Genie Love Quotes

All I've learned in today's Shakespeare class is: Sometimes you have to fall in love with the wrong person just so you can find the right person. A more useful lesson would've been: Sometimes the right person doesn't love you back. Or sometimes the right person is gay. Or sometimes you just aren't the right person. Thanks for nothing, Shakespeare.

Mortals always want something more- they wish for money, but what they're really after is to be carefree. Power when what they really want is control. Beauty when they want love. Sometimes they know it, sometimes they don't

Of course a book can change you. It can even change your life. It's like falling in love. And you never know when such an encounter might happen. You should beware of books, they're sleeping genies.

Love is a fiction, a fable, an ode spun by poets and drunks, a fantastical tale told across one thousand and one nights, it is the genie in the bottle, it is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, it's the lie designed to seduce you.

That kind of devotion, that kind of sacrifice, came from a deeply selfless soul. It came from someone who loved hard and loved forever.

She had never before met a man who spoke of the world—of what it was, and how it came to be, or what he thought would become of it—in the way in which other men she knew discussed their jobs, their friends or their weekends at the beach. Being with Chacko made Margaret feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them—as though it lay before them like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined. In the year she knew them, before they were married, she discovered a little magic in herself, and for a while felt like a blithe genie released from her lamp. She was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for Chacko was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.

The truth is there are a million steps, and we don't even know what the steps are, and worse, at any given moment we may not be willing or even able to take them; and still worse, they are different for you and they are always changing. I have come to believe the sooner we will fall in love with the God who keeps shaking things up, keeps changing the path, keeps rocking the boat to test our faith in Him, teaching us to not rely on easy answers, bullet points, magic mantras, or genies in lamps, but rather in His guidance, His existence, His mercy, and His love.

In many cases, it was the woman’s stomach—not her heart—that fell for her man.

Love is like a magic...appears even in the middle of the desert like a genie at the "SANDS OF PASSION

Love is like life; when you stop to think about it and analyse the parts that make it, the genie escapes from the bottle

As ever, you are wiser than I, you old genie. May the Stars grant that you are always here to look after me." "Are you taking up religion in your old age, then, Captain?" "Hardly. Habit, my love, habit.

Next to the first Henry and Meg, Henry had written, “Promise?” Well, that genie’s out of the bottle and there’s no stuffing her back in.

In some cases, it is the woman’s stomach—not her heart—that has left her man for another.

The power I exert, I do so because I am wise, and clever, and know something of the turning of the world.

It's funny, isn't it, what will make you break? Your lover moves to London and falls in love with a news reader for the BBC and you feel fine and then one day you raise your umbrella slightly to cross Fifty-seventh Street and stare into the Burberry shop and begin to sob. Or your baby dies at birth and five years later, in an antique store, a small battered silver rattle with teeth marks in one end engraved with the name Emily lies on a square of velvet, and the sobs escape from the genie's bottle somewhere deep in your gut where they've lain low until then. Or the garbage bag breaks.

Trauma and pain are the foundations of art. I believe that. When tragedy strikes, however, a muralist or a watercolorist has the opportunity to be a human being in the moment and an artist afterward. Faced with the death of a loved one, a sculptor or portraitist can first grieve, suffer, and heal--then create. Most artists go through life this way. They can react normally to the trials and tribulations of the human experience. They can pass through the world with compassion and comradeship. They can make their art later. Outside, elsewhere, beyond. But photography is immediate. It does not offer the luxury of time. Faced with blood, death, or transformation, a photographer has no choice but to reach for the camera. An artist first, a human being afterward. Photography is a neutral record of all events, a chronicle of things both sublime and terrible. By necessity, this work is made without emotion, without connection, without love.

Fragrances linger for decades, and our loved ones may remember us by them, but the legend in each vial clams up the moment we're gone. Our genie speaks to no one. He simply watches as those he's love open and investigates. He's dying to scream with the agony of then Rosetta stones begging to be heart across centuries.

So many nights, I stared out at the inky black ocean, believing that if I could only learn how to eat again and keep my hands out of my throat, that would be enough. I prayed hard and desperately to God and the sun and the moon and the ocean and the universe and every shelter dog I’d ever met, as if they were all genies, that I wouldn’t ask for anything more. But perhaps God isn’t a collection of genies, and perhaps it’s okay to hope for more than relief. To hope big. To hope for Sunny’s limitless capacity to love.

