Front Row Seats Quotes

When you're born into this world, you're given a ticket to the freak show. If you're born in America you get a front row seat.

I had now officially secured my front row seat on the train to Hell. Choo choo

Give me all your competition dates in advance. It’ll be the Hunger Games on ice. I’ll buy everyone in the family front row seats,

But anyway, I look around sometimes and I think - this will maybe sound weird - it's like the corporate world's full of ghosts. And actually, let me revise that, my parents are in academia so I've had front row seats for that horror show, I know academia's no different, so maybe a fairer way of putting this would be to say that adulthood's full of ghosts." "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I quite --" "I'm talking about these people who've ended up in one life instead of another and they are just so disappointed. Do you know what I mean? They've done what's expected of them. They want to do something different but it's impossible now, there's a mortgage, kids, whatever, they're trapped. Dan's like that." "You don't think he likes his job, then." "Correct," she said, "but I don't think he even realises it. You probably encounter people like him all the time. High-functioning sleepwalkers, essentially.

Please! Please! Tell me someone has recorded your practices together. Ooh! Tell me you’re doing a live video of them. I would watch every minute. Give me all your competition dates in advance. It’ll be the Hunger Games on ice. I’ll buy everyone in the family front row seats,” she cried out, her voice full of laughter.

Information coming directly from a politician or his team, without being vetted by reporters, is little more than propaganda.

The point isn’t whether or not Trump is specifically interested in hurting me or any other journalist. It’s that his comments put us in danger.

Cammie had diarrhea of the mouth. It was going to be all over the school and fast. I had now officially secured my front row seat on the train to Hell. Choo Choo!

I love narcissists-even more than they love themselves. You don't have to buoy them up. They are their own razzle-dazzle show and you are the blessed, favored with a front-row seat.

Just head over to the risers, Lady America," she said. "You may sit anywhere you like. So you know, most of the girls have already claimed the front row." She looked sorry for me, as if she were delivering bad news. "Oh, thank you," I said, and went happily to take a seat in the back.

It’s hard knowing everyone had a front-row seat to the lowest moment of my life.

In his heart he knows first isn’t touching a door knob, or getting to sit in the front row seat by the window, or making it up to the road before everybody else. First is something deep down inside you that you know and feel and nobody can take away from you

It might seem to you that living in the woods on a riverbank would remove you from the modern world. But not if the river is navigable, as ours is. On pretty weekends in the summer, this riverbank is the very verge of the modern world. It is a seat in the front row, you might say. On those weekends, the river is disquieted from morning to night by people resting from their work. This resting involves traveling at great speed, first on the road and then on the river. The people are in an emergency to relax. They long for the peace and quiet of the great outdoors. Their eyes are hungry for the scenes of nature. They go very fast in their boats. They stir the river like a spoon in a cup of coffee. They play their radios loud enough to hear above the noise of their motors. They look neither left nor right. They don't slow down for - or maybe even see - an old man in a rowboat raising his lines... I watch and I wonder and I think. I think of the old slavery, and of the way The Economy has now improved upon it. The new slavery has improved upon the old by giving the new slaves the illusion that they are free. The Economy does not take people's freedom by force, which would be against its principles, for it is very humane. It buys their freedom, pays for it, and then persuades its money back again with shoddy goods and the promise of freedom.

Since I was already talking nice and loud, several people turned, their expressions brightening with anticipation. Tori was about to humiliate someone again and they had front-row seats.

Some politicians have a gift for language. Trump is not one of those politicians. His sentences call to mind an aerial shot of a burning, derailed freight train. The syntax is mangled. The grammar is gone. “Donald Trump isn’t a simpleton, he just talks like one,” reads a Politico article from last August.

What are you doing?” Blake asked. “Getting rid of it,” I said, feeling unusually antsy. “That's perfectly good J!” Blake protested. “Sorry.” I dumped the last of it. “Front-row seats at the suicide show,” Ginger said. “Lovely.

...posterity was a vaudeville joke audible only to those with front-row seats...

But to the lady who curled my hair in the bathroom, who is now somewhere in a crowd that is laughing at the idea of Trump killing me: Thanks, my hair looks great.

I don’t want to tame her; I just want a front-row seat to watch her win the race.

When you’re born you get a ticket to the freak show. When you’re born in America you get a front row seat.’ George Carlin

Like a tornado swirling around you, you are the eye of the storm. A front row seat to the destruction of everything you worked so hard to build. But like all tornadoes, the rain will halt and the winds will calm. The pieces that remain from the cataclysmic destruction of your former self, will soon dissolve and you will find that the only thing that was destroyed was the illusion, the attachment. Allowing for you to rebuild a new, a stronger, a more mature, and spiritually evolved you, that you didn’t even know existed. So have faith, this too shall pass.

A part of them must be relieved they no longer have front-row seats watching as the world breaks you. It’s hard to die. Harder to watch someone else do it, and make no mistake, that’s what you two were doing before now. Dying in plain sight, inch by inch, dream by dream, drip by drip. You’ve given them the gift of letting them look away, and I’m just warning you they might not like you returning that gift for store credit.

Swanstein seriously had tears coming down his face! I watched in amazement. Seeing girls cry makes me very uncomfortable, but a fellow male in tears, in public, was pure fascination. I wanted to get a front-row seat and put on some 3-D glasses for the show.

I could keep her secrets. She could be soft with me. She could let loose with me, and I’d still stand back and let her be the fiercely independent woman she is. I don’t want to tame her; I just want a front-row seat to watch her win the race.

In the cosmic landscape, plants have front-row seats. God is thrilled to have an audience of creation made up mostly of plant life: trees and bushes, flowers and berries, sitting down to enjoy the show, and saying at intermission, What a romp!

Trump is crude, and in his halo of crudeness other people get to be crude as well.

I’m going to grab a front-row seat when you finally realize you are not the soulless bastard you think you are.

