Forbidden Attraction Quotes

And this is the forbidden truth, the unspeakable taboo - that evil is not always repellent but frequently attractive; that it has the power to make of us not simply victims, as nature and accident do, but active accomplices.

Oh, he did look like a deity – the perfect balance of danger and charm, he was at the same time fascinating and inaccessible, distant because of his demonstrated flawlessness, and possessing such strength of character that he was dismaying and at the same time utterly attractive in an enticing and forbidden way.

Are you seriously going to walk out of here right now after I just confessed my soul to you, cool as a cucumber, without reciprocating at all?” “What?” I sent him a blank look. Then I rolled my eyes and reached out to ruffle his amazing hair. “Mason Lowe, if you don’t know by now that I’m attracted as hell to you, you’re freaking blind.” He stared at me a moment before muttering, “There. Was that so hard to admit?

If you do something that is forbidden, it is the action that is the target. If you do something that isn't forbidden, and they intervene, then it's not the activity that's attracting the attention, it is you yourself.

girls forbidden to dance would only attract husbands with bad complexions and sunken chests.

The fact that you can't see how much you're worth makes you worth so much more." She opened her mouth once, her brow bunched, but nothing came out. She didn't know the words to ask. I continued. "A diamond doesn't know how much it's worth; it's just beautiful because it exists.

What is the connection between you and our handsome host? Aunt B asked. Blackberries taste much worse when they try to come back up your throat. "Uhhh..." "Uhhh is not an answer," Keira informed me. Andre must not have told her about Hugh, and I had no desire to explain who my dad was. "We never met but we were trained by the same person. Now he works for a very powerful man who will kill me if he finds me." "Why?" Keira asked. "It's a family thing." "That explains the attraction," Aunt B said. "Attraction?" "You're that thing he can't have. It's called forbidden fruit." "I'm not his fruit!" "He thinks you are. The word you're looking for is "smitten," my dear." Aunt B smiled. "I'm sure the way Megobari looked at you made Curran positively giddy.

It's stupid because I don't even know her, but sometimes you see someone and there's just this flicker. Like a light bulb that glows around the person, making them shine brighter than all the others. It's not that they're more attractive or smarter or funnier than anyone else. It's just they have a combination of all the things that speak directly to you.

I knew exactly why I shouldn’t be her friend. This was no mere attraction. What I suffered from was total, debilitating awareness. Every freaking inch of me tuned in to her.

I couldn't speak. It wasn't because I was frightened. I was entranced, frozen in place by a crisp, terrifyingly icy beauty. Her gorgeousness seemed like a taboo, something forbidden to approach or even speak of, never mind touch.

Quantin crept closer to the knoll. A pungent smell passed through his nostrils up into his brain. Attracted by the poppies' scarlet smears, he was about to take another step when he felt a hand on his elbow. A man in a poppy-red jacket, his pupils dilated, smiled warningly. "No strangers allowed. Go away." "I don't understand..." "Understanding is strictly forbidden. Even dreams have the right to dream. Isn't that so? Now go away.

Stop looking for your better half! You need to be whole to attract your better whole, if you expect to have a flourishing relationship.

Two arguing geeks were stoppable. Three arguing geeks created an infinite argument vortex of doom that sucked time down like a black hole.

If you only attract Mr. Wrong or Ms. Crazy, evaluate the common thread in this diversity of people: YOU!

What do you want from me Duncan?” My breath caught in my throat when he licked his lips and swallowed hard. “I don’t know everything and nothing. I feel like you’re this giant flame that I can’t get away from. I fight the pull; I try as hard as I can to move in the other direction but something keeps bringing me back. I left town hoping I’d never come back here, but here I am. I guess I’m sick of fighting it. I’m willing to take the chance of burning up the question is, are you?” Duncan-The Wild Hunt

While they waited, Ronan decided to finally take up the task of teaching Adam how to drive a stick shift. For several minutes, it seemed to be going well, as the BMW had an easy clutch, Ronan was brief and to the point with his instruction, and Adam was a quick study with no ego to get in the way. From a safe vantage point beside the building, Gansey and Noah huddled and watched as Adam began to make ever quicker circles around the parking lot. Every so often their hoots were audible through the open windows of the BMW. Then—it had to happen eventually—Adam stalled the car. It was a pretty magnificent beast, as far as stalls went, with lots of noise and death spasms on the part of the car. From the passenger seat, Ronan began to swear at Adam. It was a long, involved swear, using every forbidden word possible, often in compound-word form. As Adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about Ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry. It was far less hateful sounding than when he didn’t swear. Ronan finished with, “For the love of . . . Parrish, take some care, this is not your mother’s 1971 Honda Civic.” Adam lifted his head and said, “They didn’t start making the Civic until ’73.” There was a flash of fangs from the passenger seat, but before Ronan truly had time to strike, they both heard Gansey call warmly, “Jane! I thought you’d never show up. Ronan is tutoring Adam in the ways of manual transmissions.” Blue, her hair pulled every which way by the wind, stuck her head in the driver’s side window. The scent of wildflowers accompanied her presence. As Adam catalogued the scent in the mental file of things that made Blue attractive, she said brightly, “Looks like it’s going well. Is that what that smell is?” Without replying, Ronan climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Noah appeared beside Blue. He looked joyful and adoring, like a Labrador retriever. Noah had decided almost immediately that he would do anything for Blue, a fact that would’ve needled Adam if it had been anyone other than Noah. Blue permitted Noah to pet the crazy tufts of her hair, something Adam would have also liked to do, but felt would mean something far different coming from him.

In psychology, this phenomenon is called reactance: when we are deprived of an option, we suddenly deem it more attractive. It is a kind of act of defiance. It is also known as the Romeo and Juliet effect: because the love between the tragic Shakespearean teenagers is forbidden, it knows no bounds.

What a beautiful madness, to explore the darkness in one's own soul and find joy in the unearthing of such wicked thoughts.

He looks down at my lips and I can feel the warmth of his breath caress my cheek. His virile scent acts as its own aphrodisiac igniting my desire. I want to be devoured by this sex god.

In 1927 the Army had forbidden the recruitment of Nazis in the 100,000-man Reichswehr and even banned their employment as civilians in the arsenals and supply depots. But by the beginning of 1930 it became obvious that Nazi propaganda was making headway in the Army, especially among the younger officers, many of whom were attracted not only by Hitler’s fanatical nationalism but by the prospects he held out for an Army restored to its old glory and size in which there would be opportunities, now denied them in such a small military force, to advance to higher rank.

You wouldn’t do anything to make me hurt you,” he prompted, and she shook her head quickly. “No,” she whispered. “Good.” He let his arm drape out the open window, breathing in the air. The night was approaching its dewpoint, tinging the breeze with the smell of dust and wet wool. “I’ve started to look forward to our nights together. I’d hate for you to disappoint me now.

I crushed him to me and was hit with a feeling so incredibly strong that, for a moment, I couldn't breathe. There were aspects of it that I recognized easily - attraction, lust, but there were subtler aspects as well and they weren't as readily identifiable - companionship, longing and comfort. The only way I could describe that undercurrent of emotion, strangely, was ... home.