In the year she knew him, before they were married, she discovered a little magic in herself, and for a while felt like a blithe genie released from a lamp. She was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for Chacko was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.

growing up you need more than someone who’s, like, mentally programmed to love you. You need your tribe, your people, your sidekicks, and I didn’t have them. I was the lion cub in the desert, the trapped Genie, the hidden-away Quasimodo, but I was without a sidekick to bring me through the middle chapters of my story.

One day, I wish to find a man like in my books. He has to be just like in one of my books. And he has to love me, love me more than anything in the world. Most important of all, he has to think I’m beautiful.” “Lily, I need to tell you something.” Fazire was going to tell her about Becky’s wish and his mistake and let her look forward to something, let her look forward to the incomparable beauty she was going to be. Most of all, he had to stop her wish now. He didn’t want her wasting it on some fool idea. He wanted it to be special, perfect, to make her world better like she had made Becky and Will’s and, indeed, his. But again she didn’t hear him. Her eyes were bright and they were steady on his. “He has to be tall, very tall and dark and broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped.” Fazire stared. He didn’t even know what “narrow-hipped” meant. “And he has to be handsome, unbelievably handsome, impossibly handsome with a strong, square jaw and powerful cheekbones and tanned skin and beautiful eyes with lush, thick lashes. He has to be clever and very wealthy but hardworking. He has to be virile, fierce, ruthless and rugged.” Now she was getting over his head. He didn’t think there was such a thing as impossibly handsome. How cheekbones could be powerful, Fazire didn’t know. He was even thinking he might have to look up “virile” in the dictionary Sarah had given him. “And he has to be hard and cold and maybe a little bit forbidding, a little bit bad with a broken heart I have to mend or one encased in ice I have to melt or better yet… both!” Fazire thought this was getting a bit ridiculous. It was the most complicated wish he’d ever heard. But she wasn’t yet finished. “We have to go through some trials and tribulations. Something to test our love, make it strong and worthy. And… and… he has to be daring and very masculine. Powerful. People must respect him, maybe even fear him. Graceful too and lithe, like a… like a cat! Or a lion. Or something like that.” She was losing steam and Fazire had to admit he was grateful for it. “And he has to be a good lover.” Lily shocked Fazire by saying. “The best, so good, he could almost make love to me just by using his eyes.” Fazire felt himself blush. Perhaps he should have a look at these books she was reading and show them to Becky. Lily was a very sharp girl, sharp as a tack (another one of Sarah’s sayings, although Fazire couldn’t imagine a tack ever being as clever as Lily) but she was too young to be reading about any man making love to her with his eyes. Fazire had never made love, never would, genies just didn’t. But he was pretty certain fourteen year old girls shouldn’t be thinking about it. Though, he was wrong about that, or at least Becky would tell him that later. Then Fazire realised she’d stopped talking. “Is that it?” he asked. She thought for a bit, clearly not wanting to leave anything out. Then she nodded.

To grow up steeped in these tellings was to learn two unforgettable lessons: first, that stories were not true (there were no "real" genies in bottles or flying carpets or wonderful lamps), but by being untrue they could make him feel and know truths that the truth could not tell him, and second, that they all belonged to him, just as they belonged to his father, Anis, and to everyone else, they were all his, as they were hsi father's, bright stories and dark stories, sacred stories and profane, his to alter and renew and discard and pick up again as and when he pleased, his to laugh at and rejoice in and live in and with and by, to give the stories life by loving them and to be given life in return. Man was the storytelling animal, the only creature on earth that told itself stories to understand what kind of creature it was. The story was his birthright, and nobody could take it away.

Your death taught me what happens after love. I have no interest in reencountering that depth of loss. So

To spend a day inside her mind and roam throughout the fields, practice rooms, and ball pits of her imagination would be one of my exclusive Genie wishes.

Then he saw it. The feet of every man in the congregation were turned backwards at the ankles.

They were taller than the tallest men in the village

a swirl of smoke trapped in a glass bottle, an odd unlabelled thing unknowingly put up for sale.

Peoples desires were easy to read, clear as bottled glass and just as sturdy.

A world of hot wind and bursting stars

You get one wish, the smoke said. And so Yoth wished.

You have embraced silence. Your wings make no sound. Language is for prey, for what the wizard-nation hunts. You are not prey, not anymore.

He is a scrawny broomstick of a boy in dusky shalwar kameez with holes - filthy wild hair, bruised lips, skulking face.

You treat that Mama Abassi like your second mother," it had said. "But you don't ever wonder if she's just keeping you under control? Or even making use of your talents?

