Grant Wood Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Grant Wood. Here they are! All 90 of them:

The full moon, well risen in a cloudless eastern sky, covered the high solitude with its light. We are not conscious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us simply the natural condition of the earth and air. When we think of the downs, we think of the downs in daylight, as with think of a rabbit with its fur on. Stubbs may have envisaged the skeleton inside the horse, but most of us do not: and we do not usually envisage the downs without daylight, even though the light is not a part of the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us, but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight and to that extent it us utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that event the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity---so much lower than that of daylight---makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.
Richard Adams (Watership Down (Watership Down, #1))
What was home, really? Just a place to lay your head. No. It was so much more than that. It was a place where a person belonged. Where a fellow would be missed. It was a part of a man. Something that couldn't be sold or taken for granted.
Suzanne Woods Fisher (The Keeper (Stoney Ridge Seasons, #1))
I had to go to France to appreciate Iowa.
Grant Wood
Timon will to the woods, where he shall find Th' unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. The gods confound - hear me, you good gods all - Th' Athenians both within and out that wall! And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low! Amen.
William Shakespeare (Timon of Athens)
Water was liquid silver, water was gold. It was clarity—a sacred thing. Drinking was no longer something to take for granted. I’d never needed to consider water before.
Aspen Matis (Girl in the Woods: A Memoir)
Suddenly, from all the green around you, something-you don't know what-has disappeared; you feel it creeping closer to the window, in total silence. From the nearby wood you hear the urgent whistling of a plover, reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome: so much solitude and passion come from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide away from us, cautiously, as though they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying. And reflected on the faded tapestries now; the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long childhood hours when you were so afraid. - Before Summer Rain
Rainer Maria Rilke
But I was learning forgiveness didn’t have to be about granting absolution for sins but being able to find freedom from pain.
Heather Topham Wood (Falling for Autumn (Falling for Autumn, #1))
Who knows more of gods than I? Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold with gemstone eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiseled into mountains, gods of empty air... I know them all. I have seen their peoples garland them with flowers, and shed the blood of goats and bulls and children in their names. And I have heard the prayers, in half a hundred tongues. Cure my withered leg, make the maiden love me, grant me a healthy son. Save me, succor me, make me wealthy... protect me! Protect me from mine enemies, protect me from the darkness, protect me from the crabs inside my belly, from the horselords, from the slavers, from the sellswords at my door. Protect me from the Silence." He laughed. "Godless? Why, Aeron, I am the godliest man ever to raise sail! You serve one god, Damphair, but I have served ten thousand. From Ib to Asshai, when men see my sails, they pray.
George R.R. Martin
Language and hearing are seated in the cerebral cortex, the folded gray matter that covers the first couple of millimeters of the outer brain like wrapping paper. When one experiences silence, absent even reading, the cerebral cortex typically rests. Meanwhile, deeper and more ancient brain structures seem to be activated--the subcortical zones. People who live busy, noisy lives are rarely granted access to these areas. Silence, it appears, is not the opposite of sound. It is another world altogether, literally offering a deeper level of thought, a journey to the bedrock of the self.
Michael Finkel (The Stranger in the Woods: The Extraordinary Story of the Last True Hermit)
The thing about grace is that you don’t deserve it. You can’t earn it. You can only accept it. Or not.
Kimi Cunningham Grant (These Silent Woods)
The woman had gone down on her knees and was shuffling slowly across the cruel ground towards the group of crosses: the dead baby rocked on her back. When she reached the tallest cross she unhooked the child and held the face against the wood and afterwards the loins: then she crossed herself, not as ordinary Catholics do, but in a curious and complicated pattern which included the nose and ears. Did she expect a miracle? And if she did, why should it not be granted her? the priest wondered. Faith, one was told, could move mountains, and here was faith--faith in the spittle that healed the blind man and the voice that raised the dead. The evening star was out: it hung low down over the edge of the plateau: it looked as if it was within reach: and a small hot wind stirred. The priest found himself watching the child for some movement. When none came, it was as if God had missed an opportunity. The woman sat down, and taking a lump of sugar from her bundle, began to eat, and the child lay quiet at the foot of the cross. Why, after all, should we expect God to punish the innocent with more life?
Graham Greene (The Power and the Glory)
They don't know how warm you are and how warm they are with you, not until they're cold. People think a bonfire is something they can build anywhere. It's not. It takes wood, an open space, ideally stars in the sky. They can't fabricate that. They don't know how warm you are until they're cold. They don't know your stars until you're not there.
C. JoyBell C.
Granted, my perspective is different from that of nonwizards, but marching out into the woods, looking for a very large and very powerful creature by blasting out what you’re pretty sure are territorial challenges to fight (or else mating calls) seems … somewhat unwise.
Jim Butcher (Brief Cases (The Dresden Files, #15.1))
The whole "lets find Bigfoot" thing seems a little ill-planned to me, personally. Granted, my perspective is different than that of non-wizards, but marching out into the woods looking for a very large and very powerful creature by blasting out what you're pretty sure are territorial challenges to fight (or else mating calls) seems... somewhat unwise. I mean, if there's no Bigfoot, no problem. But what if you're standing there, screaming "Bring it on!" and find a Bigfoot? Worse yet, what if he finds you? Even worse, what if you were screaming "Do me, baby!" and he finds you then? Is it me? Am I carzy? Or does the whole thing just seem like a recipe for trouble?
Jim Butcher (Working for Bigfoot (The Dresden Files, #15.5))
Instead of thinking gigantic thoughts, I tried to focus on something small, the smallest thing I could think of. Someone once made this pew I’m sitting on, I thought. Someone sanded the wood and varnished it. Someone carried it into the church. Someone laid the tiles on the floor, someone fitted the windows. Each brick was placed by human hands, each hinge fitted on each door, every road surface outside, every bulb in every streetlight. And even things built by machines were really built by human beings, who built the machines initially. And human beings themselves, made by other humans, struggling to create happy children and families. Me, all the clothing I wear, all the language I know. Who put me here in this church, thinking these thoughts? Other people, some I know very well and others I have never met. Am I myself, or am I them? Is this me, Frances? No, it is not me. It is the others. Do I sometimes hurt and harm myself, do I abuse the unearned cultural privilege of whiteness, do I take the labor of others for granted, have I sometimes exploited a reductive iteration of gender theory to avoid serious moral engagement, do I have a troubled relationship with my body, yes. Do I want to be free of pain and therefore demand that others also live free of pain, the pain that is mine and therefore also theirs, yes, yes.
Sally Rooney (Conversations with Friends)
Sixteen coffins. Stacked two high and four deep. The casings for the dead were made out of different kinds of wood, and they had aged in different ways—but what was inside them had something in common. They were the remains of the damned. Brothers who had not been granted proper Fade Ceremonies. Or could not be granted them.
