic Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance. ​When

Challenger and Chernobyl: the only felicitous accidents, like a freeze-frame of the system. In the same way as a photo arrests movement and restores the unforgettable character that it had lost, the Challenger explosion has revived our imagination where space is concerned. The photos of Challenger were only so beautiful because they fixed in our minds the secret destination of the adventure of space travel, whereas its speed only gives us the apparent movement.

Social media is just a tool. If you use it as a billboard to share, to announce, even to advertise what you do or offer, it is fine. But if you start expecting validation, acceptance, and felicitation, you lose the plot. Also, as with any form (medium) of advertising, when you decide to open up and share, you are bound to be critiqued and criticized (what we know as trolling today). So, the key is to follow the same principle that applied to using traditional media vehicles. Use social media. Don't get used and consumed by it!

Property rights are the expectations defined by property, not the content of property. In other words, property effects property rights. The micro- and meso-foundations of property make the macro-level of property rights possible. Such a view challenges the felicitousness of the bundle-of-sticks metaphor, which inverts how humans cognize property. It also means legal realists are wrong on the facts to claim that there is no prior normative conception of property. (21)

Any event that surprises a man has already been experienced by other men before him. The effects of all human possibilities have already been felt. Nothing that might happen to us here, as terrible or as felicitous as it might seem, is new. But what we experience is always new because every man is unique, the way every leaf and every tree is unique.

Nu suntem niciodată mulțumiți cu statutul unei relaţii, vrem mai mult, vrem să evolueze. Vrem să iubim, suntem făcuți să iubim. Da, putem fi indivizi rezonabili şi fără iubire - muncim, ne plătim facturile și mergem în concedii in țări exotice. Însă doar funcționăm și umplem spații sociale, nu trăim. Pe de o parte, mă întreb ce am făcut în ultimii ani, cum am putut trăi fără să iubesc, pe de alta, mă felicit că mi-am păstrat întreaga rezervă de iubire pentru ea.

The greatest secret he taught us was that it isn't the man who controls events but events that control the man. Any event that surprises a man has already been expe. rienced by other men before him. The effects of all human possibilities have already been felt. Nothing that might happen to us here, as terrible or as felicitous as it might seem, is new. But what we experience is always new because every man is unique, the way every leaf and every tree is unique. Men share with each other the same lifeblood, but each feeds himself from it differently. Even if the new isn't really new, it's always new for those who, ceaselessly, wash up on the world's shores, generation after generation, wave after wave. So, in order to find yourself in life, to not lose yourself on the path, you must listen to the voice of duty. To think too much about yourself is to falter. Whoever understands this secret has the potential to live in peace. But it's easier said than done

My felicitations,” he said himself aloud, and in Mercurio’s tones. “You have got away.

As felicitous an instance of futile classicism as can well be found, outside of the Far East, is the conventional spelling of the English language. A breach of the proprieties in spelling is extremely annoying and will discredit any writer in the eyes of all persons who are possessed of a developed sense of the true and beautiful. English orthography satisfies all the requirements of conspicuous waste. It is archaic, cumbrous, and ineffective; it’s acquisition consumes much time and effort; failure to acquire it is easy of detection. Therefore it is the first and readiest test of reputability in learning, and conformity to its ritual is indispensable to a blameless scholastic life.

These increases in brain cholesterol and pituitary activity were clues that were rich in their implications, and in the late 1960’s a research team at the University of California at Berkeley began to look for specific differences in the neural structures of gentled and ungentled rats. They found that greater tactile stimulation resulted in the following differences: These animals’ brains were heavier, and in particular they had heavier and thicker cerebral cortexes. This heaviness was not due only to the presence of more cholesterol—that is, more myeline sheaths—but also to the fact that actual neural cell bodies and nuclei were larger. Associated with these larger cells were greater quantities of cholinesterase and acetylcholinesterase, two enzymes that support the chemical activities of nerve cells, and also a higher ratio of RNA to DNA within the cells. Increased amounts of these specific compounds indicates higher metabolic activity. Measurements of the synaptic junctions connecting nerve cells revealed that these junctions were 50% larger in cross-section in the gentled rats than in the isolated ones. The gentled rats’ adrenal glands were also markedly heavier, evidence that the pituitary-adrenal axis—the most important monitor of the body’s hormonal secretions—was indeed more active.34 Many other studies have confirmed and added to these findings. Laboratory animals who are given rich tactile experience in their infancy grow faster, have heavier brains, more highly developed myelin sheaths, bigger nerve cells, more advanced skeletal muscular growth, better coordination, better immunological resistance, more developed pituitary/adrenal activity, earlier puberties, and more active sex lives than their isolated genetic counterparts. Associated with these physiological advantages are a host of emotional and behavioral responses which indicate a stronger and much more successfully adapted organism. The gentled rats are much calmer and less excitable, yet they tend to be more dominant in social and sexual situations. They are more lively, more curious, more active problem solvers. They are more willing to explore new environments (ungentled animals usually withdraw fearfully from novel situations), and advance more quickly in all forms of conditioned learning exercises.35 Moreover, these felicitous changes are not to be observed only in infancy and early maturation; an enriched environment will produce exactly the same increases in brain and adrenal weights and the same behavioral changes in adult animals as well, even though the adults require a longer period of stimulation to show the maximum effect.36