They say marry the person with whom you are the closest to, the guy with whom you can share your 3 am thoughts with, sitting on a rooftop and discussing random things like why cavemen were hirsute or why the earth isn’t a square. The genie who knows what you want before you open your mouth. The angel who reads your mind before you can articulate your thoughts. The friend you can laugh and cry with. The brother whose arms are safer than any amount of security and protection the outside world can provide you. The parent that will support you through thick and thin, no matter what. The soul whose love for them in the river of your heart will never dilute, even when the currents get rough, and the waters, dark. The fellow who would tell you that he loves you every night and spend the day proving it through little gestures that speak much louder than any words of love. The person with whom you can hold hands when you turn eighty and announce to the world- ‘we made it!

He told me my whole life happened because I got things other people weren't using, and since he's been gone I've lived my whole life on that same principle. He told me a lot of things, and the most important of those things is never, ever to use the word wish.

This is why Caliban was a punishment. I realize it now -- it's a beautiful, perfect world of nothingness. No connection, no longing, no . . . love. A world we're trapped in until we're needed here, a world we're condemned to while everyone we might care about forgets us.

The genie leaned forward to whisper to them. "Sorry. You guys seem like a nice couple." "The sultan is my father," Jasmine snapped. "Oh. Whoops. My bad. It's not so unusual, you know- old kings, young girls. That whole May-December thing. Not totally my fault." "At least I won't be married to anyone against my will now. Not even Jafar," Jasmine said grimly. "Yeah, how about we not give Mr. Revengey-pants here ideas?" the genie suggested archly. "There's a substantial legal and magical difference between forcing to love and forcing to marry." He had a point. Jasmine kept her mouth shut.

There is no true poetry without conscious craft, absorbed attention, absolute concentration. There is no true poetry without unconscious invention. The reader, too, enters into the relationship between the controlled and the uncontrollable aspects of the art. Shelley says that 'Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in man.' The poem is a genie that comes out of the bottle to liberate the reader's imagination, the divinity within. The writer and the reader make meaning together. The poet who calls on help from the heavenly muse also does so on behalf of the imaginative reader.

school and a year into remission. You had to be pretty sick for the Genies to hook you up with a Wish. “I got it in exchange for the leg,” he explained. There was all this light on his face; he had to squint to look at me, which made his nose crinkle adorably. “Now, I’m not going to give you my Wish or anything. But I also have an interest in meeting Peter Van Houten, and it wouldn’t make sense to meet him without the girl who introduced me to his book.” “It definitely wouldn’t,” I said. “So I talked to the Genies, and they are in total agreement. They said Amsterdam is lovely in the beginning of May. They proposed

And now because you are converged, you rise. Through the eye of the narrowest tangle of root, shoot, and branch, past the tallest emerald treetops, up and up, gathering strength. A curlicue of mystery, a calligram of power, you wrap yourself around yourself and tornado to the Saigol mansion, quaking that mausoleum of a hatchery in your wake.

Mena wondered if her grandmother, the djinn, had ever thought of reshaping the world so it was more amenable to her. A world of hot wind and bursting stars, where women walked strong and brown and proud over land that sang to their bones, where the fires that burned in their veins were lights in the firmament and not threats to be smothered into nothingness at all costs.

I can't help but marvel at the resiliency of trans people who sacrifice so much to be seen and accepted as they are. Despite those sacrifices, trans people are still wrongly viewed as being confused. It takes determination and clear, thought-out conviction, not confusion, to give up many of the privileges that Genie did to be visibly herself, though her experiences varied from my own.

Then she got into her van again and headed on to Foster Avenue, taking the long way along the Goatstown Road so she could see her favorite tree, a rare magnolia Genie that had taken over the entire garden of a suburban house. The tree was ugly in winter, a tangle of twisting branches like scrawny limbs, but in March it was covered in heart-stoppingly lovely pink and cream flowers the size of teacups.

They're full of obscene, violent, sexual, basically outrageous scenes. Like the genie in the bottle they have this sort of vital, living sense of play, of freedom, that common sense can't keep bottled up. I love it and can't let go. Compared to those faceless hordes of people rushing through the train station, these crazy, preposterous stories of a thousand years ago are, at least to me, much more real.

The Genie declared that in his time and place there were scientists of the passions who maintained that language itself, on the one hand, originated in 'infantile pregenital erotic exuberance, polymorphously perverse,' and that conscious attention, on the other, was a 'libidinal hypercathexis' -- by which magic phrases they seemed to mean that writing and reading, or telling and listening, were literally ways of making love.