It is the prospect of being close to you that makes marriage partly attractive.  I can imagine the equality which we would then enjoy, it would mean more to you than any other type of equality, and be more beautiful.  I could be a son who was freer, more thankful, less guilty, and more upright; you could be a father who was less troubled, less tyrannical, more sympathetic, and more content.  But to reach this point all that has happened would need to be undone; so we would need to be abolished. But we are as we are, and marriage is your domain and so it is forbidden to me.  At times I imagine the map of the world laid out and you stretched across it.  And all that is left for my life are the areas you don’t cover or can’t reach.  And because I see you as a giant, my territory is miserable and small and doesn’t include marriage. I

In the preface to my Plays for Puritans I explained the predicament of our contemporary English drama, forced to deal almost exclusively with cases of sexual attraction, and yet forbidden to exhibit the incidents of that attraction or even to discuss its nature. Your suggestion that I should write a Don Juan play was virtually a challenge to me to treat this subject myself dramatically. The challenge was difficult enough to be worth accepting, because, when you come to think of it, though we have plenty

You heard me. Surely you can appreciate the symbolism. I want you to strip and bare yourself to me. Strip away all your inhibitions because tonight there will be no room for shyness. Give it to me. Give me your fear.” He quirks an eyebrow at me and uses his finger to make a twirling motion to instruct me to turn around. “Now strip.

He is like a forbidden fruit, attracting everyone around him into the paradise of pleasure. I know the consequences of trying this fruit, but still, I am tempted to take the risk.

Wat is er aanlokkender, geheimzinniger, duivelser dan een verboden boek?

He’s forbidden fruit in hot brooding Italian man form, and just like Eve before me, I can’t resist taking a bite or two.

She stood to lose far too much if she gave this little attraction any freedom to grow.

I can be your rebound guy, but that’s it.

Get real, my friend. If this is a crime scene and if the girl is attractive, her looks could have something to do with why she was murdered. A former husband. A jealous boyfriend.

You’re far from stupid and I am far too attracted to you. There is no reason for it, either, because all you do is bully me.” “I do not bully you.” “What do you call this?” “Gentle persuasion.

Truly, you understand the reverse art of alchemy, the depreciating of the most valuable things! Try, just for once, another recipe, in order not to realise as hitherto the opposite of what you mean to attain: deny those good things, withdraw from them the applause of the populace and discourage the spread of them, make them once more the concealed chastities of solitary souls, and say: morality is something forbidden! Perhaps you will thus attract to your cause the sort of men who are only of any account, I mean the heroic. But then there must be something formidable in it, and not as hitherto something disgusting!

It was only that night, dreaming forbidden dreams of Laurence and the clear attraction he had already displayed towards her, that the dream was disturbed. She woke to pain, her eyes and mouth flashing open in a wordless scream as two strong fangs pierced her neck. A body lay across hers, warm and strong as she felt the life being sucked out of her. The moment he knew she was awake, Laurence had pulled back from feeding and smiled at her with a bloody grin. ‘You are mine now, Shiloh. You may never leave this house until the day I die.’ He had warned her, planting a tormenting kiss on her lips before resuming his feed.

If you do something that is forbidden, it is the action that is the target. If you do something that isn't forbidden, and they intervene, then it's not the activity that's attracting attention, it's you yourself.

He was a jerk; he didn’t deserve to be the object of my lust. But he’d smelled so fucking good, like spice and musk and man. We don’t have control over what we fantasize about. The fact that he was mean and unattainable made him that much more likely to be an object of my forbidden thoughts. Just like I learned in psychology class back in college, thought suppression often leads to obsession. If you tell yourself not to think about something, then you’ll think about it even more.

[It] may well be that the very attraction immaturity has for me lies not so much in the limpidity of pure young forbidden fairy child beauty as in the security of a situation where infinite perfections fill the gap between the little given and the great promised.

Although pity was forbidden, there were few other guidelines for treatment of prisoners. As a result, An said, guards were free to indulge their appetites and eccentricities, often preying on attractive young female prisoners who would usually consent to sex in exchange for better treatment.

It may well be that the very attraction immaturity has for me lies not so much in the limpidity of pure young forbidden fairy child beauty as in the security of a situation where infinite perfections fill the gap between the little given and the great promised—the great rosegray never-to-be-had.

Once the spark catches, once the prepared, courageous combination of camp, melody, enigma, fantasy, paranoia, electric guitars, shock, male make-up and flirtation took hold, and he found himself at last in the right place at the right time, nothing can stop the momentum from growing. Repressed fantasies, forbidden pleasures, rule-breaking spirit and highly suggestive erotic discrepancies are released with tremendous force into the mainstream. They make it there mostly through Bowie’s insatiable mind and body, which has adopted the perfect disguise of an ambiguously sexy, deadly smart and attractively damaged pop star.

By eroding their sense of shame we've made immorality normal, not only in the world but also in the forbidden squadron. ...their new Christian friends recommended some of the movies Fletcher had been wondering if he should now avoid. I was delighted one of them said, "This is a great movie--only one sex scene, and the f-word's only used a few times." 'Titanic' is one of my favorites. How many Christian young people have watched it in their own homes? Think of it, Squaltaint. Suppose someone in the youth group said to the boys, 'There's an attractive girl down the street. Let's get together and go look through her window and watch her undress and lay back on a couch and pose naked from the waist up. Then this girl and her boyfriend will get in a car and have sex--let's get as close as we can and listen to them and watch the windows steam up.' The strategy would never work. They'd know immediately it was wrong. But you can get them to do exactly the same thing by using a television instead of a window. That's all is takes! Think of it, Squaltaint. Every day Christians across the country, including many squadron leaders, watch women and men undress and commit acts of fornication and adultery the Enemy calls an abomination. We've made them a bunch of voyeurs! Churches full of peeping toms.

But Rousseau — to what did he really want to return? Rousseau, this first modern man, idealist and rabble in one person — one who needed moral "dignity" to be able to stand his own sight, sick with unbridled vanity and unbridled self-contempt. This miscarriage, couched on the threshold of modern times, also wanted a "return to nature"; to ask this once more, to what did Rousseau want to return? I still hate Rousseau in the French Revolution: it is the world-historical expression of this duality of idealist and rabble. The bloody farce which became an aspect of the Revolution, its "immorality," is of little concern to me: what I hate is its Rousseauan morality — the so-called "truths" of the Revolution through which it still works and attracts everything shallow and mediocre. The doctrine of equality! There is no more poisonous poison anywhere: for it seems to be preached by justice itself, whereas it really is the termination of justice. "Equal to the equal, unequal to the unequal" — that would be the true slogan of justice; and also its corollary: "Never make equal what is unequal." That this doctrine of equality was surrounded by such gruesome and bloody events, that has given this "modern idea" par excellence a kind of glory and fiery aura so that the Revolution as a spectacle has seduced even the noblest spirits. In the end, that is no reason for respecting it any more. I see only one man who experienced it as it must be experienced, with nausea — Goethe. Goethe — not a German event, but a European one: a magnificent attempt to overcome the eighteenth century by a return to nature, by an ascent to the naturalness of the Renaissance — a kind of self-overcoming on the part of that century. He bore its strongest instincts within himself: the sensibility, the idolatry of nature, the anti-historic, the idealistic, the unreal and revolutionary (the latter being merely a form of the unreal). He sought help from history, natural science, antiquity, and also Spinoza, but, above all, from practical activity; he surrounded himself with limited horizons; he did not retire from life but put himself into the midst of it; he if was not fainthearted but took as much as possible upon himself, over himself, into himself. What he wanted was totality; he fought the mutual extraneousness of reason, senses, feeling, and will (preached with the most abhorrent scholasticism by Kant, the antipode of Goethe); he disciplined himself to wholeness, he created himself. In the middle of an age with an unreal outlook, Goethe was a convinced realist: he said Yes to everything that was related to him in this respect — and he had no greater experience than that ens realissimum [most real being] called Napoleon. Goethe conceived a human being who would be strong, highly educated, skillful in all bodily matters, self-controlled, reverent toward himself, and who might dare to afford the whole range and wealth of being natural, being strong enough for such freedom; the man of tolerance, not from weakness but from strength, because he knows how to use to his advantage even that from which the average nature would perish; the man for whom there is no longer anything that is forbidden — unless it be weakness, whether called vice or virtue. Such a spirit who has become free stands amid the cosmos with a joyous and trusting fatalism, in the faith that only the particular is loathesome, and that all is redeemed and affirmed in the whole — he does not negate anymore. Such a faith, however, is the highest of all possible faiths: I have baptized it with the name of Dionysus. 50 One might say that in a certain sense the nineteenth century also strove for all that which Goethe as a person had striven for: universality in understanding and in welcoming, letting everything come close to oneself, an audacious realism, a reverence for everything factual.

Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance a rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the forbidden book, in a room with no telescreen, had not worn off. Solitude and safety were physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness of his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the faint breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The book fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured him. In a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was part of the attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in order. It was the product of a mind similar to his own, but enormously more powerful, more systematic, less fear-ridden. The

An inappropriate attraction to your friend’s fiancé was grounds for disbarment from the Woman Club. Neither did it make a lick of sense. He was uncouth, uneducated, uncivilized. All of their conversations back then had been unholy bicker fests where they charged from the opposite ends of the spectrum, determined not to meet in the middle but to rip pieces out of each other on the drive by.

She could imagine how it would be. That was the worst part. The suggestive taunts that made her feel clumsy and hyper-vigilant, the soft touches that could spring like a trap—they painted a very vivid picture of what it would be like to fuck him, yes. He would not be nice or gentle, but he would be good, and he would gore her heart like any other trophy in this place just as soon as he was done playing with it.

Logan felt it, even if he wanted to deny it. His pupils were dilated and he stared at her like she was chocolate and tomorrow was the first day of Lent. Sure, she might be forbidden, but no one could withstand temptation forever. Not when it was so close. The car roared to life as Logan started it back onto the road. So he thought to ignore the attraction? Good luck. He might be a rule follower, but Sofia wasn’t. He didn’t stand a chance in hell.

Are you all right? With your Guild, I mean?" Alain considered the question. "They suspect me of being attracted to a Mechanic. They are right, but so far lack proof. They do not suspect that I love you, or who you are, but I have no doubt of what they will do if they discover either of those things." "Oh, blazes." Mari lowered her head to rest her brow against the cool stone of the fortification. "I have ruined your life." "You have given me back my life.

oBITCHuary: So… oBITCHuary: I went back and read through our chats. I totally admitted to you that I’m attracted to my shitty boss, didn’t I? McMonster: Yup. oBITCHuary: Enjoying the ego stroke? McMonster: I’d enjoy it more if you aim south. And, you know, use your tongue. oBITCHuary: I’m never going to be able to look you in the eye. McMonster: May I suggest other organs that will welcome your attention, then? oBITCHuary: I’m so terrified I’m going to yield to temptation. McMonster: Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll fuck it up before we get to it. oBITCHuary: WHY are you even interested? You could have any woman in the world. McMonster: And you’re that woman. Where’s the mystery? oBITCHuary: I’m completely normal. McMonster: Respectfully, Cal, you’re not. oBITCHuary: LOL. I meant average. McMonster: You’re not that either. oBITCHuary: What am I, then? McMonster: If I have a say about it? Mine.

Further light - a whole flood of it - is thrown upon this attraction of the male in petticoats for the female, in the diary of Abbé de Choisy, one of the most brilliant men-women of history, of whom we shall hear a great deal more later. The abbé, a churchman of Paris, was a constant masquerader in female attire. He lived in the days of Louis XIV, and was a great friend of Louis' brother, also addicted to women's clothes. A young girl, Mademoiselle Charlotte, thrown much into his company, fell desperately in love with the abbe, and when the affair had progressed to liaison, the abbe asked her how she came to be won... "I stood in no need of caution as I should have with a man. I saw nothing but a beautiful woman, and why should I be forbidden to love you? What advantages a woman's dress gives you! The heart of a man is there, and and what makes a great impression upon us, and on the other hand, all the charms of the fair sex fascinate us, and prevent us from taking precautions.

Physically, Manya was both appealing and aristocratic in her bearing. It wasn't her copious white hair that attracted men, her flawless white skin, her billowing breasts, but the innate womanliness that emanated from her. Even when she wore her cooking clothes- a mammoth Hoover apron that she slipped on over her head and tied around a baggy dress or her cardigan sweater, a dull brown thing appropriate for shopping- she exuded a sympathetic femininity. Many didn't give much thought to her appearance. More often than not she washed her face and body with the brown kosher soap that contained no fat from forbidden animals, and wrapped her hair in a haphazard bun held together with several large imitation-turquoise hairpins. Her cooking shoes were splattered with chicken and goose fat, bits and oddments of duck, salmon roe, even calves' brains. Because she had been raised on the Black Sea, she loved caviar, so every now and then a glistening bead would fall upon her well-fed shoes. The smell of food on her body made her no less alluring.

I … I thought you’d need … that is, I thought you might want … companionship tonight.” There was no hiding her vulnerability now. Her heart was open to him. He could either take it or insert a blade. He looked at her and hesitated, but only for a moment. “Good God, Ayn, close your robe.” She did. And tied it so tightly, it felt like a Victorian corset, crushing the air out of her. “I’m sorry – I thought—” “I know what you thought. I know what you’ve been thinking since the moment I was revived.” “But you said you felt an attraction…” “No,” Goddard corrected, “I said this body feels an attraction. But I am not ruled by biology!” Ayn fought back every last emotion threatening to overtake her. She just shut them down cold. It was either that, or fall apart in front of him. She would rather self-glean than do that. “Guess I misunderstood. You’re not always easy to read, Robert.” “Even if I did desire that sort of relationship with you, we could never have one. It is clearly forbidden for scythes to have relations with one another. We satisfy our passions out there in the world with no emotional connections. There is a reason for that!” “Now you sound like the old guard,” she said. He took that like a slap in the face … but then he looked at her – really looked at her – and suddenly arrived at a revelation that she hadn’t even considered herself. “You could have expressed this desire of yours in the daytime, but you didn’t. You came to me at night. In the dark. Why is that, Ayn?” he asked. She had no answer for him. “If I had accepted your advances, would you have imagined it was him?” he asked. “Your weak-minded party boy?” “Of course not!” She was horrified. Not just by the suggestion, but by how much truth there might be to it. “How could you even think that?

