Gray Area Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Gray Area. Here they are! All 175 of them:

Sometimes it's better to stop trying to make sense of things. Life isn't clear cut, there are always gray areas.
Alexandra Adornetto (Halo (Halo, #1))
When a question has no correct answer, there is only one honest response. The gray area between yes and no. Silence.
Dan Brown (The Da Vinci Code (Robert Langdon, #2))
I think people understand things different when they get older. It’s not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I’m just understanding things different. Better.
Jeff Lindsay (Darkly Dreaming Dexter (Dexter, #1))
It’s not all black and white, good and bad. Peoples actions...their motives...there are” - he circled his hands in the air - “gray areas.
Marissa Meyer (Archenemies (Renegades, #2))
The first slide says: SEXUAL EXPERIMENTATION WITH FOREIGN MONARCHS: A GRAY AREA. Alex wonders if it’s too late to swan dive off the roof.
Casey McQuiston (Red, White & Royal Blue)
She'd been taught all her life not to attack humans, but knocking them unconscious with tranquilizer guns was more of a gray area.
Jennifer Lynn Barnes (Trial by Fire (Raised by Wolves, #2))
Fridays are absolutely without a doubt the best day of the week, five grueling days of the same routine seem to melt at three o'clock on Friday afternoon. There's a sense of magic there, everything smells better, tastes better, and the colors are brighter. As opposed to Sunday evenings when everything begins to get dim all over again.
Stefanie Ellis (Ashes (The Gray Area, #1))
When I learned about the gray existing between the black and white of absolute terms, I began to experience more peace. The more I expanded my gray areas (more than 50 shades), the more peace I experienced in my life.
David Walton Earle
Madrigal sniffed herself. "I'm almost sure I don't smell." "Maybe not, but between shining cleanliness and not smelling, there is a vast gray area.
Laini Taylor (Daughter of Smoke & Bone (Daughter of Smoke & Bone, #1))
I know," he said quietly. "But I also know there’s a thin line between good and evil. There’s a gray area, one we all step into.
J.M. Darhower (Extinguish (Extinguish, #1))
Not everything was black and white. It was often in the gray areas where the hardest decisions are made.
Aly Martinez (Written with Regret (The Regret Duet, #1))
Besides my professional goals, I have a couple of private ones, my man. One of those is to pet a kangaroo before I leave Australia. I understand there's lots of Eastern Grays around this area. What do you say? Are you in?' Bergman looked at him like he'd just made the worst financial investment of his life. 'Kangaroos are wild animals. I've heard they claw like girl fighters and kick like jackhammers. You're going to get your skull crushed.' Cole held up a finger. 'Or I'm going to pet a kangaroo. How cool would that be?
Jennifer Rardin (Bite Marks (Jaz Parks, #6))
It’s not black and white," he said. "If it were, I wouldn’t be here right now, and neither would you. We’re the gray area, angel. We’re the pieces of the puzzle they don’t know what to do with, the pieces that don’t quite fit into their perfect little picture, so they choose to discard us, to keep their image untainted,but we can only be ignored for so long.
J.M. Darhower (Extinguish (Extinguish, #1))
I don't want you to ever be touched by the gray areas I'm immersed in, baby. I want you clean. I want you to shine, just like you always do.
Maya Banks (Burn (Breathless, #3))
I’m not really interested in the black and white, the 'goodies and baddies.' I find the complexity of the gray areas more compelling, more intriguing. As I have said before, there are angels and demons in all of us, and I am interested in the relationship between the two within the ‘ordinary’ person.
Jacqueline Winspear
Right and wrong are determined by the people who hold positions of authority, that's the way it has always been so how then can anyone know this truth you speak of? Don't you see that truth long ago became a shadow of itself, it's a mere echo of the past now... The world is one big moral gray area, it just makes you feel safer that it can be categorized into good and bad that's not actually how it works.
Atsushi Ōkub
Patty: I'll be the good guy. Shermy: I'll be the bad guy. Patty: What are you going to be, Charlie Brown? Charlie Brown: I'll be sort of in-between; I'll be a hypocrite!
Charles M. Schulz (The Complete Peanuts, Vol. 1: 1950-1952)
You say that as if there were anyone else in this world I would want. You have no idea what I feel for you.” He blinked and spat out something I never would have expected. “There is no gray area for me where you’re concerned. I don’t share, and I expect nothing less from you.
Mariana Zapata (Kulti)
I’m sure there’s a lot of gray area when it comes to relationships and why we do what we do to connect, love, and navigate this crazy life.
Jewel E. Ann (When Life Happened)
It is debatable whether blind faith is truly faith at all. Faith is the perceptive gray area where scientific facts meet an individual's experiential truths - the extreme of the former is left feeling in the dark whereas the latter is caught blinded by the light. By proper scientific method, it is intellectually dishonest for me to declare the existence of God with utmost certainty, but to my individual spirit, I would be intellectually dishonest to deny the existence of God even for a second. This leaves the best of both worlds, as the believer is called to be able to give reasons for his faith, a deviation from mere fantasy.
Criss Jami (Killosophy)
Or was the “something” that had changed . . . me? There comes a moment in every relationship when taking up permanent residence in the gray area between what is and what isn’t is no longer enough. When the need for clarity surpasses the need to make things work. When you start to realize that the constant limbo of an undefined relationship isn’t as fun as it was when the music first started. When you have to seek your own closure, because the other person cannot or will not give it to you.
Mandy Hale (I've Never Been to Vegas, but My Luggage Has: Mishaps and Miracles on the Road to Happily Ever After)
Mr. Gray,” I mutter. He’s smiling again like the Big Bad Wolf who wants to eat me. And boy, do I want him to eat m– “I just happened to be in the area,” he says, cutting off my internal monologue. “I needed to pick up a few supplies, and here you are. What a pleasant surprise.” His voice is cool and husky like a Wendy’s Frosty shake, with just a little bit of grit (also like a Frosty).
Andrew Shaffer (Fifty-one Shades: A Parody (First Three Chapters))
Sometimes love is so intense that it turns into this gray area that borders on hate. That's what happens when the people you love have that type of power over you.
Julie Murphy
When a question has no correct answer, there is only one honest response. The gray area between yes and no. Silence.
Dan Brown (The Da Vinci Code (Robert Langdon, #2))
I love the gray area between right and wrong.
Dan Brown
We live in a society where people feel they have to be right, no matter what. If we subscribe to that narrow view, the critical gray area is compromised.
Carlos Wallace (The Other 99 T.Y.M.E.S: Train Your Mind to Enjoy Serenity)
Life's more interesting with gray areas.
Kendare Blake (Girl of Nightmares (Anna, #2))
Know what’s worse than cold turkey? Just a little bump. One tiny sip to take the edge off. The edges never went away, they only got sharper. Every addict would tell you. Gray areas couldn’t exist in a sober environment.
A. Zavarelli (Stutter (Bleeding Hearts #2))
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)
Do I abide by the black-and-white limits I’ve set for myself because that’s who I truly am or because that’s who I am while being judged? And how far into that gray area might I venture before I go running back to my familiar boundaries?
K.A. Tucker (Chasing River (Burying Water, #3))
In comparison with the Genesis myth, the modern myth in which humanity is marching to a better future is mere superstition. As the Genesis story teaches, knowledge cannot save us from ourselves. If we know more than before, it means only that we have greater scope to enact our madness. But – as the Genesis myth also teaches – there is no way we can rid ourselves of what we know . . . The message of Genesis is that in the most vital areas of human life there can be no progress, only an unending struggle with our nature.
John N. Gray (The Silence of Animals: On Progress and Other Modern Myths)
More than anything else, we have to imagine a different kind of life, a different way of living. We have to reject the shiny, shallow future that will never come, and locate ourselves in the current, flawed moment. Despite what we've been taught, we are neither eternally blessed nor eternally damned. We are blessed and damned and everything in between. Instead of toggling between victory and defeat, we have to learnt to live in the middle, in the gray area, where a real life can unfold in its own time. We have to breathe in reality instead of distracting ourselves around the clock. We have to open our eyes and our hearts to each other. We have to connect with what already is, who we already are, what we already have.
Heather Havrilesky (What If This Were Enough?: Essays)
Good listeners have negative capability. They are able to cope with contradictory ideas and gray areas. Good listeners know there is usually more to the story than first appears and are not so eager for tidy reasoning and immediate answers, which is perhaps the opposite to being narrow-minded...In the psychological literature, negative capability is known as cognitive complexity, which research shows is positively related to self-compassion and negatively related to dogmatism.
Kate Murphy (You're Not Listening: What You're Missing and Why It Matters)
Acceptance is the most beautiful word in any language; this beautiful concept can only exist when you allow other people to be who they are and do not imprison them with your definition of what is right, proper, correct, or other limiting criteria. Decreasing the black and white in your thinking allows for an expansive area of gray, allowing you to live your life and others to live there life. Acceptance sets us all free! This simple change of thought creates a wonderful space for happiness to thrive.
David Walton Earle
The movies are gray The TV is black The horses are running Please bring me some food
Heinz Doofenshmirtz (How to Conquer the Tri-State Area)
identifying the parts of our work that don’t feel like work, those gray areas, and honoring them is special.
Marlee Grace (How to Not Always Be Working: A Toolkit for Creativity and Radical Self-Care)
Her personal philosophy was to try not to hurt people, unless they deserved it, which brought her back to that definition problem and a whole lot of gray area.
Ingrid Thoft (Duplicity (Fina Ludlow, #4))
I have witnessed how the power of listening, storytelling and embracing gray areas breaks through the rigid 'us vs. them.
Aspen Baker (Pro-Voice: How to Keep Listening When the World Wants a Fight)
Humanity is about living in the gray area between corruptibility and incorruptibility.
D.C. Akers
I know gray areas too well. I write for silent audiences.
Antonia Perdu
Oftentimes, we end up in the gray area because we allow ourselves to get into or stay in situations without setting any clear expectations. I
Shonda Brown White (Don't Be A Wife To A Boyfriend: 10 Lessons I Learned When I Was Single)
Our role is to be exactly on the border, to stand in the gray area between fate and free will, and to play Ping-Pong there.
Yoav Blum (The Coincidence Makers)
Through ambition, greed, arrogance, or naïveté, many bright, hard-working people have strayed into gray areas.
Guy Spier (The Education of a Value Investor: My Transformative Quest for Wealth, Wisdom, and Enlightenment)
Gray areas are just the inability to distinguish between darkness and light.
Ron Brackin
There’s something liberating about the world of numbers. There is no gray area, no subjectivity, no room for interpretation; either you calculated right or you calculated wrong. I wish the rest of life were that simple. For
Camilla Grebe (The Ice Beneath Her)
Some justice, though did not deal with kindheartedness or good feeling toward others. No, justice had a darker side, a gray area where it mingled alongside vengeance, and only the wise and pure of heart were able to tell the two apart. That kind of justice was swift. It was only called upon afer mercy and morals fail. It was the darkest form of goodness known to anyone, even the gods, and required only the strongest, most daring men to bring about.
Evan Meekins (The Black Banner)
...use of the soul in Buffy: a personal or cultural belief which is blind to all else, which refuses to acknowledge gray area and insists on its own infallibility, as we've seen in our own history, is dangerous and detrimental.
Jim Ford (The Truth of Buffy: Essays on Fiction Illuminating Reality)
My advice to someone like you is to always stay close to the gray area and keep yourself and your family safe. Stay away from any place where you can run into police-that's the advice I give to you and to all young black men in this country. The police is for the protection of white people, my brother. Maybe black women and black children sometimes, but not black men. Never black men. Black men and police are palm oil and water. You understand me, eh?