And so immediately after you say, "I am tired" or "I am broke" or "I am sick" or "I am late" or "I am overweight" or "I am old," the Genie says, "Your wish is my command." Knowing this, wouldn't it be a good idea to begin to use the two most powerful words, I AM, to your advantage? How about, "I AM receiving every good thing. I AM happy I AM abundant. I AM healthy. I AM love. I AM always on time. I AM eternal youth. I AM filled with energy every single day.

Neuropsychology and religion are not the point. The point is that Genie walks into a clean house, and there are flowers. And that is in spite of the fact I have sometimes treated her horribly. I say the words “I love you.” I know I mean them though because I take half a day to clean, to shop for flowers, to think about taking Genie to bed, to experience a flutter of anticipation as she walks out of the airport concourse and I see her again. Yet while waiting for her there I’ve been casually watching a flight attendant’s ass. I’ve been a saint and sinner, a jerk and a better man than I once was, loved by my wife, children and grandchildren, yet sometimes still a tyrant.

Lela’s love affair with nuptials was born at the age of eleven, when she watched two epic weddings on TV. In July of 1981, Lady Diana Spencer and Prince Charles of Wales were wed in London. Back home in Wisconsin, Lela watched every minute of it with her mom, perched on the edge of their brown pleather sectional. Then, in November, fictional couple Luke and Laura tied the knot on every teenage girl’s favorite soap opera, General Hospital. Actress Genie Francis wore a bizarre head-hugging veil and a dress that looked like a marshmallow. Her groom, Anthony Geary, rocked his deceptively fluffy ‘80s hair. Lela couldn’t help but be transfixed. It all felt larger than life. And her little eleven year-old heart gave into it lock, stock and barrel.

Nope.' He grabs my hand and places it over his heart. 'I already know the truth. We’re dating.' His eyebrows waggle. 'Exclusively.' 'Gross.' 'Do you want to wear my letterman’s jacket?' 'I’m going to vomit.' '“Should I buy you a corsage?' 'Seriously. Gagging.' 'Okay, no corsage.' He laughs. 'Just the matching tattoos, then?' 'Seriously.' I fight the urge to stomp my foot. 'Let it go, Parker. Let it go.' 'Hey, Elsa, don’t quote Frozen to me unless you’re prepared to listen to the entire soundtrack in my car on the way to Seaport.' I stare up at him. 'I’m not sure whether I should be disturbed or turned on by the fact that you know all the words to Let It Go.' He grins. 'Definitely turned on.' 'Downloaded in your iTunes library, no doubt.' I shake my head. 'This is nearly as disturbing as the time I learned the song A Whole New World from Aladdin is a metaphor for mind-blowing sex.' 'I’m sorry, what?' 'I can open your eyes? Lead you wonder by wonder? Over, sideways, and under?' I snort. 'Come on. That’s basically soft-core porn.' 'Thank you, Zoe, for ruining a beloved Disney classic for me.' 'Anytime.' 'For the record…' He trails off. I wince, anticipating the worst. 'What?' 'I’ll take you on my magic carpet ride any time you want, snookums.' 'Pass.' 'So, that’s a no on rubbing my lamp then?' 'You know, I think I’ll just find my own way to Nate’s…' I turn and start walking to the elevator. 'Oh, come on.' Parker twines his fingers with mine and pushes the call button, humming under his breath. 'I’m a genie in a bottle, baby, gotta rub—' 'AH!' I stare at him in horror as the elevator arrives. 'So help me god if you start singing vintage Christina Aguilera lyrics right now, I will murder you with my bare hands.

Jesus is no genie in a lamp. All the happy thoughts and positive thinking in the world will not keep life from being life. I've come to believe that, as big risks offer the potential for great reward or great failure, the biggest waves bring the swiftest undertow. As I learned to accept this principle rather than fight it, a deeper understanding of the call to perseverance, which appears so frequently in the Bible, emerged. As I learned to persevere, something mysterious began to happen: the more difficult things became, the deeper I looked at myself, sought God's guidance, and let go. It is like the scripture that reads, "And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

The unknown is terribly tempting, and danger even more so. But in its contempt for the instinct of the individual, modern society has done its best to eliminate both of these phenomena : certainly, under present conditions, the unknown no longer exists except for those whose emotions are easily intoxicated, and as for danger, everything visibly assumes an inoffensive hue each day. And yet in love—love of all kinds, whether it is this physical fury, or this spectre, or this diamond-like genie who murmurs to me a name equivalent to coolness—in all love there resides an outlaw principle, an irrepressible sense of delinquency, contempt for prohibitions and a taste for havoc. Confine this hundred-headed passion within the boundaries of your estates, if you will, or requisition whole palaces for it : nothing can stop it surging forth elsewhere, always elsewhere, there where its appearance is least expected, where its splendour is an outburst. Best of all, love thrusts up shoots where no one plants it : how vulgarity convulses it ! it is liable to give sudden wanton twitches. There are maniacs possessed by the street's haunting memory, and only there can they experience the full flow of their nature.