She refused to feel guilty for not talking to Portia about the Earl of Harte. She couldn't discuss what she didn't understand, and she had no idea what to think of the man with the forbidding gaze. Avenell Slade. Lily snuggled deeper beneath her blankets. She loved the way his name felt moving through her mind. It was sharp and smooth at the same time. Dark and light. Lily knew she was no great beauty. She did not have Portia's dramatic dark hair or flashing eyes. Nor did she have Emma's commanding presence. She did her best to be content with her place among her exceptional sisters. But now, after experiencing Lord Harte's painful slight, she found herself wishing she stood out more, that she was somehow more attractive, more striking. She should forget him. Put him completely from her mind. He had made it infinitely clear he did not welcome her interest. Yet, she wanted to know him. It was that simple and that impossible. A hollowness spread from Lily's center. It was a sensation she had experienced more than once since she had begun her foray into the marriage market. It was the fear that what she sought might never be found- that the kind of deep passion she yearned for existed only in sordid novels. As thoughts of Lord Harte continued to agitate her mind and created a growing restlessness in her body, Lily imagined an often-read scene from one of her favorite stories. It was frighteningly easy to cast the enigmatic Lord Harte in the role of dark seducer, but she struggled to envision herself as the intrepid heroine. Lily did not possess a bold bone in her body. By nature, she had always been rather shy and had never been able to cultivate the kind of self-confidence her sisters possessed. Though she may crave the passionate experiences she read about, she did not possess the courage to explore such things beyond the privacy of her mind.

I don’t know what to do with you,” he said, his voice growing curt with anger again. “Deceitful little minx. I’m of half a mind to put you to work, milking the goats. But that’s out of the question with these hands, now isn’t it?” He curled and uncurled her fingers a few times, testing the bandage. “I’ll tell Stubb to change this twice a day. Can’t risk the wound going septic. And don’t use your hands for a few days, at least.” “Don’t use my hands? I suppose you’re going to spoon-feed me, then? Dress me? Bathe me?” He inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “Don’t use your hands much.” His eyes snapped open. “None of that sketching, for instance.” She jerked her hands out of his grip. “You could slice off my hands and toss them to the sharks, and I wouldn’t stop sketching. I’d hold the pencil with my teeth if I had to. I’m an artist.” “Really. I thought you were a governess.” “Well, yes. I’m that, too.” He packed up the medical kit, jamming items back in the box with barely controlled fury. “Then start behaving like one. A governess knows her place. Speaks when spoken to. Stays out of the damn way.” Rising to his feet, he opened the drawer and threw the box back in. “From this point forward, you’re not to touch a sail, a pin, a rope, or so much as a damned splinter on this vessel. You’re not to speak to crewmen when they’re on watch. You’re forbidden to wander past the foremast, and you need to steer clear of the helm, as well.” “So that leaves me doing what? Circling the quarterdeck?” “Yes.” He slammed the drawer shut. “But only at designated times. Noon hour and the dogwatch. The rest of the day, you’ll remain in your cabin.” Sophia leapt to her feet, incensed. She hadn’t fled one restrictive program of behavior, just to submit to another. “Who are you to dictate where I can go, when I can go there, what I’m permitted to do? You’re not the captain of this ship.” “Who am I?” He stalked toward her, until they stood toe-to-toe. Until his radiant male heat brought her blood to a boil, and she had to grab the table edge to keep from swaying toward him. “I’ll tell you who I am,” he growled. “I’m a man who cares if you live or die, that’s who.” Her knees melted. “Truly?” “Truly. Because I may not be the captain, but I’m the investor. I’m the man you owe six pounds, eight. And now that I know you can’t pay your debts, I’m the man who knows he won’t see a bloody penny unless he delivers George Waltham a governess in one piece.” Sophia glared at him. How did he keep doing this to her? Since the moment they’d met in that Gravesend tavern, there’d been an attraction between them unlike anything she’d ever known. She knew he had to feel it, too. But one minute, he was so tender and sensual; the next, so crass and calculating. Now he would reduce her life’s value to this cold, impersonal amount? At least back home, her worth had been measured in thousands of pounds not in shillings. “I see,” she said. “This is about six pounds, eight shillings. That’s the reason you’ve been watching me-“ He made a dismissive snort. “I haven’t been watching you.” “Staring at me, every moment of the day, so intently it makes my…my skin crawl and all you’re seeing is a handful of coins. You’d wrestle a shark for a purse of six pounds, eight. It all comes down to money for you.

The Mosaic legend of the Fall of Man has preserved an ancient picture representing the origin and consequences of this disunion. The incidents of the legend form the basis of an essential article of the creed, the doctrine of original sin in man and his consequent need of succour. It may be well at the commencement of logic to examine the story which treats of the origin and the bearings of the very knowledge which logic has to discuss. For, though philosophy must not allow herself to be overawed by religion, or accept the position of existence on sufferance, she cannot afford to neglect these popular conceptions. The tales and allegories of religion, which have enjoyed for thousands of years the veneration of nations, are not to be set aside as antiquated even now. Upon a closer inspection of the story of the Fall we find, as was already said, that it exemplifies the universal bearings of knowledge upon the spiritual life. In its instinctive and natural stage, spiritual life wears the garb of innocence and confiding simplicity; but the very essence of spirit implies the absorption of this immediate condition in something higher. The spiritual is distinguished from the natural, and more especially from the animal, life, in the circumstance that it does not continue a mere stream of tendency, but sunders itself to self-realisation. But this position of severed life has in its turn to be suppressed, and the spirit has by its own act to win its way to concord again. The final concord then is spiritual; that is, the principle of restoration is found in thought, and thought only. The hand that inflicts the wound is also the hand which heals it. We are told in our story that Adam and Eve, the first human beings, the types of humanity, were placed in a garden, where grew a tree of life and a tree of the knowledge of good and evil. God, it is said, had forbidden them to eat of the fruit of this latter tree: of the tree of life for the present nothing further is said. These words evidently assume that man is not intended to seek knowledge, and ought to remain in the state of innocence. Other meditative races, it may be remarked, have held the same belief that the primitive state of mankind was one of innocence and harmony. Now all this is to a certain extent correct. The disunion that appears throughout humanity is not a condition to rest in. But it is a mistake to regard the natural and immediate harmony as the right state. The mind is not mere instinct: on the contrary, it essentially involves the tendency to reasoning and meditation. Childlike innocence no doubt has in it something fascinating and attractive: but only because it reminds us of what the spirit must win for itself. The harmoniousness of childhood is a gift from the hand of nature: the second harmony must spring from the labour and culture of the spirit. And so the words of Christ, ‘Except ye become as little children’, etc., are very far from telling us that we must always remain children. Again, we find in the narrative of Moses that the occasion which led man to leave his natural unity is attributed to solicitation from without. The serpent was the tempter. But the truth is, that the step into opposition, the awakening of consciousness, follows from the very nature of man; and the same history repeats itself in every son of Adam. The serpent represents likeness to God as consisting in the knowledge of good and evil: and it is just this knowledge in which man participates when he breaks with the unity of his instinctive being and eats of the forbidden fruit. The first reflection of awakened consciousness in men told them that they were naked. This is a naive and profound trait. For the sense of shame bears evidence to the separation of man from his natural and sensuous life. The beasts never get so far as this separation, and they feel no shame. And it is in the human feeling of shame that we are to seek the spiritual and moral origin origin of dress.

Bean Sprout

If the heart is sick, the forbidden becomes attractive and obedience of God becomes something you look at with contempt

Before they knew it, Ormsby Island would become a paranormal attraction like Waverly Hills or Houghton Mansion or the Whaley House. The place would be crawling with people anxious to catch a ghost on camera or audio.

