Habits Die Hard Quotes

YOU FEAR TO DIE? "It's not that I don't want... I mean, I've always...it's just that life is a habit that's hard to break...

As teenagers, Marcus had been the muscle and Jake the brains. Marcus had beat up the kids who'd made fun of skinny Jake; Jake had convinced teachers not to punish him. Since then, Marcus had grown a brain (kind of) and Jake had developed muscles. But habits die hard.

Ha! Yes. When anyone tells you habits die hard, Locke, they’re lying—it seems they never die at all.

Old habits died hard. Often, she thought, they don't die until we do.

Gourville claims that for new entrants to stand a chance, they can’t just be better, they must be nine times better. Why such a high bar? Because old habits die hard and new products or services need to offer dramatic improvements to shake users out of old routines. Gourville writes that products that require a high degree of behavior change are doomed to fail even if the benefits of using the new product are clear and substantial.

I have over a decade’s worth of eating disorder experience at this point. There were the anorexic years, the binge-eating ones, and the current bulimic ones. The more experience I’ve got, the more I recognize that the body is hardly a reliable reflection of what’s going on inside it. My body has fluctuated frequently and drastically throughout this decade, and no matter how it’s fluctuated, no matter whether my body is a kids’ size 10 slim or an adult size 6, I’ve had an issue underneath it. People don’t seem to get that unless they have a history with eating disorders. People seem to assign thin with “good,” heavy with “bad,” and too thin also with “bad.” There’s such a small window of “good.” It’s a window that I currently fall into, even though my habits are so far from good. I’m abusing my body every day. I’m miserable. I’m depleted. And yet the compliments keep pouring in.

I’m only a little ashamed to say I outsprinted the boy. Old habits die hard. It’s good to be faster than what’s chasing you, but really the important thing in running away is to be faster than the slowest of those being pursued. Rule number one: be ahead of the next man. Or child.

Old habits die hard, and sometimes the toughest addictions to shake are the ones that control our hearts.

Old Habits Die Hard

In one scene, when I was supposed to say, "In a pig's eye you are," what came out was, "In a pig's ass you are." Old habits die awfully hard.

Old habits die hard,

Old habits die hard, and if you’re not careful, the person you used to be can overtake the person you’re trying to become.

YOU FEAR TO DIE? ‘It’s not that I don’t want … I mean, I’ve always … it’s just that life is a habit that’s hard to break …

There are many causes for a suicide, and generally the most obvious ones were not the most powerful. Rarely is suicide committed (yet the hypothesis is not excluded) through reflection. What sets off the crisis is almost always unverifiable. Newspapers often speak of "personal sorrows" or of "incurable illness." These explanations are plausible. But one would have to know whether a friend of the desperate man had not that very day addressed him indifferently. He is the guilty one. For that is enough to precipitate all the rancors and all the boredom still in suspension. But if it is hard to fix the precise instant, the subtle step when the mind opted for death, it is easier to deduce from the act itself the consequences it implies. In a sense, and as in melodrama, killing yourself amounts to confessing. It is confessing that life is too much for you or that you do not understand it. Let's not go too far in such analogies, however, but rather return to everyday words. It is merely confessing that that "is not worth the trouble." Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation, and the uselessness of suffering. What, then, is that incalculable feeling that deprives the mind of the sleep necessary to life? A world that can be explained even with bad reasons is a familiar world. But, on the other hand, in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity.

I must know when it is enough. And I must trust God — again and again I was learning and relearning to trust the truth who had entered my sons’ nursery. The rusty and decrepit habit of trusting in only myself, only abiding in my own ability to make things happen, died hard and slow.

Regrets of the Dying.” She shared the five most common regrets of the people she had come to know: 1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. (“Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.”) 2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard. 3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings. (“Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others.”) 4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends. 5. I wish that I had let myself be happier. (“Many did not realize until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits.”)

Old habits die hard.

Habits die hard and absence doesn't stop my fingers from searching.