J.R. Ward (Lover Unveiled (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #19))
The deepwood is vanished in these islands -- much, indeed, had vanished before history began -- but we are still haunted by the idea of it. The deepwood flourishes in our architecture, art and above all in our literature. Unnumbered quests and voyages have taken place through and over the deepwood, and fairy tales and dream-plays have been staged in its glades and copses. Woods have been a place of inbetweenness, somewhere one might slip from one world to another, or one time to a former: in Kipling's story 'Puck of Pook's Hill,' it is by right of 'Oak and Ash and Thorn' that the children are granted their ability to voyage back into English history.
Robert Macfarlane (The Wild Places)
You've walked the woods today. Tell me there isna something about this land that doesna take hold of you and sink into your verra soul." Her smile slowly faded. "It did. How did you know?" "You were born here, Iona. You were part of this land, just as it's a part of you. You've been gone a long time, but it still remembers you. You just needed to remember it.
Donna Grant (Hot Blooded (Dark Kings, #4))
It came from a piece of old wood that he found in the yard somewhere. That's what we all are, Jefferson, all of us on this earth, a piece of drifting wood, until we--each one of us, individually--decide to become something else. I am still that piece of drifting wood, and those out there are no better. But you can be better. Because we need you to be and want you to be." --Grant
Ernest J. Gaines (A Lesson Before Dying)
Because if your own child, the person for whom you’ve sacrificed everything, for whom you’ve broken laws as well as your own personal sense of boundaries, has lost confidence in you, and in turn, in themselves and the world at large, then what’s the point of any of it?
Kimi Cunningham Grant (These Silent Woods)
A ghost mill, they called it, infested with all sorts of witches, phantoms, and monsters. It was as though the very timbers of the mill had soaked up the unearthly forces that seethed and thronged in the valley, like the wood of a wine barrel takes up the stain and scent of the wine.
Helen Grant (The Vanishing of Katharina Linden)
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; 'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.' 'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy, 'But one we must ask if we want any roses.' So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses. 'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?' 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. 'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses. 'A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.' We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
Robert Frost
For the author as for God, standing outwith his creation, all times are one; all times are now. In mine own country, we accept as due and right – as very meet, right, and our bounden duty – the downs and their orchids and butterflies, the woods and coppices, ash, beech, oak, and field maple, rowan, wild cherry, holly, and hazel, bluebells in their season and willow, alder, and poplar in the wetter ground. We accept as proper and unremarkable the badger and the squirrel, the roe deer and the rabbit, the fox and the pheasant, as the companions of our walks and days. We remark with pleasure, yet take as granted, the hedgerow and the garden, the riot of snowdrops, primroses, and cowslips, the bright flash of kingfishers, the dart of swallows and the peaceful homeliness of house martins, the soft nocturnal glimmer of glow worm and the silent nocturnal swoop of owl.
G.M.W. Wemyss
After all, there was nothing preposterous and world-shaking in the idea that there might be events which overstepped the limited categories of space, time, and causality. Animals were known to sense beforehand storms and earthquakes. There were dreams which foresaw the death of certain persons, clocks which stopped at the moment of death, glasses which shattered at the critical moment. All these things had been taken for granted in the world of my childhood. And now I was apparently the only person who had ever heard of them. In all earnestness I asked myself what kind of world I had stumbled into. Plainly, the urban world knew nothing about the country world, the real world of mountains, woods and rivers, of animals and ‘God’s thoughts’ (plants and crystals). I found this explanation comforting. At all events, it bolstered my self-esteem.
C.G. Jung
backyard in lurid relief.
T.E. Woods (The Unforgivable Fix (Mort Grant #3))
It’s like you say, I have to do what makes me scared. Or else my world gets so small it’ll squash me.
T.E. Woods (The Unforgivable Fix (Mort Grant #3))
All the really good ideas I ever had came to me while I was milking a cow.
Grant Wood
THE WOOD is dark and the wood is deep and the trees claw at the sky with branches like bones, ripping holes in the canopy of clouds, revealing glimpses of a distant, rotting moon the color of dead flesh.
Mira Grant (Final Girls)
Try mentally to travel to a faraway place, if not necessarily in order to move your world – though how splendid that would be! – but to see it clearly for what it is. Doing so will grant you the opportunity to retain your freedom. And to remain a free spirit as you grow up and make your way in this world, it is essential that you cultivate a rare but crucial freedom: the liberty that comes from knowing how the economy works and from the capacity to answer the trillion-dollar question: ‘Who does what to whom around your neck of the woods and further afield?
Yanis Varoufakis (Talking to My Daughter About the Economy: A Brief History of Capitalism)
When I got home, I’d make sure never to take anything for granted. I’d tell those around me how much they meant to me, I’d forgive those who’d hurt me and I’d never lose my temper again. I realised there and then that nothing else matters but kindness, compassion, forgiveness and love.
Levison Wood (Arabia: A Journey Through The Heart of the Middle East)
To survive, he continued to hawk firewood on the St. Louis streets and the time thus spent destroyed any chance of prospering as a farmer: “I regard every load of wood taken, when the services of both myself and team are required on the farm, is a direct loss of more than the value of the load.”114
Ron Chernow (Grant)
From that age until seventeen I did all the work done with horses, such as breaking up the land, furrowing, ploughing corn and potatoes, bringing in the crops when harvested, hauling all the wood, besides tending two or three horses, a cow or two, and sawing wood for stoves, etc., while still attending school. For this I was compensated by the fact that there was never any scolding or punishing by my parents; no objection to rational enjoyments, such as fishing, going to the creek a mile away to swim in summer, taking a horse and visiting my grandparents in the adjoining county, fifteen miles off, skating on the ice in winter, or taking a horse and sleigh when there was snow on the ground. While still quite young I had visited Cincinnati, forty-five miles away, several times, alone; also Maysville, Kentucky, often, and once Louisville. The journey to Louisville was a big one for a boy of that day. I had also gone once with a two-horse carriage to Chilicothe, about seventy miles, with a neighbor’s family, who were removing to Toledo, Ohio, and returned alone; and had gone once, in like manner, to Flat Rock, Kentucky, about seventy miles away. On this latter occasion I was fifteen years of age.
Ulysses S. Grant (Personal Memoirs of U.S. Grant: All Volumes)
—Cuando llega la hora de la verdad, en realidad sólo existen dos tipos de hombres en el mundo —dijo Andy, protegiendo una cerilla con ambas manos ahuecadas y encendiendo un cigarrillo—. Supongamos, Red, que hubiera una casa llena de pinturas y esculturas extrañas y de bellos objetos antiguos. Y supongamos que el propietario de la casa se enterara de que un huracán espantoso avanzaba precisamente en aquella dirección. Uno de los dos tipos de hombres a que me refiero, sencillamente espera que suceda lo mejor. El huracán puede cambiar de curso, se dice a sí mismo. Ningún huracán bien pensante se atrevería jamás a destruir todos esos Rembrandts, mis dos caballos de Degas, mis Grant Wood y mis Benton. Además, Dios no lo permitiría. Y si de todos modos ocurriera lo peor, están asegurados. Ése es un tipo de hombre. El otro sencillamente supone que el huracán arrasará la casa sin más. Si el centro meteorológico anuncia que el huracán ha cambiado de curso, este individuo cree que volverá a cambiar para arrasar su casa. Este segundo tipo de individuo sabe que no existe mal alguno en esperar lo mejor, siempre que estés preparado para lo peor. Yo también encendí un cigarrillo. —¿Me estás diciendo que estás preparado para la eventualidad? —Sí. Estoy preparado para el huracán.