Chalkers sat at his desk in the back of the room—last seat, last row. No one sat at the desk next to him or at the one in front of him. He was

God is at work telling a story of restoration and redemption through your family. Never buy into the myth that you need to become the " right" kind of parent before God can use you in your children's lives. Instead learn to cooperate with whatever God desires to do in your heart today so your children will have a front-row seat to the grace and goodness of God.

In front of us, Annabelle and Aspen argue over whether black-and-white movies are amazing or archaic. Blue walks a few feet behind like he’s waiting for the pair to transition from verbal zingers to hair pulling. He wants a front-row seat for that show, and I don’t blame him.

America, is there lipstick on my teeth?" Zoe asked. I turned to my left and found her smiling maniacally, exposing all her pearly whites. "No, you're good," I answered, seeing out of the corner of my eye that Marlee was nodding in confirmation. "Thanks. How is he so calm?" Zoe asked, pointing over at Maxon, who was talking to a member of the crew. She then bent down and put her head between her legs and started doing controlled breathing. Marlee and I looked at each other, eyes wide with amusement, and tried not to laugh. It was hard if we looked at Zoe, so we surveyed the room and chatted about what others were wearing. There were several girls in seductive reds and lively greens, but no one else in blue. Olivia had gone so far as to wear orange. I'd admit that I didn't know that much about fashion, but Marlee and I both agreed that someone should have intervened on her behalf. The color made her skin look kind of green. Two minutes before the cameras turned on, we realized it wasn't the dress making her look green. Olivia vomited into the closest trash can very loudly and collapsed on the floor. Silvia swooped in, and a fuss was made to wipe the sweat off her and get her into a seat. She was placed in the back row with a small receptacle at her feet, just in case. Bariel was in the seat in front of her. I couldn't hear what she muttered to the poor girl from where I was, but it looked like Bariel was prepared to injure Olivia should she have another episode near her. I guessed that Maxon had seen or heard some of the commotion, and I looked over to see if he was having any sort of reaction to it all. But he wasn't looking toward the disturbance; he was looking at me. Quickly-so quickly it would look like nothing but scratching an itch to anyone else-Maxon reached up and tugged on his ear. I repeated the action back, and we both turned away. I was excited to know that tonight, after dinner, Maxon would be stopping by my room.

The rest of her friends were in their reserved seats in the front row. Thorne, on the aisle, held out his hand as Cinder passed. She snorted and accepted the high five before floating up the stairs. Winter

That’s why we forget some of the craziest or most painful parts of our lives. We have to forget them, because it would be impossible to deal with the present if the past were such a second-by-second burden.

She wished that she had been content with one of the seats at the back. But Jane Hubbard had insisted on the front row. She always had a front-row seat at witch dances in Africa, and the thing had become a habit.

As she limped down the stairs, she considered all the drugs in her backpack. Tramadol, methadone, ketamine, buprenorphine. Mix them all into a pint of tequila and she could get a front-row seat to Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse talking about what a douche Jim Morrison could be.

Yet to actually have the front row seat to see it in real time, with clapping seals surrounding us on every side—as their rights, and their freedoms, and their virtue are obviously eroding with no end in sight—is simply stunning to behold. Like a tale of old, which is now our new normal.

I'm filled with that buzz that finishing a good book gives you. You know the one. When all you want to do is savor the words that just changed your life, even if for just a moment. When you're still high from experiencing every up and down the characters went through. Feeling as though you were right there with them, seated front row, hands in the air as you take that first plunge down to the final dip of the roller coaster they call life.

We serve the one true God, and stepping out to do Kingdom things is like having a front row seat. It’s not that we have to be amazing; it’s that He is amazing. That’s the power of our testimony—that God would use broken, hurt, wounded, messed-up people like us. That’s part of the Gospel message.

Look, I get it. You can’t tell a joke without worrying you’ll lose your job. Your twenty-something can’t find work. Your town is boarded up. Patriotism gets called racism. Your food is full of chemicals. Your body is full of pills. You call tech support and reach someone in India. Bills are spiking but your paycheck is not. And you can’t send your kid to school with peanut butter. On top of it all, no one seems to care. You feel like you’re screaming at the top of your lungs in a room full of people wearing earplugs. I get it.

On December 5, at 11:45 A.M., Hope Hicks wrote: “Katy, Mr. Trump thought your tweets from last night were disgraceful. Not nice! Best, Hope.

Jimmy Breslin say, “Beware always of the loudmouth taking advantage of the situation and appealing to a crowd’s meanest nature.

Mr. Keith, by means of some mysterious formula, soon procured two seats in the front row, the occupants of which smilingly took their places among the crowd at the back.

So, reader, you now have the chance to enter Paris during these years for a front-row seat to all the action and drama.

Well, apparently, I can kick his ass," I told him. "Wow!" Cade said. "That pretty much means you can kick all our asses. I want front-row seats to see you in action against Kyle.

One thing I learned early on in the news business is that a good story requires a reporter and photographer working together. Teamwork.

I pull out my phone to write a reporting note to myself, typing “Katy sucks” into the subject line. Then I accidentally send it to the entire NBC News political e-mail list.

I grew up with a front-row seat to what a happy, healthy marriage looks like. Never perfect, constantly evolving, always united.

When you’re born into this world, you’re given a ticket to the freak show. When you’re born in America, you get a front-row seat.

Religion is not needed to ensure success in life, or as the sole teacher of morality. We should also be moral for its own sake, and not because we will receive a reward of a front-row seat in Heaven if we do.

Every time we think Trump can’t go any further, he goes further. You can almost hear Jimmy Breslin say, “Beware always of the loudmouth taking advantage of the situation and appealing to a crowd’s meanest nature.

Being a woman is a pain in the ass. You have to look “good.” Your hair needs to be neat—not just combed through, but “done.” Blow-dried, ironed, curled, sprayed. Your face needs to be enhanced. Foundation, powder, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, blush, contour. Your clothes have to look sharp, too. And you can never wear the same thing twice—at least not in the same week. A guy can throw on the same suit every single day for a year and no one would notice. I’m not exaggerating. An Australian broadcaster tested it out. His coanchor, a woman, kept getting letters, e-mails, and tweets from viewers criticizing what she was wearing. He was appalled. He never got notes. So he wore the same blue suit day in and day out. Three hundred sixty-five days. Surely someone would complain. No one did. “No one has noticed,” he said at the time. “No one gives a shit.