Old habits die hard, especially for soldiers.

Habits die hard, only good ones, because bad ones are immortal.

Old habits die hard but consistent practice will bear fruit.

My name is Jack Reacher, and once I was a military cop, with heavy emphasis on the past tense. I have been out nearly as long as I was in. But old habits die hard. I had stepped into the bar the same way I always step anywhere, which is carefully.

MR. BONES KNEW THAT WILLY WASN'T LONG FOR THIS WORLD. The cough had been inside him for over six months, and by now there wasn't a chance in hell that he would ever get rid of it. Slowly and inexorably, without once taking a turn for the better, the thing had assumed a life of its own, advancing from a faint, phlegm-filled rattle in the lungs on February third to the wheezy sputum-jigs and gobby convulsions of high summer. All that was bad enough, but in the past two weeks a new tonality had crept into the bronchial music - something tight and flinty and percussive - and the attacks came now so often as to be almost constant. Every time one of them started, Mr. Bones half expected Willy's body to explode from the rockets of pressure bursting agaisnt his rib cage. He figured that blood would be the next step and when that fatal moment finally occurred on Saturday afternoon, it was as if all the angels in heaven had opened their mouths and started to sing. Mr. Bones saw it happen with his own eyes, standing by the edge of the road between Washington and Baltimore as Willy hawked up a few miserable clots of red matter into his handkerchief, and right then and there he knew that every ounce of hope was gone. The smell of death had settled upon Willy G. Christmas, and as surely as the sun was a lamp in the clouds that went off and on everyday, the end was drawing near. What was a poor dog to do? Mr. Bones had been with Willy since his earliest days as a pup, and by now it was next to impossible to imagine a world that did not have his master in it. Every thought, every memory, every particle of the earth and air was saturated with Willy's presence. Habits die hard, and no doubt there's some truth to the adage about old dogs and new tricks, but it was more than just love or devotion that caused Mr. Bones to dread what was coming. It was pure ontological terror. Substract Willy from the world, and the odds were that the world itself would cease to exist.

And I must trust God-again and again I was learning and relearning to trust the Truth who had entered my sons' nursery. The rusty and decrepit habit of trusting in only myself, only abiding in my own ability to make things happen, died hard and slow.

I’m learning. The mick from the lanes of Limerick letting the envy hang out. I’m dealing with first-and second-generation immigrants, like myself, but I’ve also got the middle classes and the upper middle classes and I’m sneering. I don’t want to sneer but old habits die hard. It’s the resentment. Not even anger. Just resentment. I shake my head over the things that concern them, that middle-class stuff, it’s too hot, it’s too cold and this is not the toothpaste I like. Here am I after three decades in America still happy to be able to turn on the electric light or reach for a towel after the shower.

But this is only in the beginning. Just a little patience, just a little awaiting … If you go on looking, watching these thoughts silently, with no judgment, with no antagonism, with no desire even to stop them—as if you have no concern with them—unconcerned … Just as one watches the traffic on the road, or one watches the clouds in the sky, or one watches a river flow by, you simply watch your thoughts. You are not those thoughts, you are the watcher, remembering that “I am the watcher, not the watched.” You cannot be the watched, you cannot be the object of your own subjectivity. You are your subjectivity, you are the witness, you are consciousness. Remembering it. It takes a little time. Slowly, slowly the old habit dies. It dies hard but it dies, certainly. And the day the traffic stops, suddenly you are full of light. You have always been full of light, just those thoughts were not allowing you to see that which you are. When all objects have disappeared, there is nothing else to see, you recognize yourself for the first time. You realize yourself for the first time.