Stephen King (Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption)
To a great extent, friluftsliv is made possible by the Swedish common law of allemansratten (the right of public access), which grants anybody the right to walk, ride a bike or horse, ski, pick berries, or camp anywhere on private land, except for the part that immediately surrounds a private dwelling. In short, that means you can pick mushrooms and flowers, as well as light a campfire and pitch a tent, in somebody else's woods, but not right in front of their house... allemansratten relies on an honor system that can simply be summed up with the phrase "Do not disturb, do not destroy," and trusts that people will use their common sense.
Linda Åkeson McGurk
We have all read about poverty and starvation around the world, but I never imagined I would be witnessing it firsthand. On one hand I wish I did not have to see this, but on the other I hope it causes me to never again take anything for granted. I hope this makes me appreciate every last thing I have been blessed with in life.
Bryan A. Wood (Unspoken Abandonment: Sometimes the hardest part of going to war is coming home)
Having been battered by the world in his earlier years, he had come to rely on family and friends and never forgot that lesson. When he offered an appointment to a former St. Louis friend, the man felt obliged to point out that he was a Democrat. Grant waved away this concern. “Just before the Civil War,” he said, “when I was standing on a street corner in St. Louis by a wagon loaded with wood, you approached and said: ‘Captain, haven’t you been able to sell your wood?’ I answered: ‘No.’ Then you said: ‘I’ll buy it; and whenever you haul a load of wood to the city and can’t sell it, just take it around to my residence . . . and I’ll pay you for it.’ I haven’t forgotten it.
Ron Chernow (Grant)
She stood tall and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll have you know I was the best student in my high school shop class.” Grant’s expression of surprise slowly transitioned into a devious grin. “Guess it makes sense. You’re great working with wood.” She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help laughing. “Really, Grant?” He shrugged. “Just trying to make you smile.
Ranae Rose (Gemini Rising (Tempting Signs Book 3))
Out of the blue, a veteran named Charles Wood, manager of a brush factory in upstate New York, sent Grant a $500 check and offered him a $1,000 interest-free loan for a year, renewable if necessary. Grant accepted this charity with everlasting relief. In his note, Wood tipped his hat to Grant by saying the payment was “for services ending about April 1865.”77
Ron Chernow (Grant)
You don't usually come back from walking the dog with women who look like they just escaped from The Care Bears Meet Mad Max. (Tom) To be fair, that's less a statement of the sort of things I'm likely to find interesting, and more a critique of the available resources. If the woods gave me more Mad Max refugees, I would definitely bring them home. (Dr. Abbey)
Mira Grant
How happily we explored our shiny new world! We lived like characters from the great books I curled up with in the big Draylon armchair. Like Jack Kerouak, like Gatsby, we created ourselves as we went along, a raggle-taggle of gypsies in old army overcoats and bell-bottoms, straggling through the fields that surrounded our granite farmhouse in search of firewood, which we dragged home and stacked in the living room. Ignorant and innocent, we acted as if the world belonged to us, as though we would ever have taken the time to hang the regency wallpaper we damaged so casually with half-rotten firewood, or would have known how to hang it straight, or smooth the seams. We broke logs against the massive tiled hearth and piled them against the sooty fire back, like the logs were tradition and we were burning it, like chimney fires could never happen, like the house didn't really belong to the poor divorcee who paid the rates and mortgage even as we sat around the flames like hunter gatherers, smoking Lebanese gold, chanting and playing the drums, dancing to the tortured music of Luke's guitar. Impelled by the rhythm, fortified by poorly digested scraps of Lao Tzu, we got up to dance, regardless of the coffee we knocked over onto the shag carpet. We sopped it up carelessly, or let it sit there as it would; later was time enough. We were committed to the moment. Everything was easy and beautiful if you looked at it right. If someone was angry, we walked down the other side of the street, sorry and amused at their loss of cool. We avoided newspapers and television. They were full of lies, and we knew all the stuff we needed. We spent our government grants on books, dope, acid, jug wine, and cheap food from the supermarket--variegated cheese scraps bundled roughly together, white cabbage and bacon ends, dented tins of tomatoes from the bargain bin. Everything was beautiful, the stars and the sunsets, the mold that someone discovered at the back of the fridge, the cows in the fields that kicked their giddy heels up in the air and fled as we ranged through the Yorkshire woods decked in daisy chains, necklaces made of melon seeds and tie-dye T-shirts whose colors stained the bath tub forever--an eternal reminder of the rainbow generation. [81-82]
Claire Robson (Love in Good Time: A Memoir)
We need daylight and to that extent it is utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that even the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity--so much lower than that of daylight--makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.
Richard Adams
I suddenly thought about my old girlfriend, the one I had first slept with in my third year of high school. Chills ran through me as I realized how badly I had treated her. I had hardly ever thought about her thoughts or feelings or the pain I had caused her. She was such a sweet and gentle thing, but at the time I had taken her sweetness for granted and later hardly gave her a second thought. What was she doing now? I wondered. And had she forgiven me?
Haruki Murakami (Norwegian Wood)
His arms surround me like a nice, yellow house. A warm house, a safe house, probably in the suburbs with a white picket fence. But your arms; they were a home. A home with an old soul (maybe a lake house in the fall) with a wood stove and kitchenette and a murphy bed imprinted with bodies shaped like ours. Granted, there were a few leaks here and there, and the wind got in at night, but I don’t remember ever feeling cold. My head wants the house, but no matter how I try, my heart just wants to go home. The heart wants what it wants
Emily Byrnes (Things I Learned in the Night)
But there will come a time, soon enough, when even that ancient wood will fall to the axe, to grant man his grazing land, his settlements, his towers and walls. He thinks, in his ignorance, to tame the very earth, to force the very ocean to his will. And so he will lay waste the body of the mother who gave him birth; and will not know what he does. The old ways will be forgotten, Fainne, no matter what we do. A new age begins; an age of darkness in which those who walk the earth are cut off from the very things which give them life.
Juliet Marillier (Child of the Prophecy (Sevenwaters, #3))
Now ease off the brake, I mean flip-flop.” The truck crawled backward. “Now, when you’re far enough back, step on the brake again.” The edge of the woods came closer. “Good. Just a little more.” We went another few feet. “Okay, stop.” The truck kept going. “Brake Morgan.” “Which one’s the brake?” “Left, I mean, flip-flop.” The truck jerked to a stop. I slammed my hand against the dash to keep from getting thrown around. “You’re not a very good copilot, Grant.” “You’re not a very good pilot.” “That’s because I don’t know how to drive.” Morgan flexed his hand on the steering wheel. I counted to ten before saying anything. “Now you need to put the truck in drive and make a right… I mean bare foot.” The truck shot forward. “Stop, Morgan. Stop. Flip-flop.” It jerked to a stop hard enough to dump me into the floorboard and crack my head on the dash. “Fuck.” I struggled to get back into the seat. “Should have brought a helmet.” “If I’d known you were going to try to kill me, I would have.” “You’re the one who said bare foot.” “I meant direction.” “We didn’t discuss direction, just flip-flops and bare feet.