Imbolo Mbue (Behold the Dreamers)
This water was so dark we could see our faces in it, and it never stirred, set like glass, reflecting the beards of gray moss that smothered the cypress trees. If you looked out through these areas, toward the ocean, all you saw was the black water, the gray of the cypress trunks, and the constant, motionless rain of moss flowing down. All you heard was the low moaning. The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either, and when you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonize you.
Jeff VanderMeer (Annihilation (Southern Reach, #1))
Moonshots, by their definition, live in that gray area between audacious projects and pure science fiction. Instead of mere 10 percent gains, they aim for 10x (meaning ten times) improvements—that’s a 1000 percent increase in performance.
Peter H. Diamandis (Bold: How to Go Big, Create Wealth and Impact the World)
The girl, perhaps without even realizing it, and who knows for how long, had been assessing the power of her swaying body, her restless eyes, on my husband; and he looked at her as one looks from a gray area at a white wall struck by the sun.
Elena Ferrante (The Days of Abandonment)
Greek and the Hebrew—and whichever side you embrace more strongly determines to a large extent how you see life. From the Greeks—specifically from the glory days of ancient Athens—we have inherited our ideas about secular humanism and the sanctity of the individual. The Greeks gave us all our notions about democracy and equality and personal liberty and scientific reason and intellectual freedom and open-mindedness and what we might call today “multiculturalism.” The Greek take on life, therefore, is urban, sophisticated, and exploratory, always leaving plenty of room for doubt and debate. On the other hand, there is the Hebrew way of seeing the world. When I say “Hebrew” here, I’m not specifically referring to the tenets of Judaism. (In fact, most of the contemporary American Jews I know are very Greek in their thinking, while it’s the American fundamentalist Christians these days who are profoundly Hebrew.) “Hebrew,” in the sense that philosophers use it here, is shorthand for an ancient world-view that is all about tribalism, faith, obedience, and respect. The Hebrew credo is clannish, patriarchal, authoritarian, moralistic, ritualistic, and instinctively suspicious of outsiders. Hebrew thinkers see the world as a clear play between good and evil, with God always firmly on “our” side. Human actions are either right or wrong. There is no gray area. The collective is more important than the individual, morality is more important than happiness, and vows are inviolable.
Elizabeth Gilbert (Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage)
There is no right or wrong in this world. No black and white. Remington and I live in the gray area. Logic is pointless. Gut feeling is dangerous. The only way to know whether you did the right or wrong thing is to ride it out and see it to the end.
Charleigh Rose (Misbehaved)
Parents have funny ways of showing their love sometimes. Mom says my life is all black and white right now, as a kid. But she says when I get older, become a women, that changes, and there's a lot of gray area. I think adult love is more complicated.
Brooklyn James
Far worse, though, was the low, powerful moaning at dusk. The wind off the sea and the odd interior stillness dulled our ability to gauge direction, so that the sound seemed to infiltrate the black water that soaked the cypress trees. This water was so dark we could see our faces in it, and it never stirred, set like glass, reflecting the beards of gray moss that smothered the cypress trees. If you looked out through these areas, toward the ocean, all you saw was the black water, the gray of the cypress trunks, and the constant, motionless rain of moss flowing down. All you heard was the low moaning. The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either, and when you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you Desolation tries to colonize you.
Jeff VanderMeer (Annihilation (Southern Reach, #1))
What I learned was that the more you commit to the process and the more you trust God for increase in every area of your life, the more God allows the scales to tip in your favor until one day the momentum is so tremendous that there is no going back to the life you knew. You
John W. Gray III (I Am Number 8: Overlooked and Undervalued, but Not Forgotten by God)
The world isn't black and white, good or bad. The battles that make a real difference are fought in the murky area in between, where the greater good requires brutal sacrifice. Where both the means and the ends are just shadows in a featureless gray landscape. And that was the death of my idealism.
Rachel Vincent (Alpha (Shifters, #6))
People dictate rules based on how they want to be treated, but I’ll tell you something. When someone else misbehaves, it’s black and white, isn’t it? We judge, and we condemn, but when we do it, it’s a gray area all of a sudden. Other people are subject to your convictions, but not you, right? Not Michael?
Penelope Douglas (Hideaway (Devil's Night, #2))
Conner had died much as he lived, in the grayest shadow between right and wrong.
Jennifer A. Nielsen (The Shadow Throne (Ascendance, #3))
We're the gray area, angel. We're the pieces of the puzzle they don't know what to do with, the pieces that don't quite fit into their perfect little picture, so they choose to discard us, to keep their image untainted, but we can only be ignored for so long. Because eventually, whether they want to admit it or not, all of their black and white will bleed together anyway.
J.M. Darhower (Extinguish (Extinguish, #1))
In a relationship, prudent application of the gray theory is a key ingredient in assuring years of happiness; “till death do us part”. Balance is at the center of success, satisfaction and a lifetime of love.
Carlos Wallace (The Other 99 T.Y.M.E.S: Train Your Mind to Enjoy Serenity)
Moments of profound fear have a kind of beautiful purity, Anderson said. All of the gray areas of life disappear, and there is only the matter of living or dying. “And the simplicity of that, the crystal clarity of that, is so powerful, so beautiful and it’s—it’s hard to put that into words, but calling it adrenaline, or chalking it up to being an adrenaline junkie, that’s not it at all, that totally misses the point.
Huffman, Alan (Here I Am: The Story of Tim Hetherington, War Photographer)
In Miss Chen's English class, we learned, 'To be or not to be...' but there's a big gray area in between. Maybe in Shakespeare times people only had two options. Griffin Wilson, he knew that the SATs were just the gateway to a big lifetime of bullshit. To get married and college. To paying taxes and trying to raise a kid who's not a school shooter. And Griffin Wilson knew drugs are only a patch. After drugs, you're always going to need more drugs.
Chuck Palahniuk (Make Something Up: Stories You Can't Unread)
Eight weeks of practice in meditation, even with those with no previous experience, was enough reconfigure the brains of participants. The gray matter which fuels worry shrank, and the area associated with healthy thought awareness group.
Andrew Zolli (Resilience: Why Things Bounce Back)
One study found that just three hours of meditation practice led to improved attention and self-control. After eleven hours, researchers could see those changes in the brain. The new meditators had increased neural connections between regions of the brain important for staying focused, ignoring distractions, and controlling impulses. Another study found that eight weeks of daily meditation practice led to increased self-awareness in everyday life, as well as increased gray matter in corresponding areas of the brain. It
Kelly McGonigal (The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What You Can Do To Get More of It)
Insofar as his patterns of speech reflect his predominant patterns of thought, Mr. Trump knows no second best, second worst, or second thought, no caveat or concession. His is a worldview painted in blackest black and whitest white, at whose center he and he alone rightly reigns. He grades nary a person, platform, or policy as anything other than the absolute best or worst of all time, which is to say he dips hardly a toe into the gray area that makes up the bulk of our reality—after all, the world is made of more than capstones.
Shmuel Pernicone (Why We Resist: Letter From a Young Patriot in the Age of Trump)
Evil men rarely convince others to their side by asking them to perform dark deeds for no good reason. They will always start with the lightest shade of gray. They so often use what seems like a good cause." "You don't think it's possible that a little gray is what's needed, sometimes?" asked Davian. Raleth snorted. "No," he said severely. "Gray is the color of cowardice and ignorance and sheer laziness, Davian--never let anyone tell you otherwise. If something is not clearly right or wrong then it bears actually *figuring out* which one it is, not dismissal into some nebulous third category. If you have a basis for your morality, a foundation for it, then there will always be an answer--and if you do not, then trying to decide whether *anything* is right or wrong is an exercise in futility and irrelevance.
James Islington (The Light of All That Falls (The Licanius Trilogy, #3))
Maybe you could drive yourself crazy trying to chart backward all the causes and effects, all the ends and means, tracing everything to some original sin that may or may not have actually occurred but that people accepted as true, or true enough. Maybe staring into the eyes of all that history was a dangerous thing to do, as her mother had calmly warned her. Maybe you were supposed to move forward armed with just enough history to help you figure out the present without obsessing over the past. But how much was enough? Where was the gray area between ignorance and obsession?
Thomas Mullen (The Revisionists)
I thought about every mundane moment that makes up that gray area of a person’s life. It’s the hour or two a day that you clean your kitchen or watch TV or do the laundry. All my gray moments with Mia were colored in: chasing her around the Laundromat, spraying water on her from the kitchen sink, or messing around with her on the couch while we spent whole days watching reruns of The Office. I looked forward to the rest of my life, even if the rest of my life only consisted of the humdrum day-in, day-out bullshit, it didn’t matter because Mia turned the most unremarkable moments into moments I cherished.
Renee Carlino (Sweet Little Thing (Sweet Thing, #1.5))
As far as Immigration is concerned, there are many things that are illegal and many that are gray, and by 'gray' I mean the things that are illegal but which the government doesn't want to spend time worrying about. You understand me, abi? My advice to someone like you is to always stay close to the gray area and keep yourself and your family safe. Stay away from any place where you can run into police- that's the advice I give to you and to all young black men in this country. The police is for the protection of white people, my brother. Maybe black women and black children sometimes, but not black men. Never black men' (74).
Imbolo Mbue (Behold the Dreamers)
Words, so much more readily remembered, gradually replace our past with their own. Our birth pangs become pages. Our battles, our triumphs, our trophies, our stubbed toes, will survive only in their descriptions; because it is the gravestone we visit, when we visit, not the grave. It is against the stone we stand our plastic flowers. Who wishes to bid good morrow to a box of rot and bones? We say a name, and only a faint simulacrum of its object forms itself (if any at all does)- forms itself in that grayless gray area of consciousness where we put imaginary maps and once heard music; where we hunt for lost articles and diagram desire.
William H. Gass
An OBJECTIVE, I explained, is simply WHAT is to be achieved, no more and no less. By definition, objectives are significant, concrete, action oriented, and (ideally) inspirational. When properly designed and deployed, they’re a vaccine against fuzzy thinking—and fuzzy execution. KEY RESULTS benchmark and monitor HOW we get to the objective. Effective KRs are specific and time-bound, aggressive yet realistic. Most of all, they are measurable and verifiable. (As prize pupil Marissa Mayer would say, “It’s not a key result unless it has a number.”) You either meet a key result’s requirements or you don’t; there is no gray area, no room for doubt.
John E. Doerr (Measure What Matters: How Google, Bono, and the Gates Foundation Rock the World with OKRs)
now know about the involvement of Union Carbide in the Manhattan Project, the TNT Area, Area 51, and the Roswell Crash (where Carbide glue was found), we can assume that “nukes” and “saucers” were the exact same project. After Carbide’s Tech Center in South Charleston, West Virginia built the first atomic reactor in the late 1920s, and had
Gray Barker (Saucers of Fire: Nazi UFOs, The Hollow Earth, The Axis Shift, and Other Apocalyptic Assertions From the X-Files of Saucerian Press)
Do those of you in like Chicago or NYC ever notice how commuters on the train tend to get all quiet and intense when South Side or South Bronx starts to flow past? If you look closely at the faces, you see it’s not depression, not even discomfort; it’s a kind of rigid fascination with the beauty of ruins in which people live but look or love nothing like you, a horizonful of numbly complex vistas in slab-gray and spraypaint-red. Hieroglyphs on walls, people on stoops, hoops w/o nets. White people have always loved to gaze at the ‘real black world,’ preferably at a distance and while moving briskly through, toward business. A view from this remove yields easy abstractions about rap in its role as just the latest ‘black’ music. Like: the less real power a people have, the more they’ll assert hegemony in areas that don’t much matter in any grand scheme. A way to rule in hell: their own vocabulary, syntax, gestures, music, dance; own food; religious rhetoric; social and party customs; that…well-known athletic superiority—the foot-speed, vertical leap—we like them in fields, cotton- or ball-. It’s a Hell we like to look at because it has so clearly been made someone else’s very own….And the exported popular arts! The singing and dancing!…each innovation, new Scene, and genius born of a ‘suffering’ we somehow long to imagine, even as we co-opt, overpay, homogenize, make the best of that suffering song go to stud for our own pale performers.