His day is done. Is done. The news came on the wings of a wind, reluctant to carry its burden. Nelson Mandela’s day is done. The news, expected and still unwelcome, reached us in the United States, and suddenly our world became somber. Our skies were leadened. His day is done. We see you, South African people standing speechless at the slamming of that final door through which no traveller returns. Our spirits reach out to you Bantu, Zulu, Xhosa, Boer. We think of you and your son of Africa, your father, your one more wonder of the world. We send our souls to you as you reflect upon your David armed with a mere stone, facing down the mighty Goliath. Your man of strength, Gideon, emerging triumphant. Although born into the brutal embrace of Apartheid, scarred by the savage atmosphere of racism, unjustly imprisoned in the bloody maws of South African dungeons. Would the man survive? Could the man survive? His answer strengthened men and women around the world. In the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in Chicago’s Loop, in New Orleans Mardi Gras, in New York City’s Times Square, we watched as the hope of Africa sprang through the prison’s doors. His stupendous heart intact, his gargantuan will hale and hearty. He had not been crippled by brutes, nor was his passion for the rights of human beings diminished by twenty-seven years of imprisonment. Even here in America, we felt the cool, refreshing breeze of freedom. When Nelson Mandela took the seat of Presidency in his country where formerly he was not even allowed to vote we were enlarged by tears of pride, as we saw Nelson Mandela’s former prison guards invited, courteously, by him to watch from the front rows his inauguration. We saw him accept the world’s award in Norway with the grace and gratitude of the Solon in Ancient Roman Courts, and the confidence of African Chiefs from ancient royal stools. No sun outlasts its sunset, but it will rise again and bring the dawn. Yes, Mandela’s day is done, yet we, his inheritors, will open the gates wider for reconciliation, and we will respond generously to the cries of Blacks and Whites, Asians, Hispanics, the poor who live piteously on the floor of our planet. He has offered us understanding. We will not withhold forgiveness even from those who do not ask. Nelson Mandela’s day is done, we confess it in tearful voices, yet we lift our own to say thank you. Thank you our Gideon, thank you our David, our great courageous man. We will not forget you, we will not dishonor you, we will remember and be glad that you lived among us, that you taught us, and that you loved us all.

He is the polar opposite of President Obama. Where Obama’s rhetoric soars, Trump’s rhetoric slithers. While Obama eats arugula, Trump scarfs Burger King. Where Obama is controlled and calculating, Trump is petulant and loud.

I sit in the center row of the SUV, fuming on the way back to the hotel. “Can I offer you a bit of advice, Prince Nicholas?” Tommy asks. I may have been mumbling out loud. “Shut up, Tommy,” Logan says from the driver’s seat... “It’s all right.” I meet Tommy’s light brown eyes in the rearview mirror, where he sits behind me. “Offer away.” He scratches his head. “I think the lass was embarrassed.” “Embarrassed?” “Aye. It’s like my younger sister, Janey. She’s a good-looking girl, but one day she had a zit on her forehead that was so big it made her look like a dickicorn. And she was walking—” James, in the front passenger seat, reads my mind. “What the fuck is a dickicorn?” “It’s an expression,” Tommy explains. James angles around to look at Tommy, his blue eyes crinkled. “An expression for what?” “For…someone with something big coming out o’ their forehead that looks like a cock.” “Wouldn’t it be a unicock, then?” James wonders. “For Christ’s sake,” Logan cuts in. “Would you forget about the fuckin’ unicorn or dickicock or whatever the hell it is—” “It doesn’t make any sense!” James argues. “—and let Tommy finish his story? We’re never gonna hear the end at this rate.” James throws up his hands, grumbling. “Fine. But it still doesn’t make any sense.” For the record, my semantic vote goes to unidick

Seven seconds. Seven measly seconds. that's how long it took Trump to dismiss a lie he told for five years. He did not apologize. He did not take questions. It was as if his years of exploiting a divisive, racist conspiracy theory were secondary to a hotel tour--which, to him, they probably were.

That summer, in the wilderness of crumbling bricks and mortar, white roses had appeared in those derelict suburbs. Gramps said that if man was mad enough to destroy itself, at least the rats and cockroaches would have front-row seats, be able to enjoy the sight of Mother Nature reclaiming the earth. Outside

When she visited me in New York during her sixties and seventies, she always told taxi drivers that she was eighty years old (“so they will tell me how young I look”), and convinced theater ticket sellers that she had difficulty in hearing long before she really did (“so they’ll give us seats in the front row”).

While Cinder walked down the endless black-carpeted aisle, she tried not to think of all the people in the universe who were watching her. She tried not to wonder whether they were judging her or admiring her, afraid of her or impressed by her. She tried not to guess how many saw her as the lost princess or a pathetic cyborg, a vigilante or a criminal, a revolutionary or a mechanic that had gotten lucky. She tried not to think about the smear of yellow frosting on her priceless gown. Kai and Winter stood at the altar encased in the light of glowing orbs, Winter holding the queen's crown and Kai a ceremonial scepter. Together, they represented how both Earth and Luna would accept her right to rule. The rest of her friends were in their reserved seats in the front row. Thorne, on the aisle, held out his hand as Cinder passed. She snorted and accepted the high five before floating up the stairs. Winter winked at her. "Well done, Cinder-friend. You didn't trip. The hard part is over." Kai gave a smile meant for only Cinder, even though the entire universe was watching. "She's right, that really is the hard part." "Thank the stars," Cinder whispered back. "Now let's get this over with." Taking a long shaky breath, she turned to face her kingdom.

Putin’s invasion of Ukraine isn’t a staring contest. It’s a land grab, the first of this scale since World War II. But when asked about it, instead of walking up to the plate and swinging at the softball (crack! more sanctions!), Drumpf put down his bat, walked down the third-base line, and kissed the opposing team’s head coach.