Adrienne Wilder (In the Absence of Light (Morgan & Grant, #1))
Most people cannot stand being alone for long. They are always seeking groups to belong to, and if one group dissolves, they look for another. We are group animals still, and there is nothing wrong with that. But what is dangerous is not the belonging to a group, or groups, but not understanding the social laws that govern groups and govern us. When we're in a group, we tend to think as that group does: we may even have joined the group to find "like-minded" people. But we also find our thinking changing because we belong to a group. It is the hardest thing in the world to maintain an individual dissent opinion, as a member of a group. It seems to me that this is something we have all experienced - something we take for granted, may never have thought about. But a great deal of experiment has gone on among psychologists and sociologists on this very theme. If I describe an experiment or two, then anyone listening who may be a sociologist or psychologist will groan, oh God not again - for they have heard of these classic experiments far too often. My guess is that the rest of the people will never have had these ideas presented to them. If my guess is true, then it aptly illustrates general thesis, and the general idea behind these essays, that we (the human race) are now in possession of a great deal of hard information about ourselves, but we do not use it to improve our institutions and therefore our lives. A typical test, or experiment, on this theme goes like this. A group of people are taken into the researcher's confidence. A minority of one or two are left in the dark. Some situation demanding measurement or assessment is chosen. For instance, comparing lengths of wood that differ only a little from each other, but enough to be perceptible, or shapes that are almost the same size. The majority in the group - according to instruction- will assert stubbornly that these two shapes or lengths are the same length, or size, while the solitary individual, or the couple, who have not been so instructed will assert that the pieces of wood or whatever are different. But the majority will continue to insist - speaking metaphorically - that black is white, and after a period of exasperation, irritation, even anger, certainly incomprehension, the minority will fall into line. Not always but nearly always. There are indeed glorious individualists who stubbornly insist on telling the truth as they see it, but most give in to the majority opinion, obey the atmosphere. When put as baldly, as unflatteringly, as this, reactions tend to be incredulous: "I certainly wouldn't give in, I speak my mind..." But would you? People who have experienced a lot of groups, who perhaps have observed their own behaviour, may agree that the hardest thing in the world is to stand out against one's group, a group of one's peers. Many agree that among our most shameful memories is this, how often we said black was white because other people were saying it. In other words, we know that this is true of human behaviour, but how do we know it? It is one thing to admit it in a vague uncomfortable sort of way (which probably includes the hope that one will never again be in such a testing situation) but quite another to make that cool step into a kind of objectivity, where one may say, "Right, if that's what human beings are like, myself included, then let's admit it, examine and organize our attitudes accordingly.
Doris Lessing (Prisons We Choose to Live Inside)
The earth had granted me a lifeline, by letting me siphon off some of the water that was on its way somewhere else. Because of me, there would be less water flowing into the Chattahoochee River: less for the speckled trout, less for the wood ducks, less for the mountain laurel that drop their white petals into the river every fall. There would be more water flowing into my septic tank, laced with laundry detergent, dish soap, and human waste. At that moment of high awareness, I promised the land that I would go easy on the water. I would remember where it came from. I would remain grateful for the sacrifice.
Barbara Brown Taylor (Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith)
The simple answer is that I have changed my techniques in order to avoid the relentless sameness of my material, but I have probably only found new costumes, not new creatures entirely. In the past, if I wanted to sound a note on a piano (in prose), I didn’t just have to purchase and install the piano, I had to build it. But before I built it I had to grow the trees whose wood would yield the piano, and probably I had to create the soil and landscape through which those trees would burst. Then there was the problem of the fucking seeds. Where did they come from? I had to source them. With such mania I was either onto something or I completely misunderstood what a fiction writer was supposed to do. Simple things, even entirely undramatic ones, could not occur unless I created them from whole cloth. I was superstitious about taking anything for granted, but it also locked me into a kind of fanatical object fondling that could, on a bad day, preclude any exploration of the human (even though the process of trying to remake the world on the page is fairly, pathetically, human). This set of interests kept me away from what is usually called narrative. It wasn’t some ideological position, or an artistic stance, it was just one set of obsessions winning out over another. On the other hand, I think that I have always tried to create feeling, and then to pulse it into the reader with language. It’s very difficult to figure out how to do this. Storytelling is one way — conventional narrative or whatever you want to call it — but are there other methods worth exploring? The ground shifts, and I change my mind about what might work. How to create immense, unforgettable feeling from language? This ambition hasn’t really changed, it’s just that I want to cultivate new approaches, to try to circle in on a more vivid way to accomplish it.
Ben Marcus
Mahomet now proceeded to execute the great object of his religious aspirations, the purifying of the sacred edifice from the symbols of idolatry, with which it was crowded. All the idols in and about it, to the number of three hundred and sixty, were thrown down and de-stroyed. Among these, the most renowned was Hobal, an idol brought from Balka, in Syria, and fabled to have the power of granting rain. It was, of course, a great object of worship among the inhabitants of the thirsty desert. There were statues of Abraham and Ishmael also, represented with divining arrows in their hands ; "an outrage on their memories," said Mahomet, "being symbols of a diabolical art which they had never prac-ticed." In reverence of their memories, therefore, these statues were demolished. There were paintings, also, depicting angels in the guise of beautiful women. " The angels," said Mahomet, indignantly, " are no such beings. There are celestial houris provided in paradise for the solace of true believers ; but angels are ministering spirits of the Most High, and of too pure a nature to admit of sex." The paintings were accordingly obliterated. Even a dove, curiously carved of wood, he broke with his own hands, and cast upon the ground, as savoring of idolatry.
Washington Irving (Life of Mohammed)
A story is told about David as a young boy in King Saul’s court. He asked permission to play on a beautiful harp that was sitting unused in the throne room. King Saul said: “It’s useless. I have been cheated. I paid a great deal for that harp because it was spoken of highly. But the best harpists have tried it, and it was painful to hear the ugly sounds it produced. It’s the worst harp that you could imagine.” David persisted; and because the king loved him greatly, he granted David permission to play it. The music was so beautiful that all the court wept. They had been moved to the depths of their hearts. “How is it,” demanded King Saul, “that so many tried to play this harp, and only you succeeded?” David replied, “All the others tried to play their own songs, and the harp refused to yield to their wishes. I played to the harp its own song. You saw its joy when I reminded it of the days when it was a young tree in the forest. I told it about sunbeams playing in its branches, about chirping birds and about lovers embracing each other in its shadow. The harp was glad to remember those days. “I told the story of the evil men who came and cut down the innocent tree. It was a sad day. Its life as a tree had finished. However, I told the harp that death cannot triumph over life. The tree has died as a tree, but its wood has become a harp, which can sing forever the glories of the eternal God. And the harp, which had wept when I told about her death, now rejoiced.