David Foster Wallace (Signifying Rappers: Rap and Race in the Urban Present)
Nudity is a gray area. We certainly don’t think kids are harmed by growing up in households where casual nudity is the norm. But children who have never been around nude adults may be upset if nudity is suddenly introduced into their living room. Kids can be very sensitive to issues like sexual display, and flashing is clearly a violation of boundaries. Certainly, if a child expresses discomfort with being around your or your friends’ nudity, his or her desires should be respected. And we hope it goes without saying that no child should ever be required to be nude in front of others—many children go through phases of extreme modesty as they struggle to cope with their changing bodies, and that, too, deserves scrupulous respect. What
Dossie Easton (The Ethical Slut : A Practical Guide to Polyamory, Open Relationships & Other Adventures)
I'm jittery.It's like the animatronic band from Chuck E. Cheese is throwing a jamboree in my stomach. I've always hated Chuck E. Cheese. Why am I thinking about Chuck E. Cheese? I don't know why I'm nervous.I'm just seeing my mom again. And Seany.And Bridge! Bridge said she'd come. St. Clair's connecting flight to San Francisco doesn't leave for another three hours,so we board the train that runs between terminals,and he walks me to the arrivals area.We've been quiet since we got off the plane. I guess we're tired. We reach the security checkpoint,and he can't go any farther. Stupid TSA regulations.I wish I could introduce him to my family.The Chuck E. Cheese band kicks it up a notch,which is weird, because I'm not nervous about leaving him. I'll see him again in two weeks. "All right,Banana.Suppose this is goodbye." He grips the straps of his backpack,and I do the same. This is the moment we're supposed to hug. For some reason,I can't do it. "Tell your mom hi for me. I mean, I know I don't know her. She just sounds really nice. And I hope she's okay." He smiles softly. "Thanks.I'll tell her." "Call me?" "Yeah,whatever. You'll be so busy with Bridge and what's-his-name that you'll forget all about your English mate, St. Clair." "Ha! So you are English!" I poke him in the stomach. He grabs my hand and we wrestle, laughing. "I claim....no...nationality." I break free. "Whatever,I totally caught you. Ow!" A gray-haired man in sunglasses bumps his red plaid suitcase into my legs. "Hey,you! Apologize!" St. Clair says,but the guy is already too far away to hear. I rub my shins. "It's okay, we're in the way. I should go." Time to hug again. Why can't we do it? Finally, I step forward and put my arms around him. He's stiff,and it's awkward, especially with our backpacks in the way.I smell his hair again. Oh heavens. We pull apart. "Have fun at the show tonight" he says. "I will.Have a good flight." "Thanks." He bites his thumbnail,and then I'm through security and riding down the escalator. I look back one last time. St. Clair jumps up and down, waving at me.I burst into laughter, and his face lights up.The escalator slides down. He's lost from view. I swallow hard and turn around.And then-there they are.Mom has a gigantic smile, and Seany is jumping and waving, just like St. Clair.
Stephanie Perkins (Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss, #1))
Far worse, though, was a low, powerful moaning at dusk. The wind off the sea and the odd interior stillness dulled our ability to gauge direction, so that the sound seemed to infiltrate the black water that soaked the cypress trees. This water was so dark we could see our faces in it, and it never stirred, set like glass, reflecting the beards of gray moss that smothered the cypress trees. If you looked out through these areas, toward the ocean, all you saw was the black water, the gray of the cypress trunks, and the constant, motionless rain of moss flowing down. All you heard was the low moaning. The effect of this cannot be understood without being there. The beauty of it cannot be understood, either, and when you see beauty in desolation it changes something inside you. Desolation tries to colonize you. As
Jeff VanderMeer (Annihilation (Southern Reach, #1))
Remain Healthy All Day: Drink a spoonful of oil every morning. Reach up with your arms and extend your body to its full height. Use a warm towel to dry the cat. Consider a philosophical idea larger than your area of expertise. Avoid getting cancer. Chalk up bad decisions to outside influences. Don't take your father too seriously. Play a game where you close your eyes very tightly, and when you open your eyes, you have amnesia and you must draw the details of your life from your surroundings. Give up smoking, drinking, and poetic verse. Remind yourself how important you are to your friends or at least your animals. Wax the floor in socks. Enter into a healthy, monogamous relationship. Consider briefly the idea of a soulmate. Light an entire box of matches and throw it into the sink. Hold a metal rod to the heavens and beg for whatever comes next.
Amelia Gray (AM/PM)
Do you hear that?” he says. “You mean the crashing thunder and pounding rain?” He shakes his head. I listen closely, trying to filter o ut the sounds of the storm. Then I hear it. A whooshing sound with a fast buzzing underne ath it. It’s so, so familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it. A very definite blac k spot appears among the dark gray clouds. The spot lengthens horizontally. The puzzle pieces click into place and I get the full pictur e: Fighter jet. Headed straight for us. It could be a coincidence, right? F-22 Raptors fly low through giant thunderstorms over major metropolitan areas in the middle of the night a ll the time. Right. My illusions of a coincidence are shattered - by a mis sile flying straight at me. It would seem this guy has infrared, too. I mean, missiles? Really? Isn’t that a bit overkill? I start flying away, but Sani stops me. “Dive!
Sarah Nicolas (Dragons Are People, Too)
I want to say," she begins again, "I want to say that I have not always tried hard enough to know. That this 'moral compass' Claire talks about may not have been as helpful in my own personal life as it was in the wider political context. Sometimes it is easier to see clearly from a distance. And what is up close -- what is up close" -- she falters -- " is harder to make out." In the audience someone coughs. "There is so much gray between the black and the white ... and this is where most of us live.
Jessica Shattuck (The Women in the Castle)
We take the stairs down to the first level of the parking garage and I lead us toward the area reserved for doctors. She makes her way toward a black Audi, turns, and waits for me to join her. I smirk. “That’s not my car.” She nods. “Right, of course. I see it now.” She goes to a bright yellow Ferrari that belongs to one of the plastic surgeons. The vanity license plate reads: SXY DOC88. “Here we are.” “Not even close.” “Oh, okay. I get it. You aren’t flashy. Maybe that gray Range Rover over there?” I press the unlock button on my key fob and my rear lights flash. There she is, the car I’ve driven since I was in medical school. “You’re kidding. A Prius?! Satan himself drives a Prius?!” She turns around as if hoping to find someone else she can share this moment with. All she’s got is me. I shrug. “It gets good gas mileage.” She blinks exaggeratedly. “I couldn’t be more shocked if you’d hitched a horse to a buggy.” I chuckle and open the back door to toss in her backpack. “Get in. Traffic is going to be hell.” We buckle up in silence, back up and leave the parking garage in silence, pull out into traffic in silence. Finally, I ask, “Where do you live?” “On the west side. Right across from Franklin Park.” “Good. I have an errand I need to run that’s right by there. Mind if I do that before I drop you off?” “Well seeing as how you stole my backpack and forced me into your car, I don’t really think it matters what I want.” I see. She’s still pouting. That’s fine. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” She doesn’t think I’m funny.
R.S. Grey (Hotshot Doc)
I grew up with the strong impression that a person became spiritual by attending to these gray-area rules. For the life of me, I could not figure out much difference between the dispensations of Law and Grace. My visits to other churches have convinced me that this ladder-like approach to spirituality is nearly universal. Catholics, Mennonites, Churches of Christ, Lutherans, and Southern Baptists all have their own custom agenda of legalism. You gain the church’s, and presumably God’s, approval by following the prescribed pattern.
Philip Yancey (What's So Amazing About Grace?)
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I looked around the empty lot. I wavered on getting out when a giant lightning bolt painted a jagged streak across the rainy lavender-gray sky. Minutes passed and still he didn’t come out of the Three Hundreds’ building. Damn it. Before I could talk myself out of it, I jumped out of the car, cursing at myself for not carrying an umbrella for about the billionth time and for not having waterproof shoes, and ran through the parking lot, straight through the double doors. As I stomped my feet on the mat, I looked around the lobby for the big guy. A woman behind the front desk raised her eyebrows at me curiously. “Can I help you with something?” she asked. “Have you seen Aiden?” “Aiden?” Were there really that many Aidens? “Graves.” “Can I ask what you need him for?” I bit the inside of my cheek and smiled at the woman who didn’t know me and, therefore, didn’t have an idea that I knew Aiden. “I’m here to pick him up.” It was obvious she didn’t know what to make of me. I didn’t exactly look like pro-football player girlfriend material in that moment, much less anything else. I’d opted not to put on any makeup since I hadn’t planned on leaving the house. Or real pants. Or even a shirt with the sleeves intact. I had cut-off shorts and a baggy T-shirt with sleeves that I’d taken scissors to. Plus the rain outside hadn’t done my hair any justice. It looked like a cloud of teal. Then there was the whole we-don’t-look-anything-alike thing going on, so there was no way we could pass as siblings. Just as I opened my mouth, the doors that connected the front area with the rest of the training facility swung open. The man I was looking for came out with his bag over his shoulder, imposing, massive, and sweaty. Definitely surly too, which really only meant he looked the way he always did. I couldn’t help but crack a little smile at his grumpiness. “Ready?” He did his form of a nod, a tip of his chin. I could feel the receptionist’s eyes on us as he approached, but I was too busy taking in Grumpy Pants to bother looking at anyone else. Those brown eyes shifted to me for a second, and that time, I smirked uncontrollably. He glared down at me. “What are you smiling at?” I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, trying to give him an innocent look. “Oh, nothing, sunshine.” He mouthed ‘sunshine’ as his gaze strayed to the ceiling. We ran out of the building side by side toward my car. Throwing the doors open, I pretty much jumped inside and shivered, turning the car and the heater on. Aiden slid in a lot more gracefully than I had, wet but not nearly as soaked. He eyed me as he buckled in, and I slanted him a look. “What?” With a shake of his head, he unzipped his duffel, which was sitting on his lap, and pulled out that infamous off-black hoodie he always wore. Then he held it out. All I could do was stare at it for a second. His beloved, no-name brand, extra-extra-large hoodie. He was offering it to me. When I first started working for Aiden, I remembered him specifically giving me instructions on how he wanted it washed and dried. On gentle and hung to dry. He loved that thing. He could own a thousand just like it, but he didn’t. He had one black hoodie that he wore all the time and a blue one he occasionally donned. “For me?” I asked like an idiot. He shook it, rolling his eyes. “Yes for you. Put it on before you get sick. I would rather not have to take care of you if you get pneumonia.” Yeah, I was going to ignore his put-out tone and focus on the ‘rather not’ as I took it from him and slipped it on without another word. His hoodie was like holding a gold medal in my hands. Like being given something cherished, a family relic. Aiden’s precious.