As soon as the period of mourning for Dona Ester was over and the big house on the corner was finished, Esteban Trueba and Clara del Valle were married in a modest ceremony. Esteban gave his wife a set of diamond jewelry, which she thought beautiful. She packed it away in a shoe box and quickly forgot where she had put it. They spent their honeymoon in Italy and two days after they were on the boat. Esteban was as madly in love as an adolescent, despite the fact that the movement of the ship made Clara uncontrollably ill and the tight quarters gave her asthma. Seated by her side in the narrow cabin, pressing cold compress to her forehead and holding her while she vomited, he felt profoundly happy and desired her with unjust intensity considering the wretched state to which she was reduced. On the fourth day at sea, she woke up feeling better and they went out on deck to look at the sea. Seeing her with her wind-reddened nose, and laughing at the slightest provocation, Esteban swore that sooner or later she would come to love him as he needed to be loved, even if it meant he had to resort to extreme measures. He realized that Clara did not belong to him and that if she continued living in her world of apparitions, three-legged chairs that moved of their own volition, and cards that spelled out the future, she probably never would. Clara's impudent and nonchalant sensuality was also not enough for him. He wanted far more than her body; he wanted control over that undefined and luminous material that lay within her and that escaped him even in those moments when she appeared to be dying of pleasure. His hands felt very heavy, his feet very big, his voice very hard, his beard very scratchy, and his habits of rape and whoring very deeply ingrained, but even if he had to turn himself inside out like a glove, he was prepared to do everything in his power to seduce her.

My eyes came to rest on a small tomato-sauce stain on the front of his cream-colored sweater. He was neatly dressed, and that one tiny stain struck me as out of place. And then it hit me–the twenty-one-year old brother with sleepy eyes and a loose-necked navy-blue sweater sprinkled with bread crumbs. Old habits die hard. Those kinds of inclinations, or habits, don't seem to ever change.

Old habits die hard and it seems that, since many of the senior army commanders were veterans of the 1948 ethnic cleansing, they were falling back on the same methods they had used before when occupying villages. Dayan had to issue a special order to the army to stop dynamiting evicted villages – common practice in 1948 that was meant to prevent the return of the villagers to their homes.

We were not married; she was not a dark and brooding man. It was hardly a crumbling ancestral manor; just a single-family home, built at the beginning of the Great Depression. No moors, just a golf course. But it was "woman plus habitation," and she was a stranger. That is probably the truest and most gothic part; not because of war or because we'd only met with chaperones before marriage; rather because I didn't know her, not really, until I did. She was a stranger because something essential was shielded, released in tiny bursts until it became a flood-a flood of what I realized I did not know. Afterward, I would mourn her as if she'd died, because something had: someone we had created together.

She hears the men near the front of the open-air space, where they are tending to the wounded, shouting at one another, blaming one another in a language she doesn’t understand. But she understands panic in any tongue. She lets her heels click loudly enough for them to hear her coming. She didn’t want to preannounce her arrival lest there be an ambush awaiting her—old habits die hard—but likewise she finds no advantage in startling a group of heavily armed, violent men.

The Desire To Paint" Unhappy perhaps is the man, but happy the artist, who is torn with this desire. I burn to paint a certain woman who has appeared to me so rarely, and so swiftly fled away, like some beautiful, regrettable thing the traveller must leave behind him in the night. It is already long since I saw her. She is beautiful, and more than beautiful: she is overpowering. The colour black preponderates in her; all that she inspires is nocturnal and profound. Her eyes are two caverns where mystery vaguely stirs and gleams; her glance illuminates like a ray of light; it is an explosion in the darkness. I would compare her to a black sun if one could conceive of a dark star overthrowing light and happiness. But it is the moon that she makes one dream of most readily; the moon, who has without doubt touched her with her own influence; not the white moon of the idylls, who resembles a cold bride, but the sinister and intoxicating moon suspended in the depths of a stormy night, among the driven clouds; not the discreet peaceful moon who visits the dreams of pure men, but the moon torn from the sky, conquered and revolted, that the witches of Thessaly hardly constrain to dance upon the terrified grass. Her small brow is the habitation of a tenacious will and the love of prey. And below this inquiet face, whose mobile nostrils breathe in the unknown and the impossible, glitters, with an unspeakable grace, the smile of a large mouth ; white, red, and delicious; a mouth that makes one dream of the miracle of some superb flower unclosing in a volcanic land. There are women who inspire one with the desire to woo them and win them; but she makes one wish to die slowly beneath her steady gaze.