Richard Wurmbrand (The Midnight Bride)
No, pardon me, I consider myself and people like me aristocrats: people who can point back to three or four honourable generations of their family, all with a high standard of education (talent and intelligence are a different matter), who have never cringed before anyone, never depended on anyone, but have lived as my father and my grandfather did. I know many such. You consider it mean for me to count the trees in my wood while you give Ryabinin thirty thousand roubles; but you will receive a Goernment grant and I don't know what other award, and I shan't, so I value what is mine by birth and labour... We - and not those who only manage to exist by the bounty of the mighty of this world, and who can be bought for a piece of silver - are the aristocrats. -Levin
Leo Tolstoy
The scene unfolded before him as though he were a ghost. His mother stood on the raised stump, her body tied to the tall stake behind her. A pile of wood encircled her feet. Only a small crowd had gathered in the courtyard, despite his father’s commands that all should attend. Alasdair sobbed at her feet, calling out to her. The young Alasdair climbed on the pile and clutched her flowing gown. She had been dressed in her finest, not stripped down to her chemise like the handmaid who stood tied to a post beside her. His father had always liked a display. Alasdair’s hands reached and passed over his mother’s large pregnant belly. With that, she sobbed, too. “Oh, Ali, be good for Momma. I’ll see you in the pearly white heaven that God has promised us. Be steadfast, son. Trust your heart.” “Light it,” his father ordered.
Jean M. Grant (A Hundred Kisses)
light is not a part of the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us, but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight and to that extent it is utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse’s mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that even the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer
Richard Adams (Watership Down)
She clambered to the shoreline. Numb and shaken, she began to dress. It wasn’t easy as she fumbled with slick fingers to put dry clothes over wet skin. She instantly regretted her naked swim. She pulled on her long-sleeved white chemise first. She faced the forest, away from her rescuer. He quietly splashed to shore. His lifeblood burned into her back. He wasn’t far behind, but he stopped. She refused to look at him until she was fully clothed, not out of embarrassment of her nudity, but for what had just happened. He released a groan and mumbled under his breath about wet boots. His voice was not one of her father’s soldiers. When she put the last garment on, her brown wool work kirtle, she squeezed out her sopping hair and swept her hands through the knotty mess. She fastened her belt and tied the lacings up the front of the kirtle. Blood returned to her fingertips, and she regained her composure. Belated awareness struck her, and she leaned down and searched through her bag for her dagger. She spun around. She gasped as she saw the man sitting on the stone-covered shoreline, his wet boots off. Confusion and the hint of a scowl filled his strong-featured face. She staggered back, caught her heel on a stone, and fell, dropping the dagger. Dirt and pebbles stuck to her wet hands and feet, and she instinctively scrambled away from him. His glower, iridescent dark blue eyes, and disheveled black hair were not unfamiliar. Staring at her was the man she had seen in her dream – it was the man from the wood.
Jean M. Grant (A Hundred Kisses)
Ione II. 'TWAS in the radiant summer weather, When God looked, smiling, from the sky; And we went wand'ring much together By wood and lane, Ione and I, Attracted by the subtle tie Of common thoughts and common tastes, Of eyes whose vision saw the same, And freely granted beauty's claim Where others found but worthless wastes. We paused to hear the far bells ringing Across the distance, sweet and clear. We listened to the wild bird's singing The song he meant for his mate's ear, And deemed our chance to do so dear. We loved to watch the warrior Sun, With flaming shield and flaunting crest, Go striding down the gory West, When Day's long fight was fought and won. And life became a different story; Where'er I looked, I saw new light. Earth's self assumed a greater glory, Mine eyes were cleared to fuller sight. Then first I saw the need and might Of that fair band, the singing throng, Who, gifted with the skill divine, Take up the threads of life, spun fine, And weave them into soulful song. They sung for me, whose passion pressing My soul, found vent in song nor line. They bore the burden of expressing All that I felt, with art's design, And every word of theirs was mine. I read them to Ione, ofttimes, By hill and shore, beneath fair skies, And she looked deeply in mine eyes, And knew my love spoke through their rhymes. Her life was like the stream that floweth, And mine was like the waiting sea; Her love was like the flower that bloweth, And mine was like the searching bee — I found her sweetness all for me. God plied him in the mint of time, And coined for us a golden day, And rolled it ringing down life's way With love's sweet music in its chime. And God unclasped the Book of Ages, And laid it open to our sight; Upon the dimness of its pages, So long consigned to rayless night, He shed the glory of his light. We read them well, we read them long, And ever thrilling did we see That love ruled all humanity, — The master passion, pure and strong.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
But I was learning forgiveness didn't have to be about granting absolution for sins but being able to find freedom from pain.
Heather Topham Wood (Falling for Autumn (Falling for Autumn, #1))
When you live in the mountains, there are signs every day that life is changing. The terrain shifts when the mountains settle, and sometimes streams disappear never to return. One year you might find sweet raspberries growing by a field, and the very next summer they['re gone. Take nothing for granted, because if you do, it will surely go. If an old tree gets leveled by lightening, it reminds you that you're vulnerable too. And even though these woods are loaded with trees, when one falls, you miss it.
Adriana Trigiani (Milk Glass Moon (Big Stone Gap, #3))
When one experiences silence, absent even reading, the cerebral cortex typically rests. Meanwhile, deeper and more ancient brain structures seem to be activated—the subcortical zones. People who live busy, noisy lives are rarely granted access to these areas. Silence, it appears, is not the opposite of sound. It is another world altogether, literally offering a deeper level of thought, a journey to the bedrock of the self.
Michael Finkel (The Stranger in the Woods: The Extraordinary Story of the Last True Hermit)
A man from the wood. A stranger from afar. He will break the curse by a hundred kisses...
Jean M. Grant (A Hundred Kisses)
Grant I have bad news. The networks don't want you to come pitch the show. Instead, they want to start shooting right away.” The first thing I thought of was the guy who had told me, “For every TV show that gets made, 300 are pitched.” The second thing I thought of was the person who told me that no one wanted to see a show on sales. (Stay focused on the future, be unreasonable about it, continue to add wood, and don't focus on what people say has been done, can be done, or is possible!)