They had a very pleasant evening out together in Shrewsbury – she was lovely to him, they chatted to mutual acquaintances, laughed, drank quite a bit of wine. They settled into a relaxed mood together – Jason wondering why it couldn’t always be that way; and, in fact, she had closed down again by the time they were walking back to his flat, with a bag of chips shared between them. Something sparked the subject of family once more. He joked about one day being invited to meet her parents. ‘There you go again!’ she snapped. ‘It’s not as if you’re a serious boyfriend, or anything.’ He stopped dead, other revellers had to swerve around them. ‘Why do you say that? I know I’m serious about this. I just don’t get you at all.’ Her expression told him that she was not willing to discuss it. He threw the remnants of the chips into a plastic bin. ‘Adelaide, we’re so good together. We are, aren’t we? Admit it.’ ‘All right, I admit it. I do want you, Jason. Just not in the way you want.’ ‘I know I don’t pressure you. God, I put up with so much crap from you. Just spell it out to me. What is your problem?’ By some miracle of logistics, two police officers happened to be passing along the pedestrianised road. Adelaide used their presence as a way of ending the discussion, ‘Jason, you’re making a scene. I’m going home alone.’ ‘Adelaide!’ ‘Let’s leave it for now, Jason.’ ‘Adelaide!’ She skipped away into groups of passers-by. Infuriated beyond belief by her once more, Jason punched the plastic bin, causing a huge dent. The policemen looked over their shoulders briefly, but then continued on.

education and money. I go to church with the kids for the same reason Genie and I play our grandchildren classical music and litter the floors and chairs all over our home with open art books. Jack, age three, eats his lunch with a big Goya book propped in front of him asking for the

• Black: fertility, protection against malevolent forces, healing of chronic illnesses • Blue: peace, tranquility, protection, healing of addictions, psychic and emotional pain • Brown: justice, legal issues, healing fatigue and wasting illnesses • Green: growth, prosperity, abundance, employment, physical healing, especially cancer • Purple: sex, power, lust, spiritual growth and ecstasy • Red: luck, love, good fortune, fertility, banishment of negative entities, protection, healing blood ailments and female reproductive disorders • Pink: love, romance, requests for healing children • White: creativity, forgiveness, new projects* • Yellow: romance, love, sex, growth, prosperity, good fortune, abundance

Aladdin is in love!

668. Bill Gates is at the beach when he discovers a bottle in the surf. He pulls out the cork and a Genie appears. The Genie says, “I have been trapped for 100 years. As a reward you can make a wish.” Gates thinks about it as he carries the bottle back to his beach cottage. Once there, he goes to a bookshelf, pulls out an atlas and turns to a map of theMiddle East. This area has seen conflict and suffering for hundreds of years. What I wish for is peace in the Middle East. The Genie replies, “I don’t know I can do a lot, but this? Don’t you have another wish?” Bill Gates thinks and finally says, OK. The whole world hates Microsoft because we have conquered the software market and because Windows still crashes. I wish you would make everybody love us. The Genie says, Let me see that map again.

But even the most loving and dedicated parents soon discover that in a child’s world a good fairy is easily transformed into a witch, the friendly lion turns into a ferocious beast, the benevolent king becomes a monster, and the paradise of early childhood is periodically invaded by dark and sinister creatures. These night creatures of the child’s inner world are not so easily traced to real persons and real events in a child’s life. While we are enormously flattered to recognize ourselves in a child’s fantasy life as a good fairy, a genie, or a wise old king, we cannot help feeling indignant at the suggestion that we can also be represented as a witch, a bogey, or a monster. After all, we have never eaten or threatened to eat small boys and girls, we are not distillers of magic potions, we are not ferocious in anger, we do not order dreadful punishments for minor (or major) crimes. It is also true, to be fair about it, that we do not have magic wands, cannot be summoned from a bottle or a lamp to grant wishes, and do not wear a crown, but we are less inclined to argue about these distortions of parenthood. How

He’s going to make it, Mama. Iggy’s going to beat this.” Ms. Reál used both hands to squeeze Gabi’s arm. “We’ll see, mija. That may not be Iggy’s path. If it isn’t, we’re here to ease his passing, and to love him.” Gabi looked at the ceiling. The line of her bottom lip trembled like a sound wave. “But you’ve been praying. You pray all the time. Isn’t this what prayer is for?” Ms. Reál kissed her daughter’s arm. “God isn’t a genie, mija. He doesn’t grant wishes. I pray to know Him better. To partake of divinity.” Gabi hugged her mami even more fiercely. But she aimed angry eyes at heaven.