People are often attracted to things which are forbidden to them. During the 1920s, for example, Prohibition in the United States caused illicit alcohol sales to skyrocket.

When the ride was being designed, it was assumed that Kuka’s robotic programming could easily produce the various movements called for in each scene. What nobody considered, however, is that the program was designed for maximum industrial efficiency. If, to correspond to the action in a given scene, the Kuka arm had to simulate 22 different motions, the software—not knowing a theme park ride from a diesel assembly line—would think, “OK, let’s knock these 22 movements down to 13 and save half a minute.” Because this would throw the timing of everything out of whack, Universal ended up having to create a program that would behave as it was told and not be so anal about efficiency. Luckily for us, Universal worked out the kinks, and Forbidden Journey is now remarkably reliable for such an advanced attraction.

We were a couple and the act of physical love was sex. If he loved me so much why was he not attracted to me?

Christians are to help shape contemporary culture—particularly in a setting in which I fear the posthuman message will prove attractive, if not seductive—then they must offer an alternative and compelling vision; a counter theological discourse so to speak”?

These mechs—rays—stim—have been used always as the forbidden fruit of life, the last treasure in the temple of secrecy which has consumed the ancient science. The orgies which the uses of such stimulants inspire have been going on secretly since the earliest times—beneath the temples and in the secret pleasure palaces of the world. (Shaver here seems to be talking of our modern world, not of ancient Mu. —Ed.) These orgies still go on, and are more deadly than before—more filled with de accumulated in the apparatus, the stim itself concealing the deadly rays whose effect is explained as the sad results of overindulgence; which is untrue—the stim is a beneficial of great virtue and leaves one stronger and wiser after use. “The legend of the sirens is an example of ancient mechs which no one could resist—in the hands of evil degenerates it became a deadly attraction—drawing shiploads of men to death and the ships to looting. “The course of history, the battles, the decisions of tyrants and kings—was almost invariably decided by interfering control from the caverns and their hidden apparatus. This interference, this use of the apparatus in a prankish, evil, destructive way, is the source of god worship, the thrill of divinity, the sensing of the invisible, the prostration of the will before the stronger will of the ray gen (hidden and unknown as it was). “The remarkable part of it all is that it still goes on today. Emotional and mental stim—unsuspected by such as you and the average citizen—used in mad prankishness, all come from the ancient apparatus. If you will remember your stage fright in the school play, the many other times when your emotions seem to have gone awry without sufficient reason—were these natural? “The dero of the caves are the greatest menace to our happiness and progress; the cause of many mad things that happen to us, even so far as murder. Many people know something of it, but they say they do not. They are lying. They fear to be called mad, or to be held up to ridicule. Examine your own memory carefully. You will find many evidences of outside stim, some good, some evil—but mostly evil.

On the sixty-fifth page the rabbis are arguing about King David and his ill-gotten wife Bathsheba, a mysterious biblical tale about which I’ve always been curious. From the fragments mentioned, it appears that Bathsheba was already married when David laid his eyes upon her, but he was so attracted to her that he deliberately sent her husband, Uriah, to the front lines so that he would be killed in war, leaving Bathsheba free to remarry. Afterward, when David had finally taken poor Bathsheba as his lawful wife, he looked into her eyes and saw in the mirror of her pupils the face of his own sin and was repulsed. After that, David refused to see Bathsheba again, and she lived the rest of her life in the king’s harem, ignored and forgotten. I now see why I’m not allowed to read the Talmud. My teachers have always told me, “David had no sins. David was a saint. It is forbidden to cast aspersions on God’s beloved son and anointed leader.” Is this the same illustrious ancestor the Talmud is referring to? Not only did David cavort with his many wives, but he had unmarried female companions as well, I discover. They are called concubines. I whisper aloud this new word, con-cu-bine, and it doesn’t sound illicit, the way it should, it only makes me think of a tall, stately tree. The concubine tree. I picture beautiful women dangling from its branches. Con-cu-bine. Bathsheba wasn’t a concubine because David honored her by taking her as his wife, but the Talmud says she was the only woman David chose who wasn’t a virgin. I think of the beautiful woman on the olive oil bottle, the extra-virgin. The rabbis say that God only intended virgins for David and that his holiness would have been defiled had he stayed with Bathsheba, who had already been married. King David is the yardstick, they say, against whom we are all measured in heaven. Really, how bad can my small stash of English books be, next to concubines? I am not aware at this moment that I have lost my innocence. I will realize it many years later. One day I will look back and understand that just as there was a moment in my life when I realized where my power lay, there was also a specific moment when I stopped believing in authority just for its own sake and started coming to my own conclusions about the world I lived in.

Rohan was staring into the flames and savoring a brandy. The sensual way he cupped the rounded snifter in his palm caused a completely unexpected shudder of wild longing to run the length of her entire body, for his tender hold on that globelike glass brought back hazy memories of his attentions last night to her breasts. And when he raised the glass to his lips and took a slow, leisurely sip, Kate had to close her eyes for a moment to steady herself. Dear God. His butler announced her in a formal tone. "Your Grace: Miss Madsen." Kate flicked her eyes open, but her cheeks were already burning when the duke looked over. He cast her a dangerous smile, and a giddy weakness crept up her body, starting at her knees. She tightened them reflexively and gave her quivering legs the silent order to move, and by all means, to forget the feel of his forbidden caresses running up her thighs.

Conceive of a sinner who is a Catholic and devout. What complexity in his feeling for the Church, what pieties of observance live between his sins. He has to make such intricate shows of concealment to his damned habits. Yet how simple is the Church’s relation to him. Extreme Unction will deliver his soul from a journey through hell. So it is with physics and engineering. Physics is the church, and engineering the most devout sinner. Physics is the domain of beauty, law, order, awe, and mystery of the purest sort; engineering is partial observance of the laws, and puttering with machines which never work quite as they should work: engineering, like acts of sin, is the process of proceeding boldly into complex and often forbidden matters about which one does not know enough – the laws remain to be elucidated–but the experience of the past and hunger for the taste of the new experience attract one forward. So bridges were built long before men could perform the mathematics of the bending moment.