Grant Cardone (The 10X Rule: The Only Difference Between Success and Failure)
Today’s Children, The Woman in White, and The Guiding Light crossed over and interchanged in respective storylines.) June 2, 1947–June 29, 1956, CBS. 15m weekdays at 1:45. Procter & Gamble’s Duz Detergent. CAST: 1937 to mid-1940s: Arthur Peterson as the Rev. John Ruthledge of Five Points, the serial’s first protagonist. Mercedes McCambridge as Mary Ruthledge, his daughter; Sarajane Wells later as Mary. Ed Prentiss as Ned Holden, who was abandoned by his mother as a child and taken in by the Ruthledges; Ned LeFevre and John Hodiak also as Ned. Ruth Bailey as Rose Kransky; Charlotte Manson also as Rose. Mignon Schrieber as Mrs. Kransky. Seymour Young as Jacob Kransky, Rose’s brother. Sam Wanamaker as Ellis Smith, the enigmatic “Nobody from Nowhere”; Phil Dakin and Raymond Edward Johnson also as Ellis. Henrietta Tedro as Ellen, the housekeeper. Margaret Fuller and Muriel Bremner as Fredrika Lang. Gladys Heen as Torchy Reynolds. Bill Bouchey as Charles Cunningham. Lesley Woods and Carolyn McKay as Celeste, his wife. Laurette Fillbrandt as Nancy Stewart. Frank Behrens as the Rev. Tom Bannion, Ruthledge’s assistant. The Greenman family, early characters: Eloise Kummer as Norma; Reese Taylor and Ken Griffin as Ed; Norma Jean Ross as Ronnie, their daughter. Transition from clergy to medical background, mid-1940s: John Barclay as Dr. Richard Gaylord. Jane Webb as Peggy Gaylord. Hugh Studebaker as Dr. Charles Matthews. Willard Waterman as Roger Barton (alias Ray Brandon). Betty Lou Gerson as Charlotte Wilson. Ned LeFevre as Ned Holden. Tom Holland as Eddie Bingham. Mary Lansing as Julie Collins. 1950s: Jone Allison as Meta Bauer. Lyle Sudrow as Bill Bauer. Charita Bauer as Bert, Bill’s wife, a role she would carry into television and play for three decades. Laurette Fillbrandt as Trudy Bauer. Glenn Walken as little Michael. Theo Goetz as Papa Bauer. James Lipton as Dr. Dick Grant. Lynn Rogers as Marie Wallace, the artist.
John Dunning (On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio)
odors
T.E. Woods (The Unforgivable Fix (Mort Grant #3))
Already, this little-walked gigantic trail through my country’s Western wilderness held in my mind the promise of escape from myself, the liberation only a huge transformation could grant me. This walk would be my salvation. It had to be.
Aspen Matis (Girl in the Woods: A Memoir)
It’s not fair, Mort. This love we lavish on our children. The protection. The guidance. It’s a perverse joke to think we can mold or shape the behaviors and thoughts of those we love.” Larry took a long pull from his own beer. “The twisted reality is we are powerless to make anyone do anything. To think anything. To love or respect anything. And yet we keep on trying, don’t we?
T.E. Woods (Fixed in Blood (Mort Grant #4))
You love each other. You love each other; and a man and woman in love have a gift of sight that’s not granted to other folk. [Rubbing her hands together.] Ho, ho! I’ve watched you; I’ve watched you from the beginning; and on the day of your wedding I saw your love blaze up like dry kindling-wood when you set a match to it. Keep your love burning; keep it burning, and I promise you you’ll never be anything to one another but fair and bonny. [Throwing up her arms wildly and beating her brow.] Ah! Ah! Scarecrow—scarecrow that I am, if my man could rise out of his grave and walk in at this minute, I should be pretty to him; I should be pretty to him. [Walking, with a swaying gait, to the passage, her voice dying to a moan.] Pretty to him! Pretty to him! Pretty to him!
Arthur Wing Pinero (The Enchanted Cottage)
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017 Jacket photography © Plain Picture / Hanka Steidle Extract of The Lonely City (2016) by Olivia Laing reproduced by permission from Canongate Books Ltd Gail Honeyman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008172114 Ebook Edition © May 2017 ISBN: 9780008172138 Version: 2018-10-18 Praise for Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine ‘Eleanor Oliphant is a truly original literary creation: funny, touching, and unpredictable. Her journey out of dark shadows is expertly woven and absolutely gripping’ Jojo Moyes, Me Before You ‘A highly readable but beautifully written story that’s as perceptive and wise as it is funny and endearing … warm, funny and thought-provoking’ Observer ‘At times dark and poignant, at others bright and blissfully funny … a story about loneliness and friendship, and a careful study of abuse, buried grief and resilience. A debut to treasure’ Gavin Extence, The Universe Versus Alex Woods ‘Gail Honeyman’s Eleanor Oliphant is a woman scarred by profound loneliness, and the shadow of a harrowing childhood she can’t even bear to remember. Deft, compassionate and deeply moving – Honeyman’s debut will have you rooting for Eleanor with every turning page’ Paula McClain, The Paris Wife ‘So powerful – I completely loved Eleanor Oliphant’ Fiona Barton, The Widow ‘An absolute joy, laugh-out-loud funny but deeply moving
Gail Honeyman (Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine)
Hermes, the darling of the gods, had a son, and Aphrodite, the divine beauty, a daughter. The two children were perfect models of beauty. Yet they had never seen each other before when one day they confronted each other in the Wood of the Gods. The girl was immediately enamoured of the boy; but the boy fled from her. However fast she ran after him, he ran faster still. In despair the divine maiden turned to Zeus and bewailed to him her love torment. ‘I love him, father, but he has fled from me. He will have nothing to do with me. Oh, father, grant that I become one with him.’ And Zeus heard the prayer of the divine child, and he raised his arm, and the next moment the shy son of Hermes stood before the Olympian, and Aphrodite’s daughter shouted with glee and embraced the trembling youngster. Again Zeus raised his arm – whereupon both melted into each other. When Hermes and Aphrodite sought after their children, they found a blissfully smiling divine child. ‘It is my son!’ cried Hermes. ‘No, it is my daughter!’ cried Aphrodite. They were both right.
Lili Elbe (Lili: A Portrait of the First Sex Change)
Then, coming to itself, the intellect recognizes its proper dignity - to be master of itself - and is able to see things as they truly are; for its eye, made blind by the devil through the tyranny of the passions, is opened. Then man is granted the grace to be buried spiritually with Christ, so that he is set free from the things of this world and no longer captivated by external beauty. He looks upon gold and silver and precious stones, and he knows that like other inanimate things such as wood and rock they are of the earth, and that man, too, is after death a bit of dust and mould in the tomb. Regarding all the delectations of this life as nothing, he looks upon their continual alteration with the judgment that comes from spiritual knowledge. Gladly he dies to the world, and the world becomes dead to him: he no longer has any violent feeling within him, but only calmness and detachment.
St. Peter of Damascus
Since they were made by hand, no two long rifles were exactly alike. Granted, the majority might appear very similar to anyone except their rightful owner. But look closer, and each weapon's uniqueness became obvious. Small variations in the wood furniture or the fittings were of course to be expected. Much larger innovations were also common—Sergeant Murphy, for instance, was believed to have had a double-barreled rifle. It was an over-under design, with one barrel above the other. The arrangement would have made it quicker for him to get off a second shot, a key asset in battle as well as hunting.