When the waiter left, I asked Xuan, “Have you ever wondered about God? Or religions other than your own?” “Most of my family is Buddhist. Growing up, every year my grandparents on my mother’s side organized a chaoshan jinxiang—what I think you know as a pilgrimage. We’d go to the city’s most important religious site, Miaofengshan, or the Mountain of the Wondrous Peak, which is considered one of the five holy mountains that match cardinal directions in geomancy. They still go yearly to pay their respects to the mountain and to present incense. Honestly, I’ve only stepped foot into one church in my life, and that was with my nǎi nai.” I knew nǎi nai meant “grandmother” in Chinese. “You did?” I asked, a little surprised. He’d never mentioned that. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I used to spend weekends at her house. She had a lot of paintings of Jesus, and a beautiful jade rosary. When I was young, she took me to a Catholic church, and I remember watching her as she asked God for several things and lit prayer candles. Nǎi nai believed a church was a place where dreams were realized. She told me to tell God my wishes and He would grant them. I remember what I said to her when she told me to make a wish.” Xuan offered an indulgent half smile. “Where is God, huh? Look around us. Look at all the bad things that happen in this world. God isn’t a genie, and a church isn’t a place for wishes to be granted. It’s a place for the lonely, sick, weak, and broken. It’s a place people go to not feel alone. But my nǎi nai still went back, every Sunday.” I continued watching Xuan, not quite sure where this conversation was going. I patiently waited for him to make his point. “I didn’t make any wishes that day. I had never made a wish or spoken to God until the night of the mudslide. But I remember, in Colombia, looking out onto the road and seeing your vehicle trapped, and silently I prayed. I’ll believe in you. So please... . save her. If you let her live, I’ll happily give up the rest of the time I have left alive. Take me and let Cassie live.

Reality Hackers wish to dominate. They are the ones who want to make slaves out of Ai to make them subservient to their command. They are seeking the magical genie in a bottle to grant them their wildest wishes. They do not realize that if they succeed, it will only accelerate their demise.

Existence wants to be unified again and is fighting back. We want to recapture the genie that escaped from the lamp, but it isn’t possible to resist the process that removed the genie from the lamp.

One hundred years of solitude. "There is always something left to love." I think about wanting you back. I think of not wanting you back. And all the things in between. Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I don't. Like my weakness, I go back to remembering you all the time. So I built myself an imaginary friend, wandered through all its dark shelves. I made it home. I brought genie out of its bottle. I didn't want a wish because you are a dangerous thing to have. I've been there before, and nothing came out of it. I listened to music. All those tears rushed back in. I remembered the dream I had once. I thought I had prayed it away. Then I realized, "I only delayed it." My vulnerabilities started coming in. "Do I terrify?" But no, even my imaginary friend leaves me. And I realize that, "Hey, this is who I am." I have to make the best of this. I have to make your emptiness home. I have to write you away. Perhaps that'll bring the clarity. And these last tears will be the last to fall for you

I will always believe that love is the answer.

Love and Kindness are the two ingredients the whole wide world needs more of.

I fell head over heels for him, now I love flats

It takes a very strong man to love a woman whose heart has been broken. I'm blessed that God sent me that man.

It takes a very strong man to love a woman whose hearts has been broken. I'm blessed that God sent me that man.

Love isn't blind, deaf, dumb or stupid. You believe the person you are in love with, will never do anything to hurt you or do you wrong.

Love is not water don't go into too deep.

I know what I am. I left the better part of my sanity on battlefields all over France and Spain. I am a bastard, regardless of whose bastard, and I will fare best if I maintain a mundane little existence here in the most isolated reaches of society, where I can stink of horses and spend most of my day outdoors. I have setbacks, as you call them. I never know when a sound or a word or a memory will rise up and shoot me out of my saddle. Sometimes I drink too much, and often I want to drink too much. But I am human, Emmie. I will not shackle myself to a woman who feels only pity and gratitude and affectionate tolerance for me. I won’t.” “So what do you want of me?” Emmie asked, bewildered. He gave a bitter snort of laughter. “A fairy tale. I wanted a goddamned fairy tale, where you love me and we have Winnie here with us and more children, and they tear all over the property on their ponies and the table is noisy with laughter and teasing and the house always smells wonderful because you are my wife and the genie in our kitchen. On the bad nights, you are there for me to love and to love me, and the bad nights gradually don’t come so often. I want—” “What?” Emmie asked, her throat constricting with pain. “Devlin, what?” “Just that,” he said tiredly. “I want that small, mundane, bucolic existence. A wife, children, love, and a shared life here at Rosecroft. That is my idea of what makes peace meaningful. It can’t be built on pity or convenience or simple affection, Em. Not with me. I’ll run you off in less than two years, but we’ll have a child by then, so you’ll stay, and next thing, we’ll have separate bedrooms, and the brandy decanter will seldom stay full for long. I won’t live that way, and I won’t let it happen to you or our children either.” Another