It’s pretty easy to smile at a kid who does exactly what he’s asked to do, when he’s asked to do it, who makes you feel like you’re succeeding every day.” The boys in the front row squirmed in their seats. “If you ask me, teachers are supposed to smile at all the kids, but especially at the kids who are sometimes harder to smile at.

We slipped out of our seats and said Excuse me Excuse me Excuse me down the length of our row, while the people grumbled and hissed and shifted their rain boots and umbrellas to let us pass, and I stepped on as many feet as I could because it took my mind off this enormous desire to puke that was ballooning up in front of me so fast I couldn’t see round it.

We walked into the House chamber and took two seats in the front row on the Republican side. As we sat down, my dad looked over his shoulder at row after row after row of empty seats. We were the only Republicans there. Shaking his head, he said to me, “It’s one thing to hear about what’s happening in our party, but to see it, like this, in such stark terms…” His voice trailed off. It was a profoundly sad moment.

He says, That’s great. My grace covers your guilt. My grace changes your shame. I want you to become a leader in My church. I want you to feed My sheep. I want you to be a part of My mission. I want you to love God and love other people in My name. You do not have to sit in the back row for the rest of your life. You do not have to live in the shadows. You don’t have to build protective walls around yourself. You don’t have to hide from the people who love you and care for you. They’ll help love you and restore your integrity, and your call is to help take My name to the world, and I want you in the front row on that mission. You are My chosen instrument to carry forth the plans and purposes of God. You are not going to live defined by shame or guilt. You are going to live defined by Me. Since you love Me, let’s not go backward. Let’s go forward, together.

The sun was a juicy pink as it sank toward the water. Rex played "As Time Goes By." The foie gras was good enough to shift Adrienne's mood from despondent to merely poor. It was deliciously fatty, a heavenly richness balanced by the sweet roasted figs. Who wanted to be married and have children when she could be eating foie gras like this with a front-row seat for the sunset? Adrienne forgot her manners. She devoured her appetizer in five lusty bites, and then she helped herself to more caviar. She was starving.

My husband and I have been a part of the same small group for the past five years.... Like many small groups, we regularly share a meal together, love one another practically, and serve together to meet needs outside our small group. We worship, study God’s Word, and pray. It has been a rich time to grow in our understanding of God, what Jesus has accomplished for us, God’s purposes for us as a part of his kingdom, his power and desire to change us, and many other precious truths. We have grown in our love for God and others, and have been challenged to repent of our sin and trust God in every area of our lives. It was a new and refreshing experience for us to be in a group where people were willing to share their struggles with temptation and sin and ask for prayer....We have been welcomed by others, challenged to become more vulnerable, held up in prayer, encouraged in specific ongoing struggles, and have developed sweet friendships. I have seen one woman who had one foot in the world and one foot in the church openly share her struggles with us. We prayed that God would show her the way of escape from temptation many times and have seen God’s work in delivering her. Her openness has given us a front row seat to see the power of God intersect with her weakness. Her continued vulnerability and growth in godliness encourage us to be humble with one another, and to believe that God is able to change us too. Because years have now passed in close community, God’s work can be seen more clearly than on a week-by-week basis. One man who had some deep struggles and a lot of anger has grown through repenting of sin and being vulnerable one on one and in the group. He has been willing to hear the encouragement and challenges of others, and to stay in community throughout his struggle.... He has become an example in serving others, a better listener, and more gentle with his wife. As a group, we have confronted anxiety, interpersonal strife, the need to forgive, lust, family troubles, unbelief, the fear of man, hypocrisy, unemployment, sickness, lack of love, idolatry, and marital strife. We have been helped, held accountable, and lifted up by one another. We have also grieved together, celebrated together, laughed together, offended one another, reconciled with one another, put up with one another,...and sought to love God and one another. As a group we were saddened in the spring when a man who had recently joined us felt that we let him down by not being sensitive to his loneliness. He chose to leave. I say this because, with all the benefits of being in a small group, it is still just a group of sinners. It is Jesus who makes it worth getting together. Apart from our relationship with him...,we have nothing to offer. But because our focus is on Jesus, the group has the potential to make a significant and life-changing difference in all our lives. ...When 7 o’clock on Monday night comes around, I eagerly look forward to the sound of my brothers and sisters coming in our front door. I never know how the evening will go, what burdens people will be carrying, how I will be challenged, or what laughter or tears we will share. But I always know that the great Shepherd will meet us and that our lives will be richer and fuller because we have been together. ...I hope that by hearing my story you will be encouraged to make a commitment to become a part of a small group and experience the blessing of Christian community within the smaller, more intimate setting that it makes possible. 6

On the porch, the sarge is having a heated debate with her second-in-command. The topic's no mystery; you can hear them clearly through the open door. They've completed the mission, the 2IC argues, time to off these bastards and return to base. "Capture and contain," the sarge shoots back. "My orders don't say nothing about offing anybody." She's wavering, though; you can hear it in her voice. her 2IC comes back with my point about the bomb-shitting beast in high orbit: Whatever she decides about the Dorothys, they have to return to base before dawn or enjoy a front-row seat to Armageddon.

Nothing short of Trump shooting my daughter in the street and my grandchildren” can dissuade me from voting for Trump, a woman told Ashley Parker of the New York Times. So imagine how you would feel if every time you turned on NBC, you saw my reporting on this figure you love—this figure you think will lift you up, save your job, make your country great again. Imagine how you’d feel if every night and all day this little blond-haired girl was shining a critical light on your beloved figure. Who is she to question his plans? Double-check his statements? Follow up on his promises? You would hate me. And people do.