Chris Kyle (American Gun: A History of the U.S. in Ten Firearms)
invite him along. Despite never having skied in his life, the
T.E. Woods (The Unforgivable Fix (Mort Grant #3))
Language and hearing are seated in the cerebral cortex, the folded gray matter that covers the first couple of millimeters of the outer brain like wrapping paper. When one experiences silence, absent even reading, the cerebral cortex typically rests. Meanwhile, deeper and more ancient brain structures seem to be activated—the subcortical zones. People who live busy, noisy lives are rarely granted access to these areas. Silence, it appears, is not the opposite of sound. It is another world altogether, literally offering a deeper level of thought, a journey to the bedrock of the self.
Michael Finkel (The Stranger in the Woods: The Extraordinary Story of the Last True Hermit)
Corruption is taken for granted, even grudgingly admired: the guerrilla cunning of the colonised is still ingrained into us, and tax evasion and shady deals are seen as forms of the same spirit of rebellion that hid horses and seed potatoes from the British.
Tana French (In the Woods (Dublin Murder Squad, #1))
Switches were brought in bundles, from a beech wood near the school house, by the boys for whose benefit they were intended. Often a whole bundle would be used up in a single day. I never had any hard feelings against my teacher, either while attending the school, or in later years when reflecting upon my experience. Mr. White was a kindhearted man, and was much respected by the community in which he lived. He only followed the universal custom of the period, and that under which he had received his own education. CHAPTER II.
Ulysses S. Grant (Personal Memoirs of U.S. Grant: All Volumes)
Firth and Stone came to relieve us, something I always looked forward to. I loved Firth. “Karish, my beautiful, my one, my only,” she crowed, as she always did. Karish, who had risen to his feet as the ladies entered, scooped up Firth’s hand. As he always did. “Claire, my lovely,” he said in a voice as smooth as sanded wood. “It is a treasure to see you, as always.” “You liar,” she retorted. “You’re such a tease.” That was a little blunter than usual. Fun to see Karish gape like a fish, though. “I never am,” he protested. “Sure you are, lad. All heat and promises and just when you get a girl all worked up you slither out of it.” Karish blushed. I cackled. Stone smirked. Granted, I wouldn’t want a man as old as Firth drooling all over me, but Karish asked for it. He was something of a slut and wore the reputation almost proudly. From what I understood, Firth was a slut, too, and she’d had many more years to practise it. She knew how to make the elegant, confident, suave Lord Shintaro Karish blush in a way no one else could, and it delighted me every time I saw it. He should have learned to back off by then. On the other hand, he might have forgotten after all that time spent away from High Scape. For certain he beat a hasty retreat out of there, taking me with him. “Rrrrr,” Karish growled, once I closed the door behind us. “You have too much fun with her.” Hey, it wasn’t my fault. He’d started it the year before by oozing all over Firth when they met. “I have nothing to do with it.” “No, you just sit back and laugh.” He sounded almost bitter about it. “Poor boy.” My feigned sympathy couldn’t have sounded more false. “Can dish it out but you can’t take it.” He appeared scandalized. “I never behave like that.” He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder at the Stall. “No, you’re a little more subtle, but give it time.” He huffed. “I will never act that way.” “All right.” We’d wait and see. When his looks began to fade a little. In twenty years or so. “Brat.” He took my hand, and we trudged through the snow back towards the city
Moira J. Moore (The Hero Strikes Back (Hero, #2))
Hunter woke suddenly. A noise. It was a noise unlike anything he’d ever heard before. Close! Very close. Like it was on him. Like it was . . . Just in one ear. He twisted his head. It was full night. Black as black in the woods far from the starlight. He couldn’t see anything. But with his hands he could feel. The thing on his shoulder. His ear . . . gone! A terrible fear wrung a cry of horror from Hunter. He couldn’t feel it, his ear, or his shoulder, couldn’t feel with anything but his fingers and he felt, reached beneath his shirt, felt the flesh of his belly pulse and heave. Like something inside him. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! He was Hunter. The hunter. He was doing his best. He cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Who would bring meat for all the kids? It wasn’t fair. The sound of munching, crunching started again. Just in one ear. Hunter had only one weapon: the heat-causing power in his hands. He had used it many, many times to take the life of prey. He had fed the kids with that power. And in a moment of fear and rage he had accidentally taken the life of his friend, Harry. Maybe he could kill the thing that was eating his ear. But it was too late for that to help. Could he kill himself? He saw Old Lion’s head, eyes closed, hanging where he’d hung him for skinning. If Old Lion could die, so could Hunter. Maybe they would meet again, up in the sky. Hunter pressed both palms against his head.
Michael Grant (Plague (Gone, #4))
Within a month of their taking up their residence in Half Moon Street, it had been borne in upon his lordship that his wife was no more fit to carve her way through life than the kitten he called her. His lordship, who had never known responsibility, or shown the least ability to regulate his own career on respectable lines, found himself sole lord and master of a confiding little creature who placed implicit faith in his judgement, and relied upon him not only to guide her footsteps, but to rescue her from the consequences of her own ignorance. A man with a colder heart than Sherry's would have shrugged and turned a blind eye to his wife's difficulties. But the Viscount's heart was not cold, and just as his protective instinct had one night made him search all night through the woods at Sheringham Place for a favorite dog which had dug deep into a rabbit burrow and had been trapped there, so it compelled him to take such care of his Hero as occurred to him. She had always looked up and adored him, and while he took this for granted he was by no means oblivious to it, and did his best to be kind to her. He was amused, but a little touched, to discover that no deeper felicity was known to her than to go about in his company; she would grow out of that soon enough, he supposed, quite forgetting that when she had shown a willingness to go out with Lord Wrotham the instinct of possessiveness in him had led him to discourage such practices in no uncertain manner.
Georgette Heyer (Friday's Child)
Myths are an easy shorthand for teaching cultural norms. Knocking on wood to warn off the jealous fairy folk reminds us, ‘Don’t take your good luck for granted!
Zoe Fraade-Blanar (Superfandom: How Our Obsessions are Changing What We Buy and Who We Are)
Maybe the fact that nobody believes in magic and wood sprites and happiness is the problem of the day. [Ludi]
Richard Grant (Understanding These Other Christians: An LDS Introduction to Evangelical Christianity)
Another
T.E. Woods (The Fixer (Mort Grant, #1))
PROGRESSIVE HEALTH     We here at Progressive Health would like to thank you For being one of the generous few who’ve promised To bequeath your vital organs to whoever needs them.   Now we’d like to give you the opportunity To step out far in front of the other donors By acting a little sooner than you expected,   Tomorrow, to be precise, the day you’re scheduled To come in for your yearly physical. Six patients Are waiting this very minute in intensive care   Who will likely die before another liver And spleen and pairs of lungs and kidneys Match theirs as closely as yours do. Twenty years,   Maybe more, are left you, granted, but the gain Of these patients might total more than a century. To you, of course, one year of your life means more   Than six of theirs, but to no one else, No one as concerned with the general welfare As you’ve claimed to be. As for your poems—   The few you may have it in you to finish— Even if we don’t judge them by those you’ve written, Even if we assume you finally stage a breakthrough,   It’s doubtful they’ll raise one Lazarus from a grave Metaphoric or literal. But your body is guaranteed To work six wonders. As for the gaps you’ll leave As an aging bachelor in the life of friends, They’ll close far sooner than the open wounds Soon to be left in the hearts of husbands and wives,   Parents and children, by the death of the six Who now are failing. Just imagine how grateful They’ll all be when they hear of your grand gesture.   Summer and winter they’ll visit your grave, in shifts, For as long as they live, and stoop to tend it, And leave it adorned with flowers or holly wreaths,   While your friends, who are just as forgetful As you are, just as liable to be distracted, Will do no more than a makeshift job of upkeep.   If the people you’ll see tomorrow pacing the halls Of our crowded facility don’t move you enough, They’ll make you at least uneasy. No happy future   Is likely in store for a man like you whose conscience Will ask him to certify every hour from now on Six times as full as it was before, your work   Six times as strenuous, your walks in the woods Six times as restorative as anyone else’s. Why be a drudge, staggering to the end of your life   Under this crushing burden when, with a single word, You could be a god, one of the few gods Who, when called on, really listens?