Mariana Zapata (The Wall of Winnipeg and Me)
September 10, 1965 Dear Francesca, Enclosed are two photographs. One is the shot I took of you in the pasture at sunrise. I hope you like it as much as I do. The other is of Roseman Bridge before I removed your note tacked to it. I sit here trolling the gray areas of my mind for every detail, every moment, of our time together. I ask myself over and over, “What happened to me in Madison County, Iowa?” And I struggle to bring it together. That’s why I wrote the little piece, “Falling from Dimension Z,” I have enclosed, as a way of trying to sift through my confusion. I look down the barrel of a lens, and you’re at the end of it. I begin work on an article, and I’m writing about you. I’m not even sure how I got back here from Iowa. Somehow the old truck brought me home, yet I barely remember the miles going by. A few weeks ago, I felt self-contained, reasonably content. Maybe not profoundly happy, maybe a little lonely, but at least content. All of that has changed. It’s clear to me now that I have been moving toward you and you toward me for a long time. Though neither of us was aware of the other before we met, there was a kind of mindless certainty humming blithely along beneath our ignorance that ensured we would come together. Like two solitary birds flying the great prairies by celestial reckoning, all of these years and lifetimes we have been moving toward one another. The road is a strange place. Shuffling along, I looked up and you were there walking across the grass toward my truck on an August day. In retrospect, it seems inevitable—it could not have been any other way—a case of what I call the high probability of the improbable. So here I am walking around with another person inside of me. Though I think I put it better the day we parted when I said there is a third person we have created from the two of us. And I am stalked now by that other entity. Somehow, we must see each other again. Any place, anytime. Call me if you ever need anything or simply want to see me. I’ll be there, pronto. Let me know if you can come out here sometime—anytime. I can arrange plane fare, if that’s a problem. I’m off to southeast India next week, but I’ll be back in late October. I Love You, Robert P. S., The photo project in Madison County turned out fine. Look for it in NG next year. Or tell me if you want me to send a copy of the issue when it’s published. Francesca Johnson set her brandy glass on the wide oak windowsill and stared at an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of herself.
Robert James Waller (The Bridges Of Madison County)
•   Do you find other people sexy—in a way that makes you feel sexual desire or arousal, or a way that makes you think sex or sexual touching with that person would be satisfying (regardless of whether you’d actually do it)? If you don’t feel this with anyone, you may be asexual. •   Do you develop sexual attraction every once in a while, but don’t find its pursuit or satisfaction intrinsically rewarding? Some people would call that asexual. •   Do you think having sex (or the idea of having sex) is okay, but not very interesting or important? Could you take it or leave it, and find leaving it more convenient or preferable? Some people would call that asexual. •   Do you feel sexual attraction sometimes, but only rarely? You may be graysexual,* and you’ll have a lot in common with asexual people if you are. •   Do you sometimes develop sexual attraction when you’ve already developed other important connections with someone, but never feel sexually attracted to strangers, celebrities, or mere acquaintances? You may be demisexual,* and you’ll also have a lot in common with asexual people if you are. * Gray and demi identities are considered to be “on the asexual spectrum”—there are lots of in-betweens! See Part Two of this book for more discussion of romantic identities and types of asexual people, including the gray areas.
Julie Sondra Decker (The Invisible Orientation: An Introduction to Asexuality)
. . . to voice private sympathies in the context of an official proceeding would require Washington to become, in his own words, 'lost to my own character.' Here, in this reference to character, Washington hit upon the essential difference between himself and Arnold. Washington's sense of right and wrong existed outside the impulsive demands of his own self-interest. Rules mattered to Washington. Even though Congress had made his life miserable for the last four years, he had found ways to do what he considered best for his army and his country without challenging the supremacy of civil authority. To do otherwise, to declare himself, like the seventeenth-century English revolutionary Oliver Cromwell, master of his army and his country, would require him to become 'lost to my own character.' For Arnold, on the other hand, rules were made to be broken. He had done it as a pre-Revolutionary merchant and he had done it as military governor of Philadelphia. This did not make Arnold unusual. Many prominent Americans before and since have lived in the gray area between selfishness and altruism. What made Arnold unique was the god-like inviolability he attached to his actions. He had immense respect for a man like Washington, but Arnold was, in the end, the leading person-age in the drama that was his life. Not lost to his own character, but lost in it, Arnold did whatever Arnold wanted.
Nathaniel Philbrick (Valiant Ambition: George Washington, Benedict Arnold, and the Fate of the American Revolution)
SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are besieged by customers. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up … and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who’s standing at the counter, staring at me. Heart failure. “Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense. Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice. “Mr. Grey,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke. “I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.
E.L. James (Fifty Shades of Grey (Fifty Shades, #1))
YOU’RE NO ANGEL, you know how this stuff comes to happen: Friday is payday and it’s been a gray day sogged by a slow ugly rain and you seek company in your gloom, and since you’re fresh to West Table, Mo., and a new hand at the dog-food factory, your choices for company are narrow but you find some finally in a trailer court on East Main, and the coed circle of bums gathered there spot you a beer, then a jug of tequila starts to rotate and the rain keeps comin’ down with a miserable bluesy beat and there’s two girls millin’ about that probably can be had but they seem to like certain things and crank is one of those certain things, and a fistful of party straws tumble from a woven handbag somebody brung, the crank gets cut into lines, and the next time you notice the time it’s three or four Sunday mornin’ and you ain’t slept since Thursday night and one of the girl voices, the one you want most and ain’t had yet though her teeth are the size of shoe-peg corn and look like maybe they’d taste sort of sour, suggests something to do, ’cause with crank you want something, anything, to do, and this cajoling voice suggests we all rob this certain house on this certain street in that rich area where folks can afford to wallow in their vices and likely have a bunch of recreational dope stashed around the mansion and goin’ to waste since an article in The Scroll said the rich people whisked off to France or some such on a noteworthy vacation. That’s how it happens. Can’t none of this be new to you.
Daniel Woodrell (Tomato Red)
But if you, like poor old Rolling Stone’s nonprofessional, have come to a point on the Trail where you’ve started fearing your own cynicism every bit as much as you fear your credulity and the salesmen who feed on it, you’re apt to find your thoughts returning again and again to a certain dark and box-sized cell in a certain Hilton half a world and three careers away, to the torture and fear and offer of reprieve and a certain Young Voter named McCain’s refusal to violate a Code. There were no techs’ cameras in that box, no aides or consultants, no paradoxes or gray areas; nothing to sell. There was just one guy and whatever in his character sustained him. This is a huge deal. In your mind, that Hoa Lo box becomes sort of a dressing room with a star on the door, the private place behind the stage where one imagines “the real John McCain” still lives. And but now the paradox here is that this box that makes McCain “real” is: impenetrable. Nobody gets in or out. That’s why, however many behind-the-scenes pencils get put on the case, be apprised that a “profile” of John McCain is going to be just that: one side, exterior, split and diffracted by so many lenses there’s way more than one man to see. Salesman or leader or neither or both: the final paradox—the really tiny central one, way down deep inside all the other campaign puzzles’ spinning cubes and squares and boxes that layer McCain—is that whether he’s “for real” depends now less on what’s in his heart than on what might be in yours. Try to stay awake.
David Foster Wallace (Up, Simba!)
After school, Peter and I are lying on the couch; his feet are hanging off the end. He’s still in his costume, but I’ve changed into my regular clothes. “You always have the cutest socks,” he says, lifting up my right foot. These ones are gray with white polka dots and yellow bear faces. Proudly I say, “My great-aunt sends them from Korea. Korea has the cutest stuff, you know.” “Can you ask her to send me some too? Not bears, but maybe, like, tigers. Tigers are cool.” “Your feet are too big for socks as cute as these. Your toes would pop right out. You know what, I bet I could find you some socks that fit at…um, the zoo.” Peter sits up and starts tickling me. I gasp out, “I bet the--pandas or gorillas have to--keep their feet warm somehow…in the winter. Maybe they have some kind of deodorized sock technology as well.” I burst into giggles. “Stop…stop tickling me!” “Then stop being mean about my feet!” I’ve got my hand burrowed under his arm, and I am tickling him ferociously. But by doing so, I have opened myself up to more attacks. I yell, “Okay, okay, truce!” He stops, and I pretend to stop, but sneak a tickle under his arm, and he lets out a high-pitched un-Peter-like shriek. “You said truce!” he accuses. We both nod and lie back down, out of breath. “Do you really think my feet smell?” I don’t. I love the way he smells after a lacrosse game--like sweat and grass and him. But I love to tease, to see that unsure look cross his face for just half a beat. “Well, I mean, on game days…” I say. Then Peter attacks me again, and we’re wrestling around, laughing, when Kitty walks in, balancing a tray with a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. “Take it upstairs,” she says, sitting down on the floor. “This is a public area.
Jenny Han (Always and Forever, Lara Jean (To All the Boys I've Loved Before, #3))
Yuppieville. The fourteenth floor of Lock-Horne Investments & Securities reminded Myron of a medieval fortress. There was the vast space in the middle, and a thick, formidable wall—the big producers’ offices—safeguarding the perimeter. The open area housed hundreds of mostly men, young men, combat soldiers easily sacrificed and replaced, a seemingly endless sea of them, bobbing and blending into the corporate-gray carpet, the identical desks, the identical rolling chairs, the computer terminals, the telephones, the fax machines. Like soldiers they wore uniforms—white button-down shirts, suspenders, bright ties strangling carotid arteries, suit jackets draped across the backs of the identical rolling chairs. There were loud noises, screams, rings, even something that sounded like death cries. Everyone was in motion. Everyone was scattering, panicked, under constant attack. Yes,
Harlan Coben (Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar, #2))
I took the stairs two at a time, excited to have company today. When I opened the door I gasped and stood there in shock a moment before saying, “Patti, it’s awesome!” She had decorated with my school colors. Royal blue and gold streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, and balloons were everywhere. I heard her and the twins come up behind me, Patti giggling and Marna oohing. I was about to hug Patti, when a movement on the other side of the room caught my eye through the dangling balloon ribbons. I cursed my stupid body whose first reaction was to scream. Midshriek, I realized it was my dad, but my startled system couldn’t stop its initial reaction. A chain reaction started as Patti, then both the twins screamed, too. Dad parted the balloons and slunk forward, chuckling. We all shut up and caught our breaths. “Do you give all your guests such a warm welcome?” Patti’s hand was on her heart. “Geez, John! A little warning next time?” “I bet you’re wishing you’d never given me that key,” Dad said to Patti with his most charming, frightening grin. He stared at her long enough to make her face redden and her aura sputter. She rolled her eyes and went past him to the kitchen. “We’re about to grill,” she said without looking up from the food prep. “You’re welcome to stay.” Her aura was a strange blend of yellow and light gray annoyance. “Can’t stay long. Just wanted to see my little girl on her graduation day.” Dad nodded a greeting at the twins and they slunk back against the two barstools at the counter. My heart rate was still rapid when he came forward and embraced me. “Thanks for coming,” I whispered into his black T-shirt. I breathed in his clean, zesty scent and didn’t want to let him go. “I came to give you a gift.” I looked up at him with expectancy. “But not yet,” he said. I made a face. Patti came toward the door with a platter of chicken in her hands, a bottle of BBQ sauce and grilling utensils under her arm, and a pack of matches between her teeth. Dad and I both moved to take something from her at the same time. He held up a hand toward me and said, “I got it.” He took the platter and she removed the matches from her mouth. “I can do it,” she insisted. He grinned as I opened the door for them. “Yeah,” he said over his shoulder. “I know you can.” And together they left for the commons area to be domesticated. Weird.