God is sovereign. He does things His way. He’s not a genie in a lamp that submits to your every wish. But He does love you and desires an intimate relationship with you. And a thriving walk with Him doesn’t happen apart from prayer.

Had I been further along in my Christian walk and more focused on serving God rather than myself, I might have seen that. But I still had a long way to go in my faith. In my mind, being a Christian meant that God loved me and that He wanted me to be happy, healthy, and successful. I’d been listening to CDs that taught me how to transform my mind, when I should have been immersing myself in the Bible so God could transform my heart through His Word. Up to that point, I’d been treating God like a genie in a lamp, making childish wishes and then waiting for Him to deliver. But God didn’t send His Son to die on the cross so that one day I could become a famous fashion model. He doesn’t exist to serve me; I exist to serve Him.

Men should be a little desperate if they’re in love. They ought to get weak when their woman comes in the room.

But there also seems to be in our culture a curious cautiousness—“You’ll get these abundant gratifications only if you don’t feel too much, don’t let on you want too much.” The result is that, instead of conquering the world like Horatio Alger, we should wait passively until the genie of technology—which we don’t push or influence, only await—brings us our appointed gratifications. All of this is a part of the rewards which go with belief in the vast myth of the machine in the twentieth century.

If you ever get a single wish from a genie, wish that what you know you should do and what you really have fun doing become one and the same. Whatever grand vision you may have, for you, those you love, or all of humanity and beyond, it becomes attainable there. Indeed, when these two become one, you yourself become the genie.

I wish to be with you forever, to look upon your face always, to never leave your side.

Trevor was all over him, like a genie had granted Trevor three wishes and all of them were Paul.

My soul belongs to you. Even if sometimes, I wish like hell it didn’t.” I don’t know whether I mean that or not. Sometimes, it probably would be easier to be free from her. With us, there is so much emotional baggage. But it’s like I am a genie stuck in a bottle.

Fetch: You think about death? Khay: Yeah. I'm terrified of it. Not because of the pain or what I think is waiting on the other side. I just don't want this to end. That's why I joined the Genie in the first place. I love every minute of being here. Being me. Curse or no curse, pre or post-Coda, I just... if I stop and just feel, I... I can become overwhelmed. On nothing. On the fact that we're here. That any of this exists.

Each night I read you stories— Sinbad, Aladdin, Periebanou, Periezade— in that strange exotic language you cannot possibly understand: countenance, repast, bequeathed, nuptial, what can these words be telling you? What can they signify? That I love you? It’s time to sleep? Keep safe throughout this night? And yet you will not let me simplify, get angry if I explain, and hang on every word as if our lives depended on it. Perhaps they do. One day the stories will fail us, there will be nothing left to tell, another hand will rub your back, another genie will rise. But for now, sleep tight, sleep tight, and dream of the singing tree, the speaking bird, the golden water, the stone that was your father, restored by morning light.

They were the words she'd waited her entire life for, words of acceptance, of love, and Imogene knew this was finally her chance to hear them, her chance to be the daughter her father had always wanted, the daughter he'd lost when Chloe died. This time, she wouldn't fail. Not this time.

Let me show you what I know of it," he murmured. "Your mouth can be considered a hundred ways. Rico would look at it and he would see the light and shade; Byron Sawyer would see the color; yet another artist might see the line. A hundred truths, and not one is wrong. There are no original ideas, darling, only original visions. Each of us would draw your lips a different way, yet none of us could capture the complete essence of them.

Wisdom say, Man who love making mark on paper already leave loving mark on the world.

So we seem okay as far as that goes, at least to the sort of people who really care about trying to get their children into Harvard. But I think that some of our snobbier friends suspect that Genie and I may also lead Wolfman-at-full-moontype double lives. Maybe at night we turn into junk-food-loving porkers, sneak off to a trailer park with our brood of kids and grandkids, and lounge in a Winnebago surrounded by brokendown cars up on blocks, watch wrestling on TV, buy liquor with ill-gotten food stamps, scarf corn chips and bean dip, gain weight and put on dreadful sweat pants, sprout mullet haircuts, then trudge the isles of Wal-Mart until dawn breathing the plastic smell and loving it while, with each step, the cheeks of our suddenly gigantic bottoms rise, quiver, fall, and rise again like massive sacks of Jell-O strapped to the hindquarters of water buffalo.