We soon reached a dam and had to make a decision. We knew it was forbidden to cross a dam, in the same way that it was forbidden ever to use a footpath or forestry track. (Unless it was part of the dreaded morning battle PT.) This was a simple rule on Selection to make sure that you got used to navigating properly and that the going underfoot was always hard, which it inevitably always was. (In fact I, still to this day, feel a bit guilty if I go hiking on a footpath--old habits die hard.)

And yet, in my case, I can’t let it go: old habits die hard. I can’t rid myself of the need to do “something,” to make “something,” to feel that this new expanse of time hasn’t been “wasted.” Still, it’s nice to have company. Watching this manic desire to make or grow or do “something,” that now seems to be consuming everybody, I do feel comforted to discover I’m not the only person on this earth who has no idea what life is for, nor what is to be done with all this time aside from filling it.

Habits are unconscious behaviors that we do without even being aware of them. They are the foundation of our everyday lives. Our daily practices, habits, and routines shape us. Our good habits support us and help us accomplish our goals. Our bad habits are destructive and undermine our capacity and potential to execute and obtain our desired results. As the saying goes, “bad habits die hard.” But if you want to make room for the life you love, it’s important to look at habits through a new lens of how they might be holding you back.

Getting bodies,” in Border Patrol lingo, didn’t necessarily mean collecting corpses. Bodies were living people. “Bodies” was one of the many names for them. Illegal aliens, dying of thirst more often than not, are called “wets” by agents. “Five wets” might have slipped out. “Wets” are also called “tonks,” but the Border Patrol tries hard to keep that bon mot from civilians. It’s a nasty habit in the ranks. Only a fellow border cop could appreciate the humor of calling people a name based on the stark sound of a flashlight breaking over a human head.

I must know when it is enough. And I must trust God—again and again I was learning and relearning to trust the Truth who had entered my sons’ nursery. The rusty and decrepit habit of trusting in only myself, only abiding in my own ability to make things happen, died hard and slow.

Let, then, thy soul by faith be exercised with such thoughts and apprehensions as these: “I am a poor, weak creature; unstable as water, I cannot excel. This corruption is too hard for me, and is at the very door of ruining my soul; and what to do I know not. My soul is become as parched ground, and an habitation of dragons. I have made promises and broken them; vows and engagements have been as a thing of nought. Many persuasions have I had that I had got the victory and should be delivered, but I am deceived; so that I plainly see, that without some eminent succour and assistance, I am lost, and shall be prevailed on to an utter relinquishment of God. But yet, though this be my state and condition, let the hands that hang down be lifted up, and the feeble knees be strengthened. Behold, 32the Lord Christ, that hath all fulness of grace in his heart, all fulness of power in his hand, he is able to slay all these his enemies. There is sufficient provision in him for my relief and assistance. He can take my drooping, dying soul and make me more than a conqueror.33 ‘Why sayest thou, O my soul, My way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my God? Hast thou not known, hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint,’ Isa. xl. 27–31. He can make the ‘dry, parched ground of my soul to become a pool, and my thirsty, barren heart as springs of water;’ yea, he can make this ‘habitation of dragons,’ this heart, so full of abominable lusts and fiery temptations, to be a place for ‘grass’ and fruit to himself,” Isa. xxxv. 7. So God staid Paul, under his temptation, with the consideration of the sufficiency of his grace: “My grace is sufficient for thee,” 2 Cor. xii. 9. Though he were not immediately so far made partaker of it as to be freed from his temptation, yet the sufficiency of it in God, for that end and purpose, was enough to stay his spirit. I say, then, by faith, be much in the consideration of that supply and the fulness of it that is in Jesus Christ, and how he can at any time give thee strength and deliverance. Now, if hereby thou dost not find success to a conquest, yet thou wilt be staid in the chariot, that thou shalt not fly out of the field until the battle be ended; thou wilt be kept from an utter despondency and a lying down under thy unbelief, or a turning aside to false means and remedies, that in the issue will not relieve thee. The efficacy of this consideration will be found only in the practice.