Wendy Higgins (Sweet Peril (Sweet, #2))
wooded area, eventually making his way to the road that led to the hanging tree. Once there, he simply followed the path the truck had taken on previous trips, walking briskly, but not so fast as to attract attention. There was precious little to attract anyway on a hot Sunday shortly after dawn. Most miners and Peacekeepers would not rise for hours. After a few miles, he reached the depressing field and broke into a run for the hanging tree, eager to conceal himself in the woods. There was no sign of Lucy Gray, and as he passed under the branches, he wondered if in fact he’d misinterpreted her message and should have headed to the Seam instead. Then he caught a glimpse of orange and tracked it to a clearing. There she stood, unloading a stack of bundles from a small wagon, his scarf wound in a fetching manner around her head. She ran over and hugged him, and he responded even though it felt too hot for an embrace. The kiss that followed put him in a better mood. His hand went to the orange scarf in her hair. “This seems very bright for fugitives.” Lucy Gray smiled. “Well, I don’t want you to lose me. You still up for this?” “I have no choice.” Realizing that sounded halfhearted, he added, “You’re all that matters to me now.” “You, too. You’re my life now. Sitting here, waiting for you to show up, I realized I’d never really be brave enough to do this without you,” she admitted. “It’s not just how hard it will be. It’s too
Suzanne Collins (The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (The Hunger Games, #0))
..."facts" properly speaking are always and never more than interpretations of the data... the Gospel accounts are themselves such data or, if you like, hard facts. But the events to which the Gospels refer are not themselves "hard facts"; they are facts only in the sense that we interpret the text, together with such other data as we have, to reach a conclusion regarding the events as best we are able. They are facts in the same way that the verdict of a jury establishes the facts of the case, the interpretation of the evidence that results in the verdict delivered. Here it is as well to remember that historical methodology can only produce probabilities, the probability that some event took place in such circumstances being greater or smaller, depending on the quality of the data and the perspective of the historical enquirer. The jury which decides what is beyond reasonable doubt is determining that the probability is sufficiently high for a clear-cut verdict to be delivered. Those who like "certainty" in matters of faith will always find this uncomfortable. But faith is not knowledge of "hard facts"...; it is rather confidence, assurance, trust in the reliability of the data and in the integrity of the interpretations derived from that data... It does seem important to me that those who speak for evangelical Christians grasp this nettle firmly, even if it stings! – it is important for the intellectual integrity of evangelicals. Of course any Christian (and particularly evangelical Christians) will want to get as close as possible to the Jesus who ministered in Galilee in the late 20s of the first century. If, as they believe, God spoke in and through that man, more definitively and finally than at any other time and by any other medium, then of course Christians will want to hear as clearly as possible what he said, and to see as clearly as possible what he did, to come as close as possible to being an eyewitness and earwitness for themselves. If God revealed himself most definitively in the historical particularity of a Galilean Jew in the earliest decades of the Common Era, then naturally those who believe this will want to inquire as closely into the historical particularity and actuality of that life and of Jesus’ mission. The possibility that later faith has in some degree covered over that historical actuality cannot be dismissed as out of the question. So a genuinely critical historical inquiry is necessary if we are to get as close to the historical actuality as possible. Critical here, and this is the point, should not be taken to mean negatively critical, hermeneutical suspicion, dismissal of any material that has overtones of Easter faith. It means, more straightforwardly, a careful scrutiny of all the relevant data to gain as accurate or as historically responsible a picture as possible. In a day when evangelical, and even Christian, is often identified with a strongly right-wing, conservative and even fundamentalist attitude to the Bible, it is important that responsible evangelical scholars defend and advocate such critical historical inquiry and that their work display its positive outcome and benefits. These include believers growing in maturity • to recognize gray areas and questions to which no clear-cut answer can be given (‘we see in a mirror dimly/a poor reflection’), • to discern what really matters and distinguish them from issues that matter little, • and be able to engage in genuine dialogue with those who share or respect a faith inquiring after truth and seeking deeper understanding. In that way we may hope that evangelical (not to mention Christian) can again become a label that men and women of integrity and good will can respect and hope to learn from more than most seem to do today.
James D.G. Dunn (The Historical Jesus: Five Views)
Sometimes there is no right thing. Sometimes wrong wins, and that's okay. Life doesn't have cooker-cutters for right and wrong, Ryder. There's that messy gray area in between, and I sure hope I'm not the one staring down the barrel of your gun when you figure that out." Muse ~ Darkest Before Dawn. #3 The Veil Series
Pippa DaCosta (Darkest Before Dawn (The Veil, #3))
Florence peered out her living room window. What a dismal day. No sun, just sullen gray clouds like yesterday. And no sign of the cable company van. At 9:30 a man from the cable company had called and said they were having problems in her area. As if she didn’t know. Wavy lines filled the forty-six-inch screen
Susan Fleet (Jackpot (Frank Renzi, #4))
I sighed. “Monica? I haven’t waxed my eyebrows, or any other essential areas, in over a month. I have four gray hairs at the age of twenty-nine. Three newfound whiskers on my chin. The bags under my eyes are atrocious and I’ve gone six months without using moisturizer on my face. I’m a fucking wreck!
Amalie Silver (Word Play)
I'll pretty much try any cheese, but I have found that I prefer young goats and old cows. I don't like gray areas.
Nichole Robertson (The Paris Journal: Book One)
Who can define reality? Isn't everything subjective? If you & I witness the same event, we will recall it and recount it differently. ... Memory is conditioned by emotion, we remember better, and more fully, things that move us, such as the joy of a birth, the pleasure of a night of love, the pain of a loved one's death, the trauma of a wound. When we call up the past, we choose intense moments--good or bad--and omit the enormous gray area of daily life.
Isabel Allende (My Invented Country: A Nostalgic Journey Through Chile)
be careful about whom you spend your time with. The people in your life are either a good influence or a bad influence. There is no gray area. If you don’t know what side they are on, you should not spend time with them. I won’t and don’t. Fill your time up with the ones who are supportive.
Grant Cardone (Be Obsessed or Be Average)
A simultaneous volley of four rocket-propelled grenades raced out of the jungle to the south and hit the area around the men at the back door, and, within a half second, four more RPGs struck the entrance to the building coming from the northeast, decimating Team Two just as they were stepping down from the large porch.
Mark Greaney (Gunmetal Gray (Gray Man, #6))
Consciousness surely did not, James said, suddenly irrupt into the universe fully formed. The history of life is a history of intermediates, shadings-off, and gray areas. Much about the mind lends itself to a treatment in those terms. Perception, action, memory—all those things creep into existence from precursors and partial cases. Suppose someone asks: Do bacteria really perceive their environment? Do bees really remember what has happened? These are not questions that have good yes-or-no answers. There’s a smooth transition from minimal kinds of sensitivity to the world to more elaborate kinds, and no reason to think in terms of sharp divides.
Peter Godfrey-Smith (Other Minds: The Octopus, the Sea, and the Deep Origins of Consciousness)
Jasmine grinned at the astonished praise, tilted her head and stared at Asia. “They are, I’m really proud of them. I can see David and Jackie choosing you.” Asia’s brow rose. “Why do you say that?” Leaning back onto the soft pillows in the chair, she thought about her answer. “Those two are methodical, planners. David watches everything and everyone, Jackie is similar but she’ll actively try to seek a solution. Renee and Adam are more abstract, more in the gray areas in their approaches to solving problems. I can see how Angus would appeal to that part of their nature.
Sydney Addae (BirthSign (La Patron, #6))
Despite what we’ve been taught, we are neither eternally blessed nor eternally damned. We are blessed and damned and everything in between. Instead of toggling between victory and defeat, we have to learn to live in the middle, in the gray area, where a real life can unfold on its own time. We have to breathe in reality instead of distracting ourselves around the clock.
Heather Havrilesky (What If This Were Enough?: Essays)
Protection of life and property,” it’s a simple description, but one that’s almost poetic. It has led countless firefighters into harm’s way while trying to achieve those noble goals. Whether the call is for a burning building, a medical aid or just a young boy trying to escape the wrath of an angry dog, it’s all protection of life and property. And when you see it in that light there are no gray areas.
D.E. McCourt (Notes From The Firehouse: Seventeen Firefighting Stories From A Retired Firefighter)
There’s a natural human tendency to classify things as all good or all bad, but with cultural changes, it’s better to see the gray areas and the trade-offs.
Jean M. Twenge (iGen: Why Today's Super-Connected Kids Are Growing Up Less Rebellious, More Tolerant, Less Happy--and Completely Unprepared for Adulthood--and What That Means for the Rest of Us)
Julian Street in his book, Abroad At Home: American Ramblings, Observations, and Adventures, painted a grim picture of Western Kansas as he traveled across the area in 1914. Street saw only a drab, treeless wasteland of brown and gray---“nothing, nothing, nothing”--images of incessant wind, violent cyclones, dust storms, and tragic desolation. As the train he was riding approached the small town of Monotony, which he felt was appropriately named, he listened sympathetically to the remarks of a fellow passenger: “God! How can they stand living out here? I’d rather be dead!
Daniel Fitzgerald (Sound and Fury: A History of Kansas Tornadoes, 1854-2013)
people are either dog people, or they aren’t. ‘There’s really no gray area’ he
Marie Force (I Want to Hold Your Hand (Green Mountain, #2))
people who use multiple devices simultaneously have lower gray-matter density in an area of the brain associated with cognitive and emotional control. With
Gary Hennerberg (Crack the Customer Mind Code: Seven Pathways from Head to Heart to Yes!)
Sometimes we face “gray areas,” things that aren’t necessarily forbidden by the Bible but still may not belong in our lives.
Billy Graham (Billy Graham in Quotes)
We were putting everything away when a guitar started coming through the speakers. Figuring one of the guys had turned on the music, we thought nothing of it and I kept talking to Bryce until I heard a husky voice join in. I abruptly stopped talking and stood there with two glasses in my hands just staring at the wall that separated us from the area that held the stage. I bit my lip to contain my smile as I heard the first few lines of “Your Guardian Angel.” It didn’t matter what type of song it was; Kash could sing it. And in his deep voice? Lord, it was a treat. He’d just started the second verse of the song by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus when I rounded the corner and leaned up against the wall to watch him. His lips curled up when he saw me enter the dim room, and other than the few times he’d look down when he was only playing the guitar, he kept his gray eyes trained on me. I took in the words like I was hearing them for the first time, because Kash had told me last week after dancing with me in my kitchen that he would only sing me songs that meant something for us. My heart beat wildly as I felt every word go straight to my soul, and I subconsciously grabbed at my warming chest. When his words trailed off and his hand stopped strumming the guitar, I was still leaning against the wall, hoping it would keep me standing as he set the guitar down and stepped off the stage. Much like the first night he sang to me in the bar, his stride was purposeful as he made his way toward me. Only this time, I didn’t turn and run. His smile grew when he got closer to me, but he didn’t pull me into his arms like he normally would. Just as I started to push myself off the wall, he spoke, his voice gruff. “I didn’t do this right the first time.” Dropping slowly to one knee, he grabbed my left hand and brought a diamond solitaire up to my ring finger. “Rachel Masters, I promise to love you and take care of you . . . no matter the cost, every day for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?” “Yes,” I whispered, and bounced on my toes when he slid the ring onto my finger. Grabbing his face, I pulled him up and kissed him with every bit of passion in my body.