That hunting by fire was still practiced by the natives on a large scale, and it had been his lot to stumble on six baby elephants, victims of a fire from which only fully grown animals had managed to escape thanks to their size and speed? That whole herds of elephants sometimes escaped from the blazing savanna with bums up to their bellies, and that they suffered for weeks? Many a night he had lain awake in the bush listening to their cries of agony. That the contraband traffic in ivory was still practiced on a large scale by Arab and Asiatic merchants, who drove the tribes to poaching? Thirty thousand elephants a year— was it possible to think for a moment of what that meant, without shame? Did she know that a man like Haas, who was the favorite supplier of the big zc^s, saw half the young elephants he captured die under his eyes? The natives, at least, had an excuse: they needed proteins. For them, elephants were only meat. To stop them, they only had to raise the standard of living in Africa: this was the first step in any serious campaign for the protection of nature. But the whites? The so-called “civilized” people? They had no excuse. They hunted for what they called “trophies,” for the excitement of it, for pleasure, in fact. The flame that attracted him so irresistibly burned him in the end. He was the first to recognize the enemy and to cry tally-ho, and he had gone on the attack with all the passion of a man who feels himself challenged by everything that makes too-noble demands upon human nature, as if humanity began somewhere around. thirty thousand feet above the surface of the earth, thirty thousand feet above Orsini. He was determined to defend his own height, his own scale, his own smallness. "Listen to me,” he said. "All right, you're a priest A missionary. As such, you've always had your nose right in it I mean, you have all the sores, all the ugliness before your eyes all day long. All right. All sorts of open wounds— naked human wretchedness. And then, when you’ve well and truly wiped the bottom of mankind, don’t you long to climb a hill and take a good look at something different, and big, and strong, and free?”“When I feel like taking a good look at something different and big and strong and free,” roared Father Fargue, giving the table a tremendous bang with his fist, “it isn't elephants I turn to, it's God I” The man smiled. He licked his cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. “Well, it isn't a pact with the Devil I'm asking you to sign. It's only a petition to stop people from killing elephants. Thirty thousand of them are killed each year. Thirty thousand, and that's a .small e.stimate. You can’t deny it . . . And remember—'* there was a spark of gaiety in his eyes— “and remember. Father, remember: they haven’t sinned.” He was stabbing me in the back, aiming straight at my faith. Original sin, and the whole thing— you know all that better than I do. You know me. I’m a man of action: give me a good case of galloping syphilis and I'm all right. But theory . . . this is between ourselves. Faith, God— I've got all that in my heart, in my guts, but not in my brain. I’m not one of the brainy ones. So I tried offering him a drink, but he refused.” The Jesuit’s face lit up for a moment, and its wrinkles seemed to disappear in the youthfulness of a smile. Fargue suddenly remembered that he was rather frowned upon in his Order; he had several times been forbidden to publish his scientific papers; it was even whispered that his stay in Africa was not entirely voluntary He had heard tell that Father Tassin, in his writings, represented salvation as a mere biological mutation, and humanity, in the form in which we still know it, as an archaic species doomed to join other vanished species in the obscurity of a prehistoric past. His face clouded over: that smacked of heresy.

Things that were forbidden were often precisely what the heart most wanted. Things became more attractive because they were forbidden by some cruel or uncomprehending authority.

Instead of a filthy fantasy come true, the forbidden and way too attractive blood diamond king has turned out to be my worst nightmare incarnated in the combat class. He’s cold and ruthless, and no amount of flirting will make him give in and fuck me. I’m pretty sure there’s no heart to be found in his chest, unlike mine that won’t stop beating overtime at the mere sight of him.

Affirmative- I terror being in the outside realm of things.’ Just as it said- I would be after seeing the forbidden. Magical- Cards of wisdom and blue crystals in my hand, I look for something to show the way to the land of no pain. ‘I look to the skies to save me, looking for the sine of life, to make my way back home, I better learn to fly- fly! See the stars, as they go around my head? I am going to: burn out bright! I think that if I could be left alone, with the one that I want… I could have a life- you know what I am sure of it. I fear that the towering entity will never collapse, and the demons will keep playing in my head. I fear that I will never have a social ability, to be part of the nobility of compatibility. I fear what society has done to me. I fear that I have no trust in anyone or anything. I fear that my life has no meaning. I fear that I will never get out of this hell. I just want to start my life, and get a degree in music someday from IUP, if I can make it through all of this. I do not think that is too much to ask for, is it? I am 100 pounds, really tiny; surely there is someone that would find me attractive? I wonder if I can find someone who can think for themselves. I want someone who will love me, for who I am- and not what they want me to be. Most importantly, I need someone that will not use me. Is that too much to ask for? Fear! Anxiety is something that I have inside, it is the source of the things which lead to distress. Not finding someone that loves me, for who I am, is one of my fears. I fear not having a family by my side at all times. I have tears about the overwhelming struggle to rebuild my reputation, which has been destroyed. I ask this question, if I was to die tomorrow would anybody come to my wake, to see me lying there?

The similarities in the physiological characteristics of Leopardi and Nietzsche are especially remarkable. The same sensitivity toward weather and seasons, toward place and environment, are found in both. Leopardi feels the slightest change in the thermometer and barometer. He could create only during the summer; he traveled about, always looking for the most suitable location for his creative activity. Nietzsche expresses himself about such peculiarities of his nature in the following manner: “Now after long practice, when I observe the effects of climatic and meteorological nature upon myself, as upon a very delicate and reliable instrument, and after a short journey, perhaps from Turin to Milan, calculate the change in the degree of humidity calculated physiologically in myself, then I look with horror at the sinister fact that my life until the last ten years, the most dangerous years, has always been spent in locations treacherous and absolutely forbidden to me. Naumburg, Schulpforta, Thuringia, in fact, Bonn, Liepzig, Basel, Venice, — all of them places of misfortune for my physiology. ...” Connected with this unusual sensitivity in Leopardi as well as in Nietzsche, is a contempt for all altruistic feelings. Both of them had to overcome this in order to be able to tolerate mankind. From Nietzsche's own words one can see that his shyness in presence of strong impressions, of attractions which demand too much of his sensitivity, fill him with suspicion toward selfless impulses.

If I’m to secure Amara’s freedom, I’ll have to embrace my attraction to the dragon lord, not suppress it.

Anything you make forbidden gains sexual attractiveness.

Like men, they are deeply attracted to the forbidden, the dangerous, even the slightly evil. (Don Juan ends by going to hell, and the word “rake” comes from “rakehell,” a man who rakes the coals of hell; the devilish component, clearly, is an important part of the fantasy.) Always

Forty-three to her twenty-one years is the age gap between us. It makes my uncontrollable attraction to her taboo. Filthy. Forbidden.

You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. I’m so fucking attracted to you it’s painful. I haven’t been with a woman in months, and nobody knows that. I think about you all the time. But I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know if I’m capable. But that is on me, not on you. You are enough, I can assure you that. You are so much more than enough. I get off to thoughts of you every fucking day. Don’t you ever say that you aren’t enough because there is no one that compares to you.

This attraction, these feelings, they’ll pass. We’ve always been close friends, and if I fucked that up— I would never recover from that.

King, you are overthinking this. Let’s just see where this goes. You are putting so much pressure on yourself. On this.” She motioned between us. “We’ve been friends for a long time, and we’re attracted to one another. I know who you are. I’m not asking you for forever. I’m asking you for right now.

Then they’d be acknowledging my existence. If you do something that is forbidden, it is the action that is the target. If you do something that isn’t forbidden, and they intervene, then it’s not the activity that’s attracting attention, it’s you yourself.

It is as though there is something about sanity that we don’t want to go into, that we shy away from. And in this sense sanity is more like a forbidden object of desire: something we are dissuaded from being interested in but can never get away from. And like all forbidden objects of desire—like the man or woman of our dreams—it brings with it the fear that it may not exist, and the wish that it does not exist (after all, if it does exist, what are we going to do with it when we find it?). We tend to downplay sanity’s significance, but are somehow attracted to it. Just as we never know whether something is a figment because it is forbidden, or forbidden because it is in fact a figment, we are never quite sure whether sanity is worth bothering with.

Forbidden and all the more attractive for it. The one man my parents could never control. I wanted him and I wanted to be him.

Bean Sprout.

The inspector stood up and reached for his leather jacket. There was a whiff of aftershave. He looked every inch TV’s idea of an undercover cop. I had noticed the Princess register his star quality as we arrived at his office half an hour earlier. That was good. An attractive male lead always brought out the best in our unpredictable royal performer. “If you’re ready . . .” he said, heading for the door with an athlete’s easy grace. His amused expression promised further treats in store. The Princess followed him meekly. Her eyes were demurely lowered, as if to retain the image she had just seen. I knew she was enjoying herself—she was fascinated by the forbidden.

