Garnet Best Quotes

The singer could hardly have been drowned in a hip bath, but Mr. Garnet hoped for the best.

Love is the best language tutor.

Garnet could feel that he himself was not looking his best. He knew in a vague, impersonal way that his eyebrows were still somewhere in the middle of his forehead, whither they had sprung in the first moment of surprise, and that his jaw, which ad dropped, had not yet resumed its normal posture. Before committing himself to speech he made a determined effort to revise his facial expression.

-Wouldn’t everyone like to only do things they enjoy if they could? -Uh, no. Only children, the ultrarich, and total narcissists think doing only what you want is any kind of life. The rest of us have, like, ambitions and empathy and obligations to other living things.

It is the pomegranate that gives 'fesenjoon' its healing capabilities. The original apple of sin, the fruit of a long gone Eden, the pomegranate shields itself in a leathery crimson shell, which in Roman times was used as a form of protective hide. Once the pomegranate's bitter skin is peeled back, though, a juicy garnet flesh is revealed to the lucky eater, popping and bursting in the mouth like the final succumber of lovemaking. Long ago, when the earth remained still, content with the fecundity of perpetual spring, and Demeter was the mother of all that was natural and flowering, it was this tempting fruit that finally set the seasons spinning. Having eaten six pomegranate seeds in the underworld, Persephone, the Goddess of Spring's high-spirited daughter, had been forced to spend six months of the year in the eternal halls of death. Without her beautiful daughter by her side, a mournful Demeter retreated to the dark corners of the universe, allowing for the icy gates of winter to finally creak open. A round crimson herald of frost, the pomegranate comes to harvest in October and November, so 'fesenjoon' is best made with its concentrate during other times of the year.

I worked on a new dish while you were away. A pudding." She ties her apron tight around her waist. "Milk, cream, vanilla, eggs, and sugar." "Oh," I say, slightly unsettled at the jauntiness of her tone, at its certainty. "A custard? Did it curdle?" She ignores my question and tells me that she garnished her pudding with branches of preserved barberries. She asks if I would like to see it. But before I can answer she scuttles to the pantry, returning with a clean pudding cloth over one arm, and my best platter----on which wobbles a custard as large and pale as a harvest moon. Atop are woven branches of barberries that wink like garnets. For a second I am speechless. Her creation---for it is nothing less---is picture-perfect. She offers me an egg spoon and jabs at the platter. "Go on, Miss Eliza. I saved it for you to taste first." I dip the spoon into the custard's wrinkled rind and lift it swiftly, curiously, to my lips. As I do so, I'm aware of a sense of serenity washing through me. My anguish over dedications, the lurking accusatory voice that lives inside my head, all of it slips away. And there is only cream and vanilla. It occurs to me that although this glorious pudding is her creation, Ann is partly my creation, and I am partly her creation. Cooking and tasting have provided their own stage and we are performing on it at this very moment.

Before, when he lived with his parents, even though he’d had his own room, it hadn’t felt like home either. He’d still contorted himself—only those had been psychic contortions. The kind that made you smaller and smaller until you threatened to disappear if you didn’t get out. So he had.

As long as they’re not hurting you or doing something really shady, you just have to accept that people are all different and that whatever shit your roommate does that you think is weird, you probably do things that are totally normal to you that they think are just as weird. [...] trying to get people to change stuff that’s about them is pointless. All you can do is have clear boundaries about stuff that’s actually a problem for you. Other than that, she’s just being herself. [...] So learn from my many, many roommate situations. Annoyance: waste of energy. Trying to change shit that has nothing to do with you: waste of time. You: just as annoying as everyone else.

Charlie hadn’t thought it was possible for love to double, but he felt it, in his gut. And lo and behold, he had space for it. He had all the space in the world for loving Rye.

I met the glance of each of them, from the garnet eyes beaming down at me to the amber ones of my wolf, the crystal blues of my demon, and the emerald stare of the newest king of vampires. They were all mine. And somehow, we’d all become these new versions of ourselves together. Like it was always meant to be this way. Like our love and our little family had brought out the best in each of us.

The mainsail is now to be taken in; and as the method of performing this evolution has long been a subject of hot controversy at sea, I take the opportunity of saying, that Falconer's couplet,— "For he who strives the tempest to disarm Will never first embrail the lee yard-arm," has, in my opinion, done a world of mischief, and split many thousands of sails. I, at least, plead guilty to having been sadly misled by this authority for many years, since it was only in the last ship I commanded that I learned the true way to take in the mainsail when it blows hard. The best practice certainly is, to man both buntlines and the lee leechline well, and then to haul the LEE clew-garnet close up, before starting the tack or slacking the bowline. By attending to these directions, the spar is not only instantaneously relieved, but the leeward half of the sail walks sweetly and quietly up to the yard, without giving a single flap. After which the weather-clew comes up almost of itself, and without risk or trouble. Meanwhile

He’d never thought of sex as anything but physical pleasure, or sometimes, with certain people, as an expression of intimacy. The depth of Charlie’s feeling was moving. It was...humbling. It said: I am letting you affect me. I am letting you into the parts of me that I have never shared with anyone—not even myself.

Rye corrected himself. “I can absolutely imagine you choosing the desires of an imaginary future partner over your own.” It stung, the accuracy of that statement, delivered so gently, and with Rye’s hand on his cheek. As if Rye saw the truth of his home’s yearning—its nearly silent, beige-and-white cry into the darkness: Love me. I won’t assert myself. I am made of space for you. I have emptied myself of any identifiable desires so that yours may flourish.

In the course of researching, I learned that colonial Connecticut had been a major provisioner of the British West Indies plantations where slaves were growing and processing sugar in a monoculture that yielded huge profits to England. Connecticut-grown onions, potatoes, pigs, and cows were considered the best of the best on the Caribbean’s English plantations, and the sturdy white oak we grew also was highly sought after. The horses raised on farms in eastern Connecticut were shipped to the Caribbean in the tens

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