Molly McAdams (Forgiving Lies (Forgiving Lies, #1))
There is the Islamic law of the shari’a, a matter for the judges to decide; but there is also the Islamic law of the community, passed down from their grandmothers. There is the Islamic law the state applies, but there is also the Islamic law that men and women call upon to critique the actions of the state. “Islamic law,” however and by whomever it is invoked, seems to carry the shades of all these meanings and the gray areas between them.
Iza R. Hussin (The Politics of Islamic Law: Local Elites, Colonial Authority, and the Making of the Muslim State)
Dragnets that indiscriminately sweep up personal data fall squarely into the gray area between what is legal and what is socially acceptable.
Julia Angwin (Dragnet Nation: A Quest for Privacy, Security, and Freedom in a World of Relentless Surveillance)
White lies are a gray area,
Janet Evanovich (Curious Minds (Knight and Moon, #1))
Nothing’s ever perfect, each one of us has a gray area in our mind. Maybe something we can’t get past? Surround yourself with people that can trigger your emotions in a positive way. Emotions stick! All it takes is kindness. These people are the ones that lift you from any darkness you're feeling. Open up, let your heart breathe. Talk to the people who walk with kindness in their heart. We all know people like this, maybe they need someone to talk to as well?
Ron Baratono
couldn’t do it. I just left. I walked straight out of the bathroom and made a b-line for the door. I don’t know if they saw me. I didn’t make eye contact, I didn’t call to tell them I couldn’t make it, I didn’t do anything. I ruined that chance just like I ruin every chance I get.” He paused and tapped his fingers against his leg and looked back down at the gray carpet. “There’s something wrong with me. I’m not normal. No one else experiences this much fear about meeting some new people.” The Cause of Shyness The idea that you are somehow insufficient, not enough, broken or damaged is the major source of social anxiety. It has a profound effect on how you see yourself, and how willing you are to let others see your real self. This one idea will significantly impact every area of your life. It will determine whether you approach a stranger, how close you let your partner get to you in a relationship, and even whether you allow yourself to have a relationship to begin with. It
Aziz Gazipura (The Solution To Social Anxiety: Break Free From The Shyness That Holds You Back)
The infantry’s mission was “to close with and destroy the enemy.” No questions asked. No ambiguity. No gray areas. The infantry officer was to go into battle up front, demonstrating courage, determination, strength, proficiency, and selfless sacrifice.
Colin Powell (My American Journey: An Autobiography)
This may be a part of your tendency to dichotomize, or to divide the world neatly into extremes such as black/white, yes/no, good/bad and right/wrong. Few things fit neatly into those categories and most intelligent folks roam around in those gray areas, rarely coming to rest on either black or white. This proclivity for being right is most clearly evidenced in marriage and other adult relationships. Discussions inevitably become a contest which results in one partner being right, and the other wrong. You hear it all the time. “You always think you’re right,” and, “You’ll never admit you’re wrong.” But there is no right and wrong here. People are different and they see things from different perspectives.
Wayne W. Dyer (Your Erroneous Zones)
A pure heart compels us to make decisions that don’t seek first to please ourselves but rather to please a holy God. A pure heart compels us to surrender our lives and follow His leading, even when it’s hard. A pure heart compels us to take our thoughts captive, recognize our temptations, and surrender our minds and our bodies to things that are pleasing to God. A pure heart compels us to turn away from a sin-filled world and set our focus on things that bring hope and life. Actions that are uplifting and edifying and good. Choices that don’t lead us wandering into gray areas but keep us on a straight and narrow course toward His glory.
Mo Isom (Sex, Jesus, and the Conversations the Church Forgot)
A committed escaper! One who never for a minute doubts that a man cannot live behind bars—not even as the most comfortable of trusties, in the accounts office, in the Culture and Education Section, or in charge of the bread ration. One who once he lands in prison spends every waking hour thinking about escape and dreams of escape at night. One who has vowed never to resign himself, and subordinates every action to his need to escape. One for whom a day in prison can never be just another day; there are only days of preparation for escape, days on the run, and days in the punishment cells after recapture and a beating. A committed escaper! This means one who knows what he is undertaking. One who has seen the bullet-riddled bodies of other escapers on display along the central tract. He has also seen those brought back alive—like the man who was taken from hut to hut, black and blue and coughing blood, and made o shout: "Prisoners! Look at what happened to me! It can happen to you, too!" He knows that a runaway's body is usually too heavy to be delivered to camp. And that therefore the head alone is brought back in a duffel bag, sometimes (this is more reliable proof, according to the rulebook) together with the right arm, chopped off at the elbow, so that the Special Section can check the fingerprints and write the man off. A committed escaper! It is for his benefit that window bars are set in cement, that the camp area is encircled with dozens of strands of barbed wire, towers, fences, reinforced barriers, that ambushes and booby traps are set, that red meat is fed to gray dogs.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn (The Gulag Archipelago, 1918-1956: An Experiment in Literary Investigation, Books V-VII)
Many of us find that the more we play, the closer we want to come to the gray area between “enough” and “too much,” between consent and nonconsent. These desires may grow so strong that we feel that we’re craving genuinely nonconsensual play – that we really do want to kidnap a stranger or whip a slave or punish a child.
Dossie Easton (The New Topping Book)
went to the cemetery he had chosen and were driven around in a golf cart. There were no plots available next to those of Paul and Clara Jobs, and Laurene hated the other options that she was shown, where the headstones were crammed into rows on an undistinguished, flat piece of land. But like her husband, she was imaginative and willful. She pointed to a bucolic ridge crowned by one of the area’s last remaining apricot orchards, the type of grove that Jobs had loved from his childhood. It wasn’t available, she was told. There were no plans or permits to put burial plots there. That did not deter her. After much insistence, she convinced the cemetery director that her husband would eventually have his final resting place near the orchard. Steve would have been proud of her. Laurene was able, then as always, to combine her husband’s pristine taste with her own loving grace. The casket she had made was perfectly crafted and hinged, with no nails or screws. Pure and simple. At the private burial ceremony, it rested on one of the gray industrial tables from the serene design studio at Apple headquarters, where Jobs had spent so many afternoons. Jony Ive had arranged for the table to be brought to the grave-side. There were fifty or so family members and friends in attendance, and some chose to share stories. Disney’s Bob Iger, for example, told of taking a walk with Jobs around the Pixar campus just thirty minutes before the deal with Disney to be announced. Jobs told him that his cancer had returned, and only Laurene and the doctors knew; he felt he had a duty to let Iger know in case he wanted to pull out of the deal. “It was an extraordinary gesture on his part,
Walter Isaacson (Steve Jobs)
It seemed like a gray area in terms of good conscious
Geanna Culbertson (Crisanta Knight: Protagonist Bound (Book #1))
Truth limits idealistic arguments.
CaNon Harper (Loyalty Has No Gray Areas)
One bad decision can alter the course you wend.
CaNon Harper (Loyalty Has No Gray Areas)
Red wolves, like all wolves, develop and defend a home range, which is also known as a territory. You might think of a territory as a private hunting ground with specific boundaries. A territory might be patrolled by a single adult red wolf, but more often it is defended by a mated pair. The pair will attack, and even kill, other red wolves and coyotes that they find in their home range. They mark their boundaries with scent posts, which are basically spots where they squirt a little urine onto a tree or other object at sniffing height or on the ground; they also use scent from their anal glands or excrement placed where it will be noticed. A red wolf pack is usually a breeding male and female and often includes yearling wolves born the season before. But breeding pairs and pack territories are temporal. Pairs sometimes split up and bond with new mates. Territorial boundaries are fought over and redefined. The dynamics are ever changing. On average, today’s red wolf territories range in size from about thirty-seven to sixty-eight square miles. The amount of prey present in a given area, and the type of habitat within it, contribute to territory size - as do the energy requirements of the wolf maintaining it - so these numbers vary greatly. The East’s ecologically productive forests and swamps may be one reason why red wolves have smaller territories than gray wolves. Red wolves’ comparatively smaller stature, which equates to lower energy requirements, is another reason.
T. DeLene Beeland (The Secret World of Red Wolves: The Fight to Save North America's Other Wolf)
I drove fast and carefully while Sloan made calls. I scanned the road and went twenty over the speed limit on the freeway. I zipped around cars using my blinker and hand waves. When we got to the hospital, I dropped her off at the emergency room entrance and parked, then ran with her bag to meet her at the front desk. “He’s in surgery,” she said tearfully when I jogged in through the automatic doors of the ER, my shoes squeaking on the white shiny floors. I looked at the woman behind the check-in desk, like a robot gathering data. I could see everything. The age spots on her forehead, the gray wisps along her hairline. The sterile, white countertop and the shimmer in the petals of pink roses in a vase behind the desk. “Where can we wait? And can you inform the doctor that his family is here?” We were sent to a private waiting area for the neurology department on the third floor. Brightly lit, plastic potted plants tucked in the corners of the room, serene blue walls, uniform gray tweed upholstered chairs, magazines and boxes of tissues on every end and coffee table. Sloan scanned the room. Maybe it was the finality of it—the cessation of forward movement—but this was when she officially broke down. She buried her face in her hands and wept. “Why is this happening?” I wrapped her sweater around her and put her in a chair. “I don’t know, Sloan. Why does anything happen?” I knew what things had to be done, what I had to do to make her comfortable. But I couldn’t feel any of the panic or grief that I saw in Sloan. I felt like I was watching a movie with the sound off. I could see what was happening, but I couldn’t connect to the characters. We waited. And waited. And waited.
Abby Jimenez
The rain continued throughout the day. The precipitation was natural and fell in a steady drizzle that cast the land in a gray, depressing hue. Few animals ventured out under the relentless downpour. The storm had been far too long, unpredictable, and dangerous. Around the small cabin in the woods, an uneasiness warned all life forms away from the area. Few humans frequented the deep forest there because of its wild lands, wild animals, and wild legends. In the chamber below the earth, Gregori roused himself several times, always on guard, always aware, asleep or awake, of those around him and the region surrounding them. In his mind he sought the child. She was brave and intelligent, a warm, living creature shedding a glow of light into this unrelenting darkness. His silver eyes pierced the veil of sleep to stare up at the dirt above his head. He was so close to turning, far closer than either Raven or Mikhail suspected. He was holding on by his fingernails. All feeling had left him so long ago that he could not remember warmth or happiness. He had only the power of the kill and his memories of Mikhail’s friendship to keep him going. He turned his head to look at Raven’s slight form. You must live, small one. You must live to save our race, to save all of mankind. There is no one alive on this earth who could stop me. Live for me, for your parents. Something stirred in his mind. Shocked that an unborn child could exhibit such power and intelligence, he nonetheless felt its presence, tiny, wavering, unsure. All the same the being was there, and he latched on to it, sheltered it close to his heart for a long while before he reluctantly allowed himself to sleep again.
Christine Feehan (Dark Desire (Dark, #2))
As with all goal-setting activities, your 10-year target must be specific and measurable so that there can’t be any gray areas. You will know the right goal when you have it. It will be the one that creates passion, excitement, and energy for every single person in the organization whenever it’s repeated.
Gino Wickman (Traction: Get a Grip on Your Business)
Sweetie, it all looks so black and white right now, I know. But that's not how life ends up being. There's... It's mostly gray areas. It's not this versus that. It's just... Things come at you, and you twitch in one direction or the other, and suddenly you're graduating from medical school." She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. "Or you're an exhausted mother of four trying not to burn the pork chops while your teenage daughter grills you about your lack of tutelage.
Claire Lombardo (The Most Fun We Ever Had)
it all existed in the same gray area. There was the past and the now. Nothing else was certain. Nothing else was real.