Confronted by God’s law, the sinner’s rebellious nature finds the forbidden thing more attractive, not because it is inherently attractive, but because it furnishes an opportunity to assert one’s self-will.

Would you care to share with the rest of the class what is so funny?” Madison gulped. Ms. Healy was staring hard at Madison’s PalmPilot, which was absolutely forbidden in class, along with cell phones, CD players, and any other distracting electrical equipment. Madison instantly started vamping. “Well, Ms. Healy, I was just musing on how ridiculous a scarlet would be today, and who would have to wear one--senators, actors, teachers, even a few of our presidents. In fact, there would probably be more people wearing the scarlet letter than not wearing it.” Ms. Healy’s cold blue eyes looked huge through her extra-magnified glasses. “This is funny?” Madison swallowed hard. “I guess it’s really more ironic, wouldn’t you say?” Ms. Healy, who knew Madison as a straight-A, straight-shooter kind of student, softened a little. “‘Ironic’ is indeed the perfect word for it,” she said with a brisk nod. “Now put the personal digital assistance away and pay attention, Ms. McKay.” As Ms. Healy walked back to the front of the room, Henry Cooney, Madison’s partner in chem lab, mouthed the words, “Nice save.” Madison wiped some imaginary sweat off her forehead with her hand and tried to focus once again on the lecture. She forced herself to keep her eyes glued to Ms. Healy and soon found herself wondering what had turned the teacher into such an old grump. She was clearly smart and sometimes very funny, in a droll sort of way. Take away those awful glasses, let her hair out of that tight metal barrette at her neck, and Ms. Healy could almost be considered attractive. Maybe she’d had some brush with failed love that had made her go sour. Or worse yet--what if she had never had any brush with love at all, and this dried-up old prune was what Ms. Healy had become?

Daniel had given her a pair of sapphire earrings, so she made out well. The women he attracted were gold diggers, but he didn't mind. They met his needs without any sort of commitment. When he needed a date, he had a large list of beautiful women to choose from. These young, gorgeous models kept themselves available because they were lavished in finer things. On occasion, he'd sense some maternal instinct rearing its ugly head and go running. Daniel drove home exhausted. It was four in the morning, but he had to make sure he had a date for tonight's

I take my time getting up, both to let him have a full view of my ensemble and to get my equilibrium before attempting to walk in these heels. After I feel steady and confident in my walking ability, I put an extra sway in my hips as I sashay away.

All the more reason to desire her. The attraction of the forbidden is a powerful force.

These are the four core functions of a platform: Audience building: Build a liquid marketplace by attracting a critical mass of consumers and producers. Matchmaking: Connect the right consumers with the right producers in order to facilitate transactions and interactions. Providing core tools and services: Build tools and services that support the core transaction by lowering transaction costs, removing barriers to entry, and making the platform more valuable over time through data. Creating rules and standards: Set guidelines that govern which behaviors are allowed and encouraged and which are forbidden or discouraged.

How about a chocolate shake, it’s on me, big boy,” one boy said. “Shut up.” I grinned. They were still teasing their friend. Good. If they were teasing him, maybe it was because he thought I was cute, too. Maybe he’d come back to the restaurant tomorrow, find me, ask for my number, and then who knows? I couldn’t help myself — I creeped along the backside of the restaurant and peered around the corner. The boys were walking in the other direction. The shortest of the boys pushed the tall, cute one. “Enjoy your chocolate shake. It’s free, because I’m so desperate for you to notice me.” Oof. That stung. I wasn’t desperate; I was just trying to be spontaneous. And flirty. And fun. The other boy punched the tall one in the shoulder. “You know, I’ve heard you’re only as attractive as the people that ask you out. So you should probably think about plastic surgery.” That offhand comment, that comment that I wasn’t supposed to hear, was a slap in the face on a freezing winter day.

Be warned that I like complete control. When you cross my threshold Friday evening, you are mine to do what I please.

Damn. Looks like I am going to be your teacher on a whole different level. Let the depravity begin,” he smiles.

Professor by day and elusive billionaire playboy by night.

My mission is to pleasure you senseless and introduce you to things you never knew you wanted.

Castro’s revolution, with all of its supposedly good intentions, put a stop to the growth of Havana. Of course it put an end to the Mafia controlling the casinos and entertainment, but for them it was a minor setback. They just packed their bags and went to Las Vegas where they expanded and developed “The Strip!” Batista and his followers fled Cuba for the Dominican Republic, Europe and South Florida. Many Cubans lost everything they had but others fled taking their wealth with them. The upheaval in 1959 marked the beginning of austerity for this former freewheeling city. The communistic de-privatization of all businesses, along with the embargo imposed by the United States, created a serious decline in Havana’s economy. The constant pressure to nationalize, as well as the severe crackdown by the régime to keep people in line, curtailed growth and placed an enormous hardship on the Cuban people. Since the Castro Revolution, the people of Havana have been severely affected, because of the absence of commerce with its former trading partner, the United States, located only 90 miles to the north. In all Havana has taken a severe toll economically, with its dilapidated houses, and the pre-1959 cars on the streets of the city being a testimony to the bygone era. It is only now that with the hope of normalization between the governments of Cuba and the United States that perhaps the people will benefit. For the greatest part, the Port of Havana has also been bypassed, chiefly due to the restrictions placed on them by the United States. However, the Cuban government is now attempting a comeback by attracting tourism from Canada, Mexico, the Bahamas, Latin America, Asia and Europe. The city of Havana has renovated the Sierra Maestra Cruise Port, but only very few cruise companies consider Havana a port of call. Slowly, German and British ships started to arrive, including the Fred Olsen Cruises and Carnival Cruise Line. Technically Real Estate Brokers and Automobile Dealers are illegal in Cuba, although real-estate offices and car dealerships are blatantly open for business. The buying and selling of real estate and cars, which was forbidden for many years, can now be done because of some changes brought about by Raúl Castro, but only by full-time residents of Cuba. However, gray market sales are thriving through the use of friends and family as proxies.

Thinking about Noah made it difficult to remember that there would never again be a man in her life. Ever, ever, ever. She’d been hurt by men too often. Okay, there hadn’t been many, but the three major contenders had been totally horrible. Death, prison and weirdness. If there’d been even one lucky break where love was concerned, she might consider another stab at it down the line a bit, but not likely. She had already proven she didn’t know how to pick a man, and it was doubtful she could start now. But he was very attractive, the preacher man. Six feet, ink-black hair with a lock that fell over his brow sometimes. Expressive dark brows over the most beautiful blue eyes she’d ever seen. And lips that just screamed Come to Papa. Then there was that smile. Or, all those smiles—the one that indulged, the one that mocked, the one that burst out of him before he could stop it. He couldn’t hide the fact that for a devout sort of guy there was some bad boy in him that he was barely keeping under control. His smile came with dimples that almost brought her to her knees. Six feet of delicious man with strong shoulders, long legs and big, hard hands. Yeah, he could get her in trouble. But