a spring to refill his water bottles. When he returned, Barnabus was busy cooking their midday meal, and Alex noticed that Thrang was watching Barnabus closely. Thrang had been the cook on Alex’s first adventure, and watching him hover around the campfire made Alex laugh out loud. “Miss cooking, do you?” said Alex. “Old habits die hard,” answered Thrang, looking a little sheepish. “If you’d like to take over, just say so,” said Barnabus. “No, no, not at all,” Thrang said quickly. “I’ve heard about your ability, Barnabus, and I’m happy to let you do the cooking.” “You are most kind. But perhaps you should wait until you taste it before making up your mind.” The

It was the Die Trying promotion tour, and I wasn't mugged. In fact, I mugged the other guy. Promotion tours are hard work, but the compensation is freebie visits to places you might not otherwise go, so I always make a habit, when the day is done, of taking a stroll, usually about midnight. I was in San Francisco, so figured I'd go look at the Tenderloin part of town, which is rough. This guy stepped out and basically said, "Give me your money." ... I was amazed how quickly I snapped back through almost 40 years and suddenly became that tough city kid again. I got right in the guy's face and told him he had to give me his money or I'd break his arms. Just a purely instinctive reaction from long ago. Never back down. Never show fear. He only had five bucks. I gave it to the next homeless person I saw.

A nightmare that’s a memory. Jay really did leave me and Trey at our grandparents’ house. She couldn’t take care of us and her drug habit, too. That’s when I learned that when people die, they sometimes take the living with them. I saw her in the park a few months later, looking more like a red-eyed, scaly-skinned dragon than my mommy. I started calling her Jay after that—there was no way she was my mom anymore. It became my own habit that was hard to break. Still is.

It will be long before everyone is wiped out. People live in war time, they always have. There was terror down through history - and the men who saw the Spanish Armada sail over the rim of the world, who saw the Black death wipe out half of Europe, those men were frightened, terrified. But though they lived and died in fear, I am here; we have built again. And so I will belong to a dark age, and historians will say "We have few documents to show how the common people lived at this time. Records lead us to believe that a majority were killed. But there were glorious men." And school children will sigh and learn the names of Truman and Senator McCarthy. Oh, it is hard for me to reconcile myself to this. But maybe this is why I am a girl - - - so I can live more safely than the boys I have known and envied, so I can bear children, and instill in them the biting eating desire to learn and love life which I will never quite fulfill, because there isn't time, because there isn't time at all, but instead the quick desperate fear, the ticking clock, and the snow which comes too suddenly upon the summer. Sure, I'm dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on the edge. We all are on the brink, and it takes a lot of nerve, a lot of energy, to teeter on the edge, looking over, looking down into the windy blackness and not being quite able to make out, through the yellow, stinking mist, just what lies below in the slime, in the oozing, vomit-streaked slime; and so I could go on, into my thoughts, writing much, trying to find the core, the meaning for myself. Perhaps that would help, to synthesize my ideas into a philosophy for me, now, at the age of eighteen, but the clock ticks, ah yes, "At my back I hear, time's winged chariot hovering near." And I have too much conscience, too much habit to sit and stare at snow, thick now, and evenly white and muffling on the ground. God, I scream for time to let go, to write, to think. But no. I have to exercise my memory in little feats just so I can stay in this damn wonderful place which I love and hate with all my heart. And so the snow slows and swirls, and melts along the edges. The first snow isn't good for much. It makes a few people write poetry, a few wonder if the Christmas shopping is done, a few make reservations at the skiing lodge. It's a sentimental prelude to the real thing. It's picturesque & quaint.