Kate Quinn (The Alice Network)
The respect that leadership must have requires that one’s ethics be without question. A leader not only stays above the line between right and wrong, he stays well clear of the ‘gray areas.
John C. Maxwell (The 21 Indispensable Qualities of a Leader)
When a question has no correct answer, there is only one honest response. The gray area between yes and no. Silence.
Anonymous
I went out to the area of drift logs on the shore, looking for dimensional lumber or plywood to repair the cabin’s wood box. Ninety-eight percent of driftwood is logs. They have their own beauty; shades of blond and gray, curved and hollowed and sleeked like a human body – or perhaps we’re like them – aged and smoothed by years of tumbling in the seas and on the rocks.
Audrey Sutherland (Paddling North)
Sometimes love is so intense that it turns into this gray area which borders on hate.
null
I never thought we’d get this far. I guess what drives us is the fact that we weren’t satisfied with the answers that we’ve been given since birth. It’s not just black and white, like they’d have us believe. There’s always a gray area. We’re going to be the ones to dance all in that gray area.” - Chad Miller, Greenville Herald Banner Interview
C. Derick Miller (A Taste of Home)
The spectacle shop was old, long, and narrow, with a glass front and a small thin door that opened onto a somewhat busy avenue in the antiques district on the South side of Lovat. It was a quiet enough area, away from the rougher warrens, but not particularly elevated. Across the cramped street hawkers sold vases, while up the road outside a rug merchant's shop a man sold antique suits. There was also Dubois' new storefront to the East; he dealt in religious artifacts and trinkets. The shopkeep hadn't liked when he had moved in; it had somehow changed the feel of the warren. Odd folks had started showing up shortly after Saint Olmstead Religious Antiques opened: black-clad priests, Hasturians in yellow robes, and a few Deeper cultists dressed in their gray sackcloth rags. It had set the entire warren on edge.
K.M. Alexander (The Stars Were Right (The Bell Forging Cycle #1))
Sometimes, there is no right thing. Sometimes wrong wins, and that’s okay. Life can’t be distilled down to right and wrong. It’s all about that messy gray area in between and how we deal with it.
Pippa DaCosta (Darkest Before Dawn (The Veil, #3))
Aurora's Sunday brunch buffet is world-class, desserts or no desserts. Your mouth starts to water the moment you enter and spot the seafood bar on your right- lobsters the color of blood oranges reclining on hillocks of shaved ice, oysters split open, their salty innards on show. Around the corner is an area devoted to cheese, huge rounds of fragrant, fresh Parmesan and a soft cheese with a gray-white rind, oozing and pungent. Behind the cheeses is a magnificent honeycomb hung on a metal frame and dripping down a silver gutter into a small bowl. The entire place smells like heaven- copper pots of hot, fresh bread being carried to tables, aged ham sliced from the bone, the chocolatier dipping soft pralines.
Hannah Tunnicliffe (The Color of Tea)
Some argue that there is a spectrum of what we should expect as normal human character flaws. Narcissism seems to be the gray area where most discord bubbles up. Common teachings on sociopaths and psychopaths center on their intense lack of empathy.
Shannon Thomas (Healing from Hidden Abuse: A Journey Through the Stages of Recovery from Psychological Abuse)
There are two parts to every goal you set out to achieve: the journey to the goal and the accomplishment of the goal itself. The journey is when you learn, innovate, attempt, and put yourself through tough situations for the first time. This is where real growth takes place. (Sometimes accomplishing a goal gives you less satisfaction and pleasure than the smaller successes that preceded it.) If you don’t quite reach your goal, that’s okay too. The journey makes the concept of failure a gray area because you’ll be putting yourself through changes that will leave you with more knowledge on how to succeed than when you first started. You can “fail” all your life, yet accomplish more than those who never tried.
Roosh V. (Bang: The Pickup Bible That Helps You Get More Lays)
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)
He hated this time of year. Every day was shorter than the last. Night began to fall in late afternoon. Winter could arrive on any given day and stay until April. They had had an ice storm on Halloween and a blizzard on Veterans Day, followed by three days of rain that had caused flash flooding in low-lying areas. The odd day of stunning, electric blue skies and a paltry few lingering fall colors couldn’t make up for the stretches of bleak gray or the damp cold that knifed to the bone.
Tami Hoag (The Bitter Season (Kovac and Liska, #5))
In order to feel remorse, there had to be a gray area, some part of the situation that made you uncertain of your choices. Noah
David Archer (Code Name Camelot (Noah Wolf, #1))
region, which sometimes gave certain areas an almost impenetrable thickness, but I knew the area fairly well and could thread through them easily. Pine trees made up the other half of the forest. Other ground vegetation consisted of lush ferns and grasses. That day, thick, gray clouds padded the skies, giving the forest an appearance
Ty Hutchinson (Contract: Snatch (Sei Assassin Thriller, #1))
I don't see a gray area when it comes to writers. You either are, or you are not. You give it every ounce of your being, or you end up with blank pages and 'What ifs'.
J.B. Jenn
Her mother’s skin, which had always been smooth and white as porcelain, was now a grotesque mosaic of decayed black, brown, and gray flesh, peeling away in some areas while it had rotted off completely in others. Her once warm and pristine smile was now a fiendish snarl full of rotting teeth. She held her long and blackened fingernails in front of her like claws, ready to rip into something like a wild animal. Heather could even see dried splotches of blood in her mother’s filthy, matted hair. “Mom?
Chad P. Brown (The Basement)
I have been teaching a course on socially conscious design at Virginia Commonwealth University called “Design Rebels: Socially Conscious Design in Theory & Practice” since 2003. In the class, my students are introduced to the ethical gray areas that designers have to confront when they begin to work in the “real” world. They are also introduced to the powerful tools of persuasion that are in their hands. Then my students are presented with the choice I hope you will consider as well: Will you act like an assassin? Someone highly trained to kill and willing to shoot whomever they are asked to point their gun at if the price is right. Or will you be like a megaphone? Raising the voices of those who need to be heard above the din.
Noah Scalin (The Design Activist's Handbook: How to Change the World (Or at Least Your Part of It) with Socially Conscious Design)
In the gray areas of the French occupation, there is always this complication: the bad guys weren’t always German. Sometimes they were French. Or British. Or American.
Tilar J. Mazzeo (The Hotel on Place Vendome: Life, Death, and Betrayal at the Hotel Ritz in Paris)
This observation is in accord with scientific research. The Gray-LaViolette scientific theory integrates psychology and neurophysiology. Their research demonstrated that feeling tones organize thoughts and memory (Gray-LaViolette, 1981). Thoughts are filed in the memory bank according to the various shades of feelings associated with those thoughts. Therefore, when we relinquish or let go of a feeling, we are freeing ourselves from all of the associated thoughts. The great value of knowing how to surrender is that any and all feelings can be let go of at any time and any place in an instant, and it can be done continuously and effortlessly. What is the surrendered state? It means to be free of negative feelings in a given area so that creativity and spontaneity can manifest without opposition or the interference of inner conflicts. To be free of inner conflict and expectations is to give others in our life the greatest freedom. It allows us to experience the basic nature of the universe, which, it will be discovered, is to manifest the greatest good possible in a situation. This may sound philosophical, but, when done, it is experientially true.
David R. Hawkins (Letting Go: The Pathway of Surrender)
For most of those who lived in Paris during the occupation, however, survival depended on how adeptly one could navigate the nuances of wartime reality. At the Hôtel Ritz, the shades of gray were at their most impenetrable. In its spaces, astonishing things happened. In those gray areas—where courage and desire collided with brutality and terror—were powerful human stories.
Tilar J. Mazzeo (The Hotel on Place Vendome: Life, Death, and Betrayal at the Hotel Ritz in Paris)
In the end, none of it mattered. I’d always tried to see and cover Hillary as a complete person, with black and white and lots of gray areas, but there was never any gray area in how Hillary saw me. No number of positive, front-page stories could change her mind. And I understood why Hillary hated the Hamptons story in particular. Mingling with the .001 percent looked terrible. But it was true, all of it.
Amy Chozick (Chasing Hillary: Ten Years, Two Presidential Campaigns, and One Intact Glass Ceiling)
I knew Hoboken well during the 40’s & 50’s, and still remember the gray, steel-hulled Liberty and Victory Ships with their gun encasements on their bows, looming above the sheds on the waterfront along River Street. Much of this area has been reclaimed with fill and is very different looking now, with brownstones, parks and Sinatra Drive along the waterfront. Where I once walked is now gone! Where I rode the ferry to New York City and marveled at the ships in the Hudson River and the tall buildings in Manhattan has all changed. At that time I took grainy photos of my world with a Baby Brownie Camera, and still have some of them in an old album.
Hank Bracker
There are some infections that definitely require antibiotic treatment, but more often the need for antibiotics is a gray area. A study published in the journal Pediatrics found that pediatricians prescribed antibiotics 62 percent of the time when they perceived that parents expected them to be prescribed, and only 7 percent of the time when they thought parents didn’t, suggesting that the need for antibiotics is almost always optional. It’s not just children who are being overtreated. Two out of every three adults who see a health practitioner for cold or flu symptoms are prescribed antibiotics, which 80 percent of the time don’t meet Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) guidelines for antibiotic therapy. When I ask my patients about previous antibiotic use, they usually respond that they took “a normal amount,” but after I have them add up every prescription, they’re often shocked to realize just how much “normal” really is.
Robynne Chutkan (The Microbiome Solution: A Radical New Way to Heal Your Body from the Inside Out)
Where does my strong sense of conviction come from? From the Bible! By studying God’s Word, I learn where God stands on issues and I seek to stand with Him. But there are gray areas, where the Bible doesn’t lay out a boundary in black and white. In those cases, my conviction comes from the Holy Spirit in me.
Candace Cameron Bure (Dancing Through Life: Steps of Courage and Conviction)
When a problem or even a small issue is ignored it tends to sit and fester.  The longer it is ignored the more time it has to take root and spread to other areas of your life or business. It begins to affect other people and often they expect you to solve it before it gets worse. The small issue can grow into a nagging problem.
Larry B. Gray (Problem Solving - Dealing With Employee Issues)
This is one example where architecture can operate in tandem with moderation. Code is never neutral; it can inhibit and enhance certain kinds of speech over others. Where code fails, moderation has to step in. Sometimes code ought to fail to inhibit speech, because that speech exists in a gray area. (Think: emails in the Gmail system that have not yet received a reputation rating.) But it’s delusional to think that architecture never has any effect on speech whatsoever.
Sarah Jeong (The Internet Of Garbage)
So that’s what Lazar did, in two studies published in 2010 and 2011. Compared to a control group, those who took an eight-week course of MBSR had increased gray matter in brain areas involved in learning, memory and emotion regulation, including the hippocampus. They also felt less stressed, and this change was accompanied by reduced density of gray matter in the amygdala.
Jo Marchant (Cure: A Journey into the Science of Mind Over Body)
Role-playing situations work well for many parents. After deprivation or prenatal exposure to substance, many children have verbal instruction as their weakest learning area, but many have role playing as their strongest.
Deborah D. Gray (Attaching in Adoption: Practical Tools for Today's Parents)
High overhead, in the reflected glare of arc lamps, one of the unfinished Fuller domes shut out two thirds of the salmon-pink evening sky, its ragged edge like broken gray honeycomb. The Sprawl’s patchwork of domes tended to generate inadvertent microclimates; there were areas of a few city blocks where a fine drizzle of condensation fell continually from the soot-stained geodesics, and sections of high dome famous for displays of static-discharge, a peculiarly urban variety of lightning.