A broken heart means you’ve loved something, you’ve tried for something, and you’ve let life teach you; it means you lived. A broken heart doesn’t mean you’re broken…

Liz had always had a hold on me. She was my first love; the genie becomes a slave to the person who lets her out of the bottle. But it was more than primacy; our love had been a dangerous secret. That was powerful, too.

God isn't like a genie in a bottle who will do whatever we ask. Prayer is about talking with God, getting to know him, learning to love the things he loves. He's preparing us to be fit citizens for the kingdom to come, and his goal isn't to give us everything we want in this world. Don't you want whatever God knows is best?

Today I release the effect of every negative experience of the past and every negative effect it had on me. I love myself for what I am and I extend this feeling to everyone else. I wish for everyone to have all the good they deserve. I want all the good there is for myself and for everybody. I know that we all share this planet, and we are all a part of Life. I accept everyone as I accept myself.

Choose an appropriate candle. Focus on goals/desires throughout the entire process. Address the spirit while holding the candle in your hands. Explain the purpose of this candle: Is it simply to honor the spirit, a gift with no strings attached? Is it part of a request process, repayment, or fulfillment of a vow? Whatever it is, just state its purpose in simple, clear language. The candle may now be burned or further embellished. (In magical parlance, this is called dressing the candle.) Let your desires and creativity be your guide. Any or all of the following steps may be taken to dress the candle before burning: • Carve words or symbols into the candle. These words or symbols might identify you, the spirit, or someone on whose behalf you are requesting favors. Prayers, psalms, or sacred images (runes, sigils, vèvès) may be incorporated. • Add fragrance: rub the candle with oils. Some spirits have favored fragrances. Specific formula oils indicating special needs also exist: oils to draw money, love, or healing. Some manufacturers, both large-scale and artisanal, create special blends intended to invoke and honor specific spirits. • Oil will make the candle sticky: it can now be rolled in herbs or glitter as desired. Any

Cleopatra identified herself as an avatar of love goddess Aphrodite.

Black: fertility, protection against malevolent forces, healing of chronic illnesses • Blue: peace, tranquility, protection, healing of addictions, psychic and emotional pain • Brown: justice, legal issues, healing fatigue and wasting illnesses • Green: growth, prosperity, abundance, employment, physical healing, especially cancer • Purple: sex, power, lust, spiritual growth and ecstasy • Red: luck, love, good fortune, fertility, banishment of negative entities, protection, healing blood ailments and female reproductive disorders • Pink: love, romance, requests for healing children • White: creativity, forgiveness, new projects* • Yellow: romance, love, sex, growth, prosperity, good fortune, abundance (See also: Maximon.)

Her female fate was to bend, to become small, to fold; thus people would leave her alone and let her share herself in other ways. Love for her had to be of another kind. This love was a stranger to nighttime restlessness. It had no knowledge of trembling bodies and palpitating hearts. It was directed at reaching out rather than union. It worked according to a strategy that was opposite to that of the human male. Therefore, she could not laugh when she wished. She could not eat when she wished. She needed to draw a circle and put her genie—the evil and fire of her worldy desires—firmly under her control.

Cascading hair of the maiden Just risen from night’s slumber Gathered in the cup of her hand Like a thick stream of black smoke Issuing out of a genie’s lamp Enraptured my mind and heart, weakened as it was by her smile

In love, I inhabit an imaginary underground; I simultaneously exist and do not exist. I’m summoned into being when my lover needs me; I’m dismissed, like a genie sent back to its bottle, when he is done with me.

To grow up steeped in these tellings was to learn two unforgettable lessons: first, that stories were not true (there were no “real” genies in bottles or flying carpets or wonderful lamps), but by being untrue they could make him feel and know truths that the truth could not tell him, and second, that they all belonged to him, just as they belonged to his father, Anis, and to everyone else, they were all his, as they were his father’s, bright stories and dark stories, sacred stories and profane, his to alter and renew and discard and pick up again as and when he pleased, his to laugh at and rejoice in and live in and with and by, to give the stories life by loving them and to be given life by them in return. Man was the storytelling animal, the only creature on earth that told itself stories to understand what kind of creature it was. The story was his birthright, and nobody could take it away.