Being a woman is a pain in the ass. You have to look “good.” Your hair needs to be neat—not just combed through, but “done.” Blow-dried, ironed, curled, sprayed. Your face needs to be enhanced. Foundation, powder, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, blush, contour. Your clothes have to look sharp, too. And you can never wear the same thing twice—at least not in the same week. A guy can throw on the same suit every single day for a year and no one would notice. I’m not exaggerating. An Australian broadcaster tested it out. His coanchor, a woman, kept getting letters, e-mails, and tweets from viewers criticizing what she was wearing. He was appalled. He never got notes. So he wore the same blue suit day in and day out. Three hundred sixty-five days. Surely someone would complain. No one did.

A dingy emblem on the door depicted a little boy peeing into a pot. The rest of the bar was equally drab and tasteless. Dim bulbs behind red-tasseled lamp shades barely illuminated each of a dozen maroon vinyl booths, which marched along one wall toward the murky front windows. Chipped Formica tables anchored the booths in place. Opposite the row of booths was a long, scarred wooden bar with uncomfortable-looking stools. Behind the bar, sitting on glass shelves in front of a cloudy mirror, were endless rows of bottles, each looking as forlorn as the folks for whom they waited. He caught the strong odors of liquor and tobacco smoke, and the weaker scents of cleaning chemicals and vomit. In one of the booths , two heads bobbed with the movement of mug-clenching fists. A scrawny bartender with droopy eyelids picked his teeth with a swizzle stick and chatted quietly with a woman seated at the bar. Otherwise the bar was empty.

What do you want from me?' 'Want? I want you to say thank you, first of all. Then I want you to take off that hideous dress. You look...' His mouth cut into a cruel line. 'You look exactly like the doe-eyed damsel he and that simpering priestess want you to be.' 'You don't know anything about me. Or us.' Rhys gave a knowing smile. 'Does Tamlin? Does he ever ask you why you hurl your guts up every night, or why you can't go into certain rooms or see certain colours?' I froze. He might as well have stripped me naked. 'Get the hell out of my head.' Tamlin had horrors of his own to endure, to face down. 'Likewise.' He stalked a few steps away. 'You think I enjoy being awoken every night by visions of you puking? You send everything right down that bond, and I don't appreciate having a front-row seat when I'm trying to sleep.' 'Prick.' Another chuckle. But I wouldn't ask him what he meant- about the bond between us. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of looking curious.

History is storytelling,’” Yaw repeated. He walked down the aisles between the rows of seats, making sure to look each boy in the eye. Once he finished walking and stood in the back of the room, where the boys would have to crane their necks in order to see him, he asked, “Who would like to tell the story of how I got my scar?” The students began to squirm, their limbs growing limp and wobbly. They looked at each other, coughed, looked away. “Don’t be shy,” Yaw said, smiling now, nodding encouragingly. “Peter?” he asked. The boy who only seconds before had been so happy to speak began to plead with his eyes. The first day with a new class was always Yaw’s favorite. “Mr. Agyekum, sah?” Peter said. “What story have you heard? About my scar?” Yaw asked, smiling still, hoping, now to ease some of the child’s growing fear. Peter cleared his throat and looked at the ground. “They say you were born of fire,” he started. “That this is why you are so smart. Because you were lit by fire.” “Anyone else?” Timidly, a boy named Edem raised his hand. “They say your mother was fighting evil spirits from Asamando.” Then William: “I heard your father was so sad by the Asante loss that he cursed the gods, and the gods took vengeance.” Another, named Thomas: “I heard you did it to yourself, so that you would have something to talk about on the first day of class.” All the boys laughed, and Yaw had to stifle his own amusement. Word of his lesson had gotten around, he knew. The older boys told some of the younger ones what to expect from him. Still, he continued, making his way back to the front of the room to look at his students, the bright boys from the uncertain Gold Coast, learning the white book from a scarred man. “Whose story is correct?” Yaw asked them. They looked around at the boys who had spoken, as though trying to establish their allegiance by holding a gaze, casting a vote by sending a glance. Finally, once the murmuring subsided, Peter raised his hand. “Mr. Agyekum, we cannot know which story is correct.” He looked at the rest of the class, slowly understanding. “We cannot know which story is correct because we were not there.” Yaw nodded. He sat in his chair at the front of the room and looked at all the young men. “This is the problem of history. We cannot know that which we were not there to see and hear and experience for ourselves. We must rely upon the words of others. Those who were there in the olden days, they told stories to the children so that the children would know, so that the children could tell stories to their children. And so on, and so on. But now we come upon the problem of conflicting stories. Kojo Nyarko says that when the warriors came to his village their coats were red, but Kwame Adu says that they were blue. Whose story do we believe, then?” The boys were silent. They stared at him, waiting. “We believe the one who has the power. He is the one who gets to write the story. So when you study history, you must always ask yourself, Whose story am I missing? Whose voice was suppressed so that this voice could come forth? Once you have figured that out, you must find that story too. From there, you begin to get a clearer, yet still imperfect, picture.

Sorry,’ said Harry nervously. ‘I – I didn’t know the time had been changed.’ ‘That is not the Wizengamot’s fault,’ said the voice. ‘An owl was sent to you this morning. Take your seat.’ Harry dropped his gaze to the chair in the centre of the room, the arms of which were covered in chains. He had seen those chains spring to life and bind whoever sat between them. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked across the stone floor. When he sat gingerly on the edge of the chair the chains clinked threateningly, but did not bind him. Feeling rather sick, he looked up at the people seated at the bench above. There were about fifty of them, all, as far as he could see, wearing plum-coloured robes with an elaborately worked silver ‘W’ on the left-hand side of the chest and all staring down their noses at him, some with very austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity. In the very middle of the front row sat Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. Fudge was a portly man who often sported a lime-green bowler hat, though today he had dispensed with it; he had dispensed, too, with

you have to understand something about presidential elections in general. The politicians devise strategies and court donors years in advance. At the same time, newspapers and networks carefully decide which reporter they’ll match with which candidate. Trump wasn’t part of anyone’s plan. For that matter, neither was I. Five days into my New York trip, while I was running an errand, I got a call from a friend at work. “Hey, Katy. Heads up,” the friend said. “Deborah Turness [my boss] is going to assign you to Trump full-time. [David, another boss] Verdi is going to call. If you don’t want to do this, you better figure out what you’re going to say to get out of it. Don’t let on that I told you, but get ready.” Anxiety. Indecision. Italy. My vacation with Benoît is in just over a week. On the other hand, as good as life can be in Europe, there’s also a lot of professional boredom. It would be nice to get some TV time. And New York is unbeatable in the summer. I hung up and paced the sidewalk. Then I called a friend from CBS. “They want me to cover Trump full-time,” I told him. My friend had covered Romney in 2012. “What do I do?