William Gibson (Count Zero (Sprawl, #2))
tape already marked the area around the body. A first responding officer jumped to his feet, holding the scene log on a clipboard. “Good morning, sir.” The young man spoke in the nasal voice of someone whose nose is blocked. Lei spotted white cotton sprouting from his nostrils. “Hey. Nice up here if it weren’t for the smell.” She took the clipboard, and each of them signed in. Passing the tape, Lei spotted the hand first, extended toward them from beneath the ferns, palm up. The tissue was swollen and discolored, masked in a filmy gray gauze of mold that seemed to be drawing the body down into the forest floor. Lei could imagine that in just a few weeks, the body would have been all but gone in the biology of the cloud forest. The victim lay on his stomach, his head turned away and facing into a fern clump, black hair already looking like just another lichen growing on the forest floor. The body was at the expansion phase, distending camouflage-patterned clothing as if inflated. A black fiberglass arrow fletched in plastic protruded from the man’s back. Lei and Pono stayed well back from the body. Lei unpacked the police department’s camera from her backpack, and Pono took out his crime kit. The modest quarter-karat engagement
Toby Neal (Shattered Palms (Lei Crime, #6))
Santa, himself, was sitting behind his desk when I walked in. "Hello," he greeted me. He looked exactly as one would expect. Long white beard and a thick head of white hair. His cheeks were rosy and he truly did look jolly when he smiled at me. "You're the new Karma." "Yes," I smiled back all the while waiting for the scolding. "Would you care for a cookie?" He motioned to the heaped plate on the corner of his desk. "No thanks." I didn't want to get thrown out mid-bite. He was Santa. He knew everything. Any second, he'd tell me to get the hell out of his office, throwing coal at me as I ran. He stood up from his chair and walked around to the fireplace that blazed in the corner, lending the space a warm light. "Would you like to sit?" He motioned to the two well-stuffed chairs in front of it. "I don't want to take up too much of your time. I can see you're busy." I made a step backward toward the door. "I got time for you." Guess I was going to have to see this thing out until the coal started flying. I watched as he sat. He was still smiling. I took the seat across from him. Maybe he didn't know. "I know why you're nervous." Well, there went that. "Karma, sometimes there are gray areas in life. Things that don't fit neatly into wrong vs right.
Donna Augustine (Jinxed (Karma, #2))
I fuck conventional wisdom’s wife. Clipboard. Orange cones. You’re a mall cop. Not a real cop. My personal code is never harm real cops, who risk their lives every day. The Thin Blue Line. You’re an almost-cop, so harming you is a gray area. Thin Gray Line? Who knows? So I’ll err on the side of decency and ask nice. Don’t yell at any more kids before you’re fired.
Tim Dorsey (When Elves Attack: A Joyous Christmas Greeting from the Criminal Nutbars of the Sunshine State)
While reading some old articles to jog my memory for this book, I came across an article in the Chicago Sun-Times by Rick Kogan, a reporter who traveled with Styx for a few concert dates in 1979. I remember him. When we played the Long Beach Civic Center’s 12,000-seat sports arena in California, he rode in the car with JY and me as we approached the stadium. His recounting of the scene made me smile. It’s also a great snapshot of what life was like for us back in the day. The article from 1980 was called, “The Band That Styx It To ‘Em.” Here’s what he wrote: “At once, a sleek, gray Cadillac limousine glides toward the back stage area. Small groups of girls rush from under trees and other hiding places like a pack of lions attacking an antelope. They bang on the windows, try to halt the driver’s progress by standing in front of the car. They are a desperate bunch. Rain soaks their makeup and ruins their clothes. Some are crying. “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you!” one girl yells as she bangs against the limousine’s window. Inside the gray limousine, James Young, the tall, blond guitarist for Styx who likes to be called J.Y. looks out the window. “It sure is raining,” he says. Next to him, bass player Chuck Panozzo, finishing the last part of a cover story on Styx in a recent issue of Record World magazine, nods his head in agreement. Then he chuckles, and says, “They think you’re Tommy.” “I’m not Tommy Shaw,” J.Y. screams. “I’m Rod Stewart.” “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you! I love you!” the girl persists, now trying desperately to jump on the hood of the slippery auto. “Oh brother,” sighs J.Y. And the limousine rolls through the now fully raised backstage door and he hurries to get out and head for the dressing room. This scene is repeated twice, as two more limousines make their way into the stadium, five and ten minutes later. The second car carries young guitarist Tommy Shaw, drummer John Panozzo and his wife Debbie. The groupies muster their greatest energy for this car. As the youngest member of Styx and because of his good looks and flowing blond hair, Tommy Shaw is extremely popular with young girls. Some of his fans are now demonstrating their affection by covering his car with their bodies. John and Debbie Panozzo pay no attention to the frenzy. Tommy Shaw merely smiles, and shortly all of them are inside the sports arena dressing room. By the time the last and final car appears, spectacularly black in the California rain, the groupies’ enthusiasm has waned. Most of them have started tiptoeing through the puddles back to their hiding places to regroup for the band’s departure in a couple of hours.” Tommy
Chuck Panozzo (The Grand Illusion: Love, Lies and My Life with Styx)
we want to cover the biggest risk associated with new platform business models: Dealing with existing laws and regulations. Because linear businesses dominated the economy for most of the twentieth century, most laws are still oriented around how these companies operate. The regulatory regime in most industries hasn’t yet adapted to account for platforms. As a result, when a dominant platform business emerges for the first time in an industry, that platform often operates in a legal gray area. As Simon Rothman, a venture capitalist at Greylock Partners, has put it, “If your idea isn’t big enough to warrant regulatory scrutiny, it might not be big enough.
Alex Moazed (Modern Monopolies: What It Takes to Dominate the 21st Century Economy)
most striking difference between normal controls and survivors of chronic trauma was in activation of the prefrontal cortex in response to a direct eye gaze. The prefrontal cortex (PFC) normally helps us to assess the person coming toward us, and our mirror neurons help to pick up his intentions. However, the subjects with PTSD did not activate any part of their frontal lobe, which means they could not muster any curiosity about the stranger. They just reacted with intense activation deep inside their emotional brains, in the primitive areas known as the Periaqueductal Gray, which generates startle, hypervigilance, cowering, and other self-protective behaviors. There was no activation of any part of the brain involved in social engagement. In response to being looked at they simply went into survival mode. What
Bessel A. van der Kolk (The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma)
Between black and white is not a gray area, but a quicksilver, honey shade; a shiny, enticing, and altogether beautiful dividing line.
Shayne Silvers (The Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Box Set (The Temple Chronicles, #1-3))
And research seems to be pointing in a pretty clear direction. One study found screen time somehow interferes with children’s ability to read emotion in others. Another, a correlation between multitasking and less gray matter in the area of the brain associated with cognitive and emotional functioning. Heavy multitasking has been correlated with an inability to focus, stress, depression, and anxiety. Studies even suggest multitaskers are, ironically, worse at multitasking than their single-tasking counterparts.
Anonymous
alexithymia (the term also refers to the difficulty in recognizing and expressing emotions). One study examining the brains of alexithymic people found that they had less gray matter than non-alexithymic people in areas of their anterior cingulate cortex that are associated with language processing.
Marc Brackett (Permission to Feel: Unlocking the Power of Emotions to Help Our Kids, Ourselves, and Our Society Thrive)
In any case these people—Roosevelt called them the Paituna culture, after a nearby village—had ceramic bowls, red- to gray-brown. Found at Painted Rock Cave and other places in the area, it is the oldest known pottery in the Americas.
Charles C. Mann (1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus)
Positive arguments for the natural possibility of absent qualia have not been as prevalent as arguments for inverted qualia, but they have been made. The most detailed presentation of these arguments is given by Block (1978). These arguments almost always have the same form. They consist in the exhibition of a realization of our functional organization in some unusual medium, combined with an appeal to intuition. It is pointed out, for example, that the organization of our brain might be simulated by the people of China or even mirrored in the economy of Bolivia. If we got every person in China to simulate a neuron (we would need to multiply the population by ten or one hundred, but no matter), and equipped them with radio links to simulate synaptic connections, then the functional organization would be there. But surely, says the argument, this baroque system would not be conscious! There is a certain intuitive force to this argument. Many people have a strong feeling that a system like this is simply the wrong sort of thing to have a conscious experience. Such a “group mind” would seem to be the stuff of a science-fiction tale, rather than the kind of thing that could really exist. But there is only an intuitive force. This certainly falls far short of a knockdown argument. Many have pointed out that while it may be intuitively implausible that such a system should give rise to experience, it is equally intuitively implausible that a brain should give rise to experience! Whoever would have thought that this hunk of gray matter would be the sort of thing that could produce vivid subjective experiences? And yet it does. Of course this does not show that a nation's population could produce a mind, but it is a strong counter to the intuitive argument that it would not. . . . Once we realize how tightly a specification of functional organization constrains the structure of a system, it becomes less implausible that even the population of China could support conscious experience if organized appropriately. If we take our image of the population, speed it up by a factor of a million or so, and shrink it into an area the size of a head, we are left with something that looks a lot like a brain, except that it has homunculi—tiny people—where a brain would have neurons. On the face of it, there is not much reason to suppose that neurons should do any better a job than homunculi in supporting experience.
David J. Chalmers (The Conscious Mind: In Search of a Fundamental Theory)
Then there are those regions (and we’re getting into deeper gray now) where what matters is not a person’s relationship with some external thing, such as food or clothes or music, but rather some intrinsic quality of his or her own: beauty or physical fitness. Or intelligence. Since we can discard these attributes even less easily than our clothes, we can always be strictly categorized according to the perceptions emanating from these areas: of who matters (the beautiful, the athletic, and the intelligent, respectively) and who doesn’t (the ugly, the flabby and the dumb). Contempt for the unfit is stronger, I think, than disdain for the plain. Perhaps because of the passivity of beauty? But no, intelligence is every bit as passive, a gift either granted or denied. And yet the scorn felt for the unintelligent is an almost moral outrage. Never mind that the dull can’t help themselves, that they would, granted the sense to do so, have chosen to be otherwise. Their very existence is felt as a moral affront by those of us who dwell where the genius is hero. The color of our zone is only just discernably lighter than the true black of those who perceive people according to their acceptance of some moral or religious or political code.
Rebecca Goldstein (The Mind-Body Problem, with foreword by Jane Smiley)
Legalism takes a good rule—such as “rest one day a week”—and creates a rigid system that forgets about people. Just as judging and self-righteousness block compassion, so can legalism. Legalism reinforces self-righteousness because it communicates to you the good news of your own goodness. It systematizes judging, eliminating gray areas so we don’t have to think about love.
Paul E. Miller (Love Walked among Us: Learning to Love Like Jesus)
Not everything was black and white. It was often in the gray areas where the hardest decisions were made.
Aly Martinez (Written with Regret (The Regret Duet, #1))
Now connect your own spirit with that of a spiritual guide. Ask the Divine to help you separate the wheat from the chaff, your own emotions from those of others. Ask it to show you how your emotional field looks right now. Where are the stretch marks, folds, and holes? Where are the areas that are armored, nailed shut, unwieldy? You might see distorted shapes or blotchy areas, or energetic cords that look like garden hoses; the latter connote links between you and others through which energy is bled, dumped, or exchanged. On the opposite end of these cords, you might discover people you know, images of the deceased, or the gray shadows of unfamiliar spirits.
Cyndi Dale (Energetic Boundaries: How to Stay Protected and Connected in Work, Love, and Life)