Carl Dennis (Practical Gods (Poets, Penguin))
houses. I remember the first time I ever climbed a Roman staircase, and how odd it felt, and I knew that in times gone by men must have taken such things for granted. Now the world was dung and straw and damp-ridden wood. We had stone masons, of course, but it was quicker to build from wood, and the wood rotted, but no one seemed to care. The whole
Bernard Cornwell (Sword Song (The Last Kingdom, #4))
battles between factions increased and became more violent, things we had taken for granted became scarce. Gas and electricity were even more frequently turned off. At first we foraged for firewood from trees and shrubs. Then, desperate, we burned dry cow dung. Fuel was soon gone as everyone in the great city struggled to stay warm. We began to break up and burn the wood furniture in our house—a treasured blanket chest that was a family heirloom, our chairs and beds. Piece by piece the frigid hand of war shattered all that was comfortable and ordinary in our lives.
Samaa Habib (Face to Face with Jesus: A Former Muslim's Extraordinary Journey to Heaven and Encounter with the God of Love)
Mr. Bear and Mr. Rabbit didn’t like each other very much. One day, while walking through the woods, they came across a golden frog. They were amazed when the frog talked to them. The golden frog admitted that he didn’t often meet anyone, but when he did, he always gave them six wishes. He told the bear and the rabbit that they could have three wishes each. Mr. Bear immediately wished that all the other bears in the forest were females. The frog granted his wish. Mr. Rabbit, after thinking for a while, wished for a crash helmet. One appeared immediately, and he placed it on his head. Mr. Bear was amazed at Mr. Rabbit’s wish, but carried on with his second wish, which was that all the bears in the neighboring forests were females as well. The frog granted his wish. Mr. Rabbit then wished for a motorcycle. It appeared before him, and he climbed on board and started revving the engine. Mr. Bear complained that Mr. Rabbit had wasted two wishes that he could have had for himself. Shaking his head, Mr. Bear made his final wish, that all the other bears in the world were females as well, making him the only male bear in the world. “So let it be done,” said the frog. At that point they both turned to Mr. Rabbit, curious as to what his last wish might be. Mr. Rabbit revved the engine, thought for a second, then said, “I wish that Mr. Bear was gay!” and he rode off as fast as he could!
Barry Dougherty (Friars Club Private Joke File: More Than 2,000 Very Naughty Jokes from the Grand Masters of Comedy)
skills were needed, and someone inside that cottage was undoubtedly injured or ill. She moved toward the door and was wondering whether to open it or knock first when it flew open, and her kidnapper tugged her inside. “Over there.” He pointed toward the back of the cottage near the hearth. She stood long enough to notice the two guards on either side of the doorway. Which one was the chief? “Stop gawking and move on over. The one on the pallet needs you. Now heal him. I will get more wood to warm the cabin.” The door slammed behind him. The guards at the door ignored her. Clearly they were not in charge. She blocked them out so she could focus on her new patient and do what needed to be done so she could return home. As
Keira Montclair (Healing a Highlander's Heart (Clan Grant, #2))
When he had gone, I suddenly thought about my old girlfriend, the one I had first slept with in my third year of high school. Chills ran through me as I realized how badly I had treated her. I had hardly ever thought about her thoughts or feelings or the pain I had caused her. She was such a sweet and gentle thing, but at the time I had taken her sweetness for granted and later hardly gave her a second thought. What was she doing now? I wondered. And had she forgiven me?
Haruki Murakami (Norwegian Wood)
The year used once to begin in March. That was simple and natural—to let it start on its course with the first warmer breath of returning spring. It begins now in January—which has nothing to recommend it. I am not sure that Nature does not show us it really begins on the first of October. “October!” you cry, “when all is changing and dying! when trees shed their leaves, when creepers crimson, when summer singers desert our woods, when flowers grow scanty in field or hedgerow! What promise then of spring? What glad signs of a beginning?” Even so things look at a superficial glance. Autumn, you would think, is the season of decay, of death, of dissolution, the end of all things, without hope or symbol of rejuvenescence. Yet look a little closer as you walk along the lanes, between the golden bracken, more glorious as it fades, and you will soon see that the cycle of the year’s life begins much more truly in October than at any other date in the shifting twelvemonth you can easily fix for it.
Grant Allen (Moorland Idylls)
In ancient Greece, Plutarch wrote of a wooden ship that Theseus sailed from Crete to Athens. To preserve the ship, as its old planks decayed, Athenians would replace them with new wood. Eventually all the planks had been replaced. It looked like the same ship, but none of its parts was the same. Was it still the same ship? Later, philosophers added a wrinkle: if you collected all the original planks and fashioned them into a ship, would that be the same ship?
Adam M. Grant (Think Again: The Power of Knowing What You Don't Know)
The Earth is the same as the cauldron, Tricia. The nurturing power of the feminine grows something wonderful from the dark womb that is our Mother Earth. Although most people take this for granted because they are disconnected from the natural world, it is still true. The Mother gives us everything: air, food, water, all our plants, our trees, our wood, our fabrics, even our animals. It’s all offered from the bounty of the Mother. Life germinates in the womb. This is true for all creatures. It is part of the Great Mystery of life, death, and rebirth. Cauldrons represent the alchemical laboratories that symbolize the nature of women and sacred life. This is also why the cauldron was used in alchemy.
Tricia McCannon (Return of the Divine Sophia: Healing the Earth through the Lost Wisdom Teachings of Jesus, Isis, and Mary Magdalene)
If you’re afraid of wolves,’ said Varvara Sidorovna, ‘don’t go to the woods.
Ben Aaronovitch (Broken Homes (Peter Grant, #4))
Sometimes on the front porch, sometimes at the river, sometimes up by the pond. Didn’t matter where: that was our thing, talking in the evenings. What we’d done at work, who we’d seen. That was all good and well, but there was more. We’d talk about what we wanted out of life. We’d talk about the future. Updates we might make to the farm. Places we wanted to take our children. How we wanted to be.
Kimi Cunningham Grant (These Silent Woods)