Poor Superman is about a married man who, much to his own surprise, enters into a passionate love affair—with another man. The experimental theatre which hosted the play here is a small place, and we happened to wind up sitting in the front row. Practically on the stage. The actors were often within a few feet of us. So, during the big love scene, when the two male leads start passionately stroking and kissing each other’s stark naked bodies... and doing this so close to me that I could have touched them both with only a little effort... I sat there in mute panic, thinking, “Please don’t either of you fellows get an erection. Just don’t. Should I look away? Should I close my eyes? Should I just keep watching as if I’m not obsessing about your genitals? Aren’t you done kissing and touching yet? Because if this goes on any longer, one of you could have an involuntary reaction, if you get my drift! And I am a total stranger sitting within four damn feet of you, in case you hadn’t NOTICED!” Though my seat wasn’t as dark as usual, the writing lesson was very memorable: Don’t ever pull your reader out of the frame. Bad research. Anachronistic writing. Self-serving polemics and lectures barely disguised as narrative. Incongruity and lack of continuity. Weak characterization, leaden pacing, lack of motivation, stiff dialogue, lazy plotting... There are a thousand ways for novelist to wind up naked onstage while an appalled audience obsesses about her exposed genitals at a critical moment.

At a Male Allies Plenary Panel, a group of women engineers circulated hundreds of handmade bingo boards among attendees. Inside each square was a different indictment: Mentions his mother. Says “That would never happen in my company.” Wearables. Asserts another male executive’s heart is in the right place. Says feminist activism scares women away from tech. At the center of the board was a square that just said Pipeline. I had heard the pipeline argument, that there simply weren’t enough women and underrepresented minorities in STEM fields to fill open roles. Having been privy to the hiring process, I found it incredibly suspect. What’s the wearable thing, I asked an engineer sitting in my row. “Oh, you know,” she said, waving dismissively toward the stage, with its rainbow-lit scrim. “Smart bras. Tech jewelry. They’re the only kind of hardware these guys can imagine women caring about.” What would a smart bra even do? I wondered, touching the band of my dumb underwire. The male allies, all trim, white executives, took their seats and began offering wisdom on how to manage workplace discrimination. “The best thing you can do is excel,” said a VP at the search-engine giant whose well-publicized hobby was stratosphere jumping. “Just push through whatever boundaries you see in front of you, and be great.” Don’t get discouraged, another implored—just keep working hard. Throughout the theater, pencils scratched. “Speak up, and be confident,” said a third. “Speak up, and be heard.” Engineers tended to complexify things, the stratosphere jumper said—like pipelines. A woman in the audience slapped her pencil down. “Bingo!” she called out.

Cara sits behind me, and Peter and Caleb move toward the back of the plane and sit near each other, next to the window. I didn’t know they were friends. It seems fitting, given how despicable they both are. “How old is this thing?” I ask Zoe, who stands near the front. “Pretty old,” she says. “But we’ve completely redone the important stuff. It’s a nice size for what we need.” “What do you use it for?” “Surveillance missions, mostly. We like to keep an eye on what’s happening in the fringe, in case it threatens what’s happening in here.” Zoe pauses. “The fringe is a large, sort of chaotic place between Chicago and the nearest government-regulated metropolitan area, Milwaukee, which is about a three-hour drive from here.” I would like to ask what exactly is happening in the fringe, but Uriah and Christina sit in the seats next to me, and the moment is lost. Uriah puts an armrest down between us and leans over me to look out the window. “If the Dauntless knew about this, everyone would be getting in line to learn how to drive it,” he says. “Including me.” “No, they would be strapping themselves to the wings.” Christina pokes his arm. “Don’t you know your own faction?” Uriah pokes her cheek in response, then turns back to the window again. “Have either of you seen Tobias lately?” I say. “No, haven’t seen him,” Christina says. “Everything okay?” Before I can answer, an older woman with lines around her mouth stands in the aisle between the rows of seats and claps her hands. “My name is Karen, and I’ll be flying this plane today!” she announces. “It may seem frightening, but remember: The odds of us crashing are actually much lower than the odds of a car crash.” “So are the odds of survival if we do crash,” Uriah mutters, but he’s grinning. His dark eyes are alert, and he looks giddy, like a child. I haven’t seen him this way since Marlene died. He’s handsome again.

Shall we stroll in the moonlight?” “Brother”—Dev grinned—“I have heard rumors about you.” “No doubt,” Val said easily as they moved off. “They are nothing compared to what one hears about you.” “And that gossip is usually true,” Dev said with no modesty whatsoever as they neared the mews. “Now why are we out here stumbling around in the night?” Val turned and regarded his brother in the moonlight. “So I can remind you not to make disparaging remarks about Mrs. Seaton or her situation with Westhaven where anybody could overhear you. You know what the duke tried to do with the last mistress?” “I’d heard about Elise. Then you are aware of a situation between Westhaven and Mrs. Seaton?” “He’s considering marrying her,” Val said. “Or I think he is. They’re certainly interested in each other.” “They’re a bit more than interested,” Dev said, rubbing his chin. “They were all but working on the succession when I came upon them in the library last night.” “Ye gods. I came upon them in her sitting room this afternoon, door open, all hands in view, but the way they look at each other… puts one in mind of besotted sheep.” “His Grace will be in alt,” Dev said on a sigh. “His Grace,” Val retorted, “had best not get wind of it, unless you want Westhaven to immediately lose all interest.” “Gayle wouldn’t be that stupid, but he would be that stubborn.” Dev tossed a companionable arm around Val’s shoulders. “This will be entertaining as hell, don’t you think? I’m not sure Westhaven’s wooing is entirely well received, and he has to go about it in stealth, winning the lady without alerting the duke. And we have front-row seats.” “Lucky us,” Val rejoined. “Doesn’t working on the succession comport with welcoming a man’s suit?” Dev’s grin became devilish. “That, my boy, is a common misunderstanding among the besotted male sheep of this world. And the female sheep? They like us befuddled, you know…