Listen, I have to tell you something.” Her drowsy eyes opened. “I don’t want to push you into anything, take your time about me, but you have to know—I feel pretty strongly about monogamy.” Her eyes widened. “You can’t think I’d be with another man! I wasn’t even going to be with you! But there is one thing you have to do for me,” she said. “Anything that makes you happy,” he promised. “I want this to be only between us.” “Sure. Of course. It’s personal. I agree.” “I don’t want anyone around here to know it’s like this between us. I just work for you, that’s all.” He frowned. “We don’t have to share our personal lives with anyone, but we don’t have to hide the fact that we care about each other.” “Yeah, we do, Noah. No one can know about this. About us.” “Ellie, why? Are you embarrassed to find yourself attracted to a man who’s a minister?” She laughed a little bit. “No. But no one would ever believe you seduced me. And you did, Noah. You did and I loved it. Not only are you the sexiest minister alive, you might be the sexiest man alive. But people will think I trapped you. They’ll think I ruined your purity and dirtied you up. And I don’t need that right now.” “Come on, you’re wrong…” “I’m right,” she said. “No matter how much I try to do the right thing, no matter how determined I am to do the right thing, everything that happens ends up being my fault. And when people around here find out you like me…they’re going to think I cast an evil spell on you and made you break your vows.” “Honey, I didn’t take a vow of chastity. I didn’t promise not to love a woman. I never said I wouldn’t have a perfectly normal sex drive. I’m not fifteen, Ellie, I’m thirty-five and I’ve missed passion. Passion and intimacy, two things that are really healthy for a normal man. Don’t argue with a man with seven years of theological training.” “People don’t get that about you like I do. They think of you as different. As a minister. Please, Noah. Let’s just act like I work for you, and that we’re casual friends.” “We can do that, if that’s what you need. Or we could change the way things have been for you. We could be honest without being indiscreet. We could hold hands, you could let me put my arm around your shoulders, smile at you like you’re special. Treat you like the woman of my choice while I enjoy being the man of yours.” “You don’t get it, do you, Noah?” she asked, shaking her head. “Don’t you see how fragile this is? How much hangs in the balance for both of us? At some point—maybe sooner, maybe later—the people here are going to figure me out. They’ll know I come from a dirt-poor background, that the men who gave me my children didn’t marry me, that I was a stripper when you hired me. What if they hate me? What if they treat my kids like trash because of me?” “I won’t let anyone—” “Don’t you see it’s your future in this town, too? What if they ask themselves what kind of minister you could be if you’d choose a woman like me? Oh, Noah,” she said, running her fingers through his thick, dark hair. “We’d get along okay in a bigger town where no one knows us all that well, where I’m not hooked up with the local preacher. But here—you and me? It could ruin us all.” “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not going to be that way.” She smiled at him. “You’re just a fool,” she said. “It usually is that way.” He

Noah, I’m not sure it’s the minister thing that makes you attractive. You’re actually kind of cute.” His eyes widened briefly. “I am?” he asked, though kinda cute was not exactly what a man was looking for by way of praise. “Mmm-hmm. You kind of make a girl want to shave above the knees. That was a compliment by the way.” “Is that a big deal? Shaving above the knees?” he stupidly asked. She laughed. “Pardner, for my last job I had to shave above the—” “Stop,” he ordered. And she laughed some more. He helped himself to a handful of popcorn. “One minute you want to hear all about it, then it offends your little sensibilities,” she teased. “They’re not little,” he said, opening his mouth and dropping popcorn inside.

All the great cat goddesses such as Isis, Bast, Diana and Hecate, with their eternal Moon link, combine woman with Cat. Emphasising this empathy, the mysterious feline has always been construed as woman and vice versa. Since time immemorial, women have been thought to possess an ability as mediums, with a talent for soothsaying and clairvoyance. Second sight, too, is deemed to be a natural female attribute. Cats, silently wise and 'knowing', with eyes reflecting the secrets of time itself, arc said to be 'old souls', and the attraction of woman to Cat could be seen to represent a look back to an ancient part of the human soul. And what woman deep within her Moon-centred self doesn't nurture a fascination with the past — the 'unknown'; ancient, forbidden secrets; and the mystical world of the occult? Perhaps, at some distant point in time, Cat and woman with their beguiling ways and inbuilt urge to procreate underwent a transmigration of souls, each now sharing the ' complex psyche of the other. Both are symbols of fertility; both project innate feminine traits of intuitive sensuality and nurture and cherish their young. The female cat, both domestic and in the wild, is known to be a caring, efficient mother and the old French proverb, Jamais chatte qui a des petits n'a de bans morceaux, (a cat with little ones has never a good mouthful) illustrates the devotion and selflessness of the maternal feline.

It was very childish humor, but one of the surest ways to recognize lovers was how easily they laughed at each other’s jokes. What he felt for Madlenka Bukovany went far beyond mere attraction. It was more than lust or admiration or friendship. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was an all-consuming, once-in-a-lifetime passion. Nothing else in the world mattered. He would do anything to win her or please her, and he was certain that she felt the same about him. Neither had mentioned it. They did not need to, and must not. It was a forbidden, impossible match, and perhaps that was the very reason the madness had come upon them so quickly.

After Zeidy’s heavy footfalls fade down the stairs, and I watch from my second-floor bedroom window as my grandparents get into the taxi, I slide the book out from under the mattress and place it reverently on my desk. The pages are made of waxy, translucent paper, and they are each packed with text: the original words of the Talmud as well as the English translation, and the rabbinical discourse that fills up the bottom half of each page. I like the discussions best, records of the conversations the ancient rabbis held about each holy phrase in the Talmud. On the sixty-fifth page the rabbis are arguing about King David and his ill-gotten wife Bathsheba, a mysterious biblical tale about which I’ve always been curious. From the fragments mentioned, it appears that Bathsheba was already married when David laid his eyes upon her, but he was so attracted to her that he deliberately sent her husband, Uriah, to the front lines so that he would be killed in war, leaving Bathsheba free to remarry. Afterward, when David had finally taken poor Bathsheba as his lawful wife, he looked into her eyes and saw in the mirror of her pupils the face of his own sin and was repulsed. After that, David refused to see Bathsheba again, and she lived the rest of her life in the king’s harem, ignored and forgotten. I now see why I’m not allowed to read the Talmud. My teachers have always told me, “David had no sins. David was a saint. It is forbidden to cast aspersions on God’s beloved son and anointed leader.” Is this the same illustrious ancestor the Talmud is referring to? Not only did David cavort with his many wives, but he had unmarried female companions as well, I discover. They are called concubines. I whisper aloud this new word, con-cu-bine, and it doesn’t sound illicit, the way it should, it only makes me think of a tall, stately tree. The concubine tree. I picture beautiful women dangling from its branches. Con-cu-bine. Bathsheba wasn’t a concubine because David honored her by taking her as his wife, but the Talmud says she was the only woman David chose who wasn’t a virgin. I think of the beautiful woman on the olive oil bottle, the extra-virgin. The rabbis say that God only intended virgins for David and that his holiness would have been defiled had he stayed with Bathsheba, who had already been married. King David is the yardstick, they say, against whom we are all measured in heaven. Really, how bad can my small stash of English books be, next to concubines? I am not aware at this moment that I have lost my innocence. I will realize it many years later. One day I will look back and understand that just as there was a moment in my life when I realized where my power lay, there was also a specific moment when I stopped believing in authority just for its own sake and started coming to my own conclusions about the world I lived in.