Good luck. For most of my generation, it would just go to student debt and cocktails. If anything came to me (an impossibility), I would dump it into a poorly managed career in edgy luxury items. You can’t make opera money on perfume that smells like cunts and gasoline. At any rate, I didn’t usually make an appearance beyond the gala. Or, I hadn’t until recently. But Joseph Eisner had promised me a fortune, and now he wouldn’t take my calls. He did, however, like his chamber music. It had been an acquired taste for me. In my distant undergraduate past, when circumstance sat me in front of an ensemble, I spent the first five minutes of each concert deciding which musician I would fuck if I had the chance, and the rest shifting minutely in my seat. I still couldn’t stand Chanel. And while I had learned to appreciate—indeed, enjoy—chamber ensembles, orchestras, and on occasion even the opera, I retained my former habit as a dirty amusement to add some private savor to the proceedings. Tonight, it was the violist, weaving and bobbing his way through Dvořák’s Terzetto in C Major like a sinuous dancer. I prefer the romantics—fewer hair-raising harmonies than modern fare, and certainly more engaging than funereal baroque. The intriguing arrangement of the terzetto kept me engaged, in that slightly detached and floating manner engendered by instrumental performance. Moreover, the woman to my left, one row ahead, was wearing Salome by Papillon. The simple fact of anyone wearing such a scent in public pleased me. So few people dared wear anything at all these days, and when they did, it was inevitably staid: an inoffensive classic or antiseptic citrus-and-powder. But this perfume was one I might have worn myself. Jasmine, yes, but more indolic than your average floral. People sometimes say it smells like dirty panties. As the trio wrapped up for intermission, I took a steadying breath of musk and straightened my lapels. The music was only a means to an end, after all.

There were years when I went to the movies almost every day, sometimes even twice a day, and they were the years between 1936 and the war, around the time of my adolescence. Those were years in which cinema was my world. It’s been said many times before that cinema is a form of escape, it’s a stock phrase intended to be a condemnation, and cinema certainly served that purpose for me back then. It satisfied a need for disorientation, for shifting my attention to another place, and I believe it’s a need that corresponds to a primary function of integration in the world, an essential phase in any kind of development. Of course there are other more substantial and personal ways of creating a different space for yourself: cinema was the easiest method and it was within reach, but it was also the one that instantly carried me farthest away. I went to the cinema in the afternoon, secretly fleeing from home, or using study with a classmate as an excuse, because my parents left me very little freedom during the months when school was in session. The urge to hide inside the cinema as soon as it opened at two in the afternoon was the proof of true passion. Attending the first screening had a number of advantages: the half-empty theater, it was like I had it all to myself, would allow me to stretch out in the middle of the third row with my legs on the back of the seat in front of me; the hope of returning home without anyone finding out about my escape, in order to receive permission to go out once again later on (and maybe see another film); a light daze for the rest of the afternoon, detrimental to studying but advantageous for daydreaming. And in addition to these explanations that were unmentionable for various reasons, there was another more serious one: entering right when it opened guaranteed the rare privilege of seeing the movie from the beginning and not from a random moment toward the middle or the end, because that was what usually happened when I got to the cinema later in the afternoon or toward the evening.

In chem, Peter sits a row in front of me. I write him a note. Why would you tell Josh that we’re-- I hesitate and then finish with a thing? I kick the back of his chair, and he turns around and I hand him the note. He slouches in his seat to read it; then I watch as he scribbles something. He tips back in his chair and drops the note on my desk without looking at me. A thing? Haha. I press down so hard my pencil tip chips off. Please answer the question. We’ll talk later. I let out a frustrated sigh and Matt, my lab partner, gives me a funny look. After class Peter is swept away with all his friends; they leave in a big group. I’m packing up my backpack when he returns, alone. He hops up on the table. “So let’s talk,” he says, super casual. I clear my throat and try to gather my bearings. “Why did you tell Josh we were--” I almost say “a thing” again, but then change it to “together?” “I don’t get what you’re so upset about. I did you a favor. I could have just as easily blown up your spot.” I pause. He’s right. He could have. “So why didn’t you?” “You’ve sure got a funny way of saying thank you. You’re welcome, by the way.” Automatically I say, “Thank you.” Wait. Why am I thanking him? “I appreciate you letting me kiss you, but--” “You’re welcome,” he says again. Ugh! He’s so insufferable. Just for that I’m going to toss a little dig his way. “That was…really generous of you. To let me do that. But I’ve already explained to Josh that it’s not going to work out with us because Genevieve has you whipped, so it’s all good. You can stop pretending now.” Peter glares at me. “I’m not whipped.” “But aren’t you, though? I mean, you guys have been together since the seventh grade. You’re basically her property.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter scoffs. “There was a rumor last year that she made you get a tattoo of her initials on your butt for her birthday.” I pause. “So did you?” I reach around him and fake try to lift up the back of his shirt. He yelps and jumps away from me, and I collapse in a fit of giggles. “So you do have a tattoo!” “I don’t have a tattoo!” he yells. “And we’re not even together anymore, so can you stop with this shit? We broke up. We’re over. I’m done with her.” “Wait, didn’t she break up with you?” I ask. Peter shoots me a dirty look. “It was mutual.

It was awful. It was three in the morning. And I finally said, “Chip, I’m not sleeping in this house.” We were broke. We couldn’t go to a hotel. There was no way we were gonna go knock on one of our parents’ doors at that time of night. That’s when I got an idea. We happened to have Chip’s parents’ old RV parked in a vacant lot a few blocks down. We had some of our things in there and had been using it basically as a storage unit until we moved in. “Let’s get in the RV. We’ll go find somewhere to plug it in, and we’ll have AC,” I said. As we stepped outside, the skies opened up. It started pouring rain. When we finally got into the RV, soaking wet, we pulled down the road a ways and Chip said, “I know where we can go.” It was raining so hard we could barely see through the windshield, and all of a sudden Chip turned the RV into a cemetery. “Why are you pulling in to a cemetery?” I asked him. “We’re not going to the cemetery,” Chip said. “It’s just next to a cemetery. There’s an RV park back here.” “Are you kidding me? Could this get any worse?” “Oh, quit it. You’re going to love it once I get this AC fired up.” Chip decided to go flying through the median between the two rows of RV parking, not realizing it was set up like a culvert for drainage and rain runoff. That RV bounced so hard that, had it not been for our seat belts, we would’ve both been catapulted through the roof of that vehicle. “What was that?!” “I don’t know,” Chip said. I tried to put it in reverse, and then forward, and then reverse again, and the thing just wouldn’t move. I hopped out to take a look and couldn’t believe it. There was a movie a few years ago where the main character gets his RV caught on this fulcrum and it’s sitting there teetering with both sets of wheels up in the air. Well, we sort of did the opposite. We went across this valley, and because the RV was so long, the butt end of it got stuck on the little hill behind us, and the front end got stuck on the little hill in front of us, and the wheels were just sort of hanging there in between. I crawled back into the RV soaking wet and gave Jo the bad news. We had no place to go, no place to plug in so we could run the AC; it was pouring rain so we couldn’t really walk anywhere to get help. And at that point I was just done. We wound up toughing it out and spending the first night after our honeymoon in a hot, old RV packed full of our belongings, suspended between two bumps in the road.

When I was chasing storms for the Weather Channel, I tagged along with scientists who would speed toward a spinning tornado...meteorologists will tell you that storms don't scare them. Storms, for all their fabled unpredictability, still follow the laws of physics. The only thing that scares.. is lightning. There is no way to tell when or where it will strike. It is utterly unpredictable. Just.Like.Trump. His controversies hit at all hours, at all times, and rubber soles on your shows won't protect you.

I don't get why protesting a broken political system also means you need to protest the very notion o objective truth.

They're not the best women covering politics, They're the best reporters covering politics.

And sure enough, Trump’s win set off a cluster bomb of cognitive dissonance the likes of which history rarely sees. To untrained observers—voters and pundits alike—the public reaction looked like a combination of anger, disappointment, fear, and shock. But to trained persuaders, it was a front-row seat to a show of cognitive dissonance so pure and so deep that it was, frankly, beautiful.

She pushes me with one finger, sending me flying back onto the couch. “Get up.” “Alright, chick fight. Dex shifts his weight so he has a front row seat. “Any more chips?

It’s actually kind of impressive. Trump launched his campaign with paid actors in t-shirts. Now he has real people in silk ball gowns and men is six thousand dollar tuxedos lightly pushing and shoving to get face time—some having paid a one-hundred-thousand-dollar membership fee for the right to be here. It’s an amazing reversal.

The people in this ballroom are not the subject of trumps speeches either. Their industries aren’t dead. Their jobs didn’t disappear overseas. More likely, these are the people shipping the jobs overseas. These are the people slashing budgets and enhancing their own bottom line while the bottom falls out of everyone else’s lives.

But inside a Trump rally, these people are unchained. They can drop their everyday niceties. They can yell and scream and say the things they'd never say out loud on the outside. "Obama is a Muslim!" "Hillary Clinton is a cunt!" "Immigrants need to get the hell out!" "Fuck you, media!" ....They aren't deplorables. They are patriots.

No one has ever called for a ban on an entire religion before. Even after the horror of September 11, George W. Bush made a point of standing on the rubble of Ground Zero and soon after imploring people not to take this out on their Muslim neighbors. He made it clear that terrorism was a perversion of Islam, that the vast majority of Muslims were peaceful.

Trump is implying something quite different, and stoking fears: Muslims are scary. They’re different from you. You’re right to be scared. There are terrorists in your neighborhood. Your Muslim neighbors are hiding them.

His mouth seems to have two positions. One is a perfect oval, where his words seem less pronounced than ejected. The other is a straight line that cuts his face in two. No teeth, lips stretched. Self-satisfied.

Some politicians have a gift for language. Trump is not one of those politicians. His sentences call to mind an aerial shot of a burning, derailed freight train. The syntax is mangled. The grammar is gone. “Donald Trump isn’t a simpleton, he just talks like one,” reads a Politico article from last August. “If you were to market Donald Trump’s vocabulary as a toy, it would resemble a small box of Lincoln Logs.

Everything he says falls into one of two categories. If it’s good it’s “we.” If it’s bad it’s “they.

Franklin Roosevelt was the first president on television. He appeared live from the World’s Fair in New York in 1939. This wasn’t mass media: just a few flickering moments, on a few experimental television sets. But some of those sets weren’t far from where I am now, inside Rockefeller Center, which hasn’t changed much over the years.

Never use your own money. Steal a good idea and say it’s your own. Do anything to get publicity. Remember that everybody can be bought.

He is the living embodiment of the old maxim that if you say something often enough, people will believe it.

Trump cannot bear looking weak. His whole pitch to the American people is “strength and stamina.” He’s the outsider who is willing to say what the others won’t, to do what the others are afraid of doing, to fight for you. He is a man who cannot be intimidated. This obsession with old-fashioned power is why he’s so enamored of Vladimir Putin, who rides horses bareback and shirtless.

I appreciate what you’re saying,” he says. “Take care of yourself. . . . Be fair to me, Katy. . . . You and I should be friends.

People seem drawn to Trump’s rallies in the same way that they are drawn to a professional wrestling match, and as with a professional wrestling match, they seem divided between people who believe all they see and hear, and those who know it’s partially a performance. The scariest thing about being at a Trump rally is that you don’t know who believes it and who doesn’t.