Success isn’t getting that raise or promotion. Success isn’t that trophy or that hard-earned thing you wanted in life. Success isn’t about what you do for yourself but what you do for others while embracing what God has done for you. True success mends the broken heart and heals the shattered spirit. It mends a family and keeps it a tightly knit group of friends rather than enemies always at each other’s throats. True success is a solid marriage rather than a broken or lost one. True success is helping someone who wants to die realize that life is worth living because you love them. Real success produces life and blesses the soul.

It was as she remembered, a haven of comfort and serenity. With a glad sigh, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the side of the bed.Smiling, she patted the mattress beside her. Her husband scowled. It seemed to have become his habit. "We aren't here to relax." "Wolscroft may not even be in the area. It could take days for this to be settled." "He's here," Dragon said with certainty. "He will know what happened at Winchester, and he will be looking for a way to stop us before we can threaten him further." Privately, Rycca believed the same but she saw no reason to stress it. Nothing would happen until dark. Of that she was confident. Which meant... "We have hours to fill.Any ideas?" When he realized her meaning,he looked startled. With a laugh,she scrambled off the bed and went to him. "Oh,Dragon,for heaven's sake, do you really want to mope around here all day? I certainly don't. I still haven't gotten over being afraid Magnus was going to kill you,and I simply don't want to think about death anymore. I want to celebrate life." "There are three hundred men out there-" "Which is why we're in here." She raised herself on tiptoe, bit the lobe of his ear, and whispered, "I promise not to yell too loudly." A shudder ran through him. Even as his big hands stroked her back,he said, "Warriors don't mope." "No,of course they don't.It was a poor choice of words.But you'll be pacing back and forth, looking out the windows, or you'll go get that whetstone I noticed in the stable and sharpen your sword endlessly, or you'll be staring off into space with that dangerous look you get when you're contemplating mayhem. You'll be totally oblivious to me and-" He laughed despite himself and drew her closer. "Enough! Heaven forbid I behave so churlishly." "Speaking of heaven..." With the covers kicked back,the bed was smooth and cool.They undressed each other slowly, relishing the wonder of discovery that still came to them fresh and pure as their very first time. "Remember?" Rycca murmured as she trailed her lips along his broad, powerfully muscled shoulder and down the solid wall of his chest. "I was so nervous..." "Really?" Fooled me....Ah..." "I'd never seen anything so beautiful as you." "Not...beautiful...you are..." "I can't believe how strong you are. Why am I never afraid with you?" "Know I'd die 'fore hurting you? Sweetheart..." "Ohhh! Dragon...please..." His hands and lips moved over her, sweetly tormenting. She clutched his shoulders, her hips rising, and welcomed him deep within her. Still he tantalized her, making her writhe and laughing when she squeezed him hard with her powerful inner muscles. But the laughter turned quickly to a moan of delight. She looked up into his perfectly formed face,more handsome than any man had a right to be, and into his tawny eyes that were the windows of a soul more beautiful than any physical form. A piercing sense of blessedness filled her that she should be so fortunate as to love and be loved by such a man. Her cresting cry was caught by him, hismouth hard against hers, the spur to his own completion that went on and on,seemingly without end.

—we never spoke of it again, of course. The son, the boy, that is, who died. Tragic, it was. We were told not to bring up the subject. Esme would persist in talking about him, though, would constantly say, do you remember this, do you remember that, Hugo this, Hugo that. And one day, at the lunch table, when she suddenly started reminiscing about the day he learnt to crawl, our grandmother brought the flat of her hand down on the table. Enough, she thundered. Father had to take Esme into his study. I have no idea what he said but when she came out she looked very pale of face, very agitated, her lips trembling and her arms folded. She never spoke of him again, even to me, because I said to her that night I didn’t want to hear about him any more either. She was in the habit, you see, of talking about him when we were alone at night in bed. She seemed to take it the way she took everything: excessively hard. When really the one who was truly deserving of all our sympathy was Mother. I quite honestly don’t know how Mother bore it, especially after all those other—

Darkness: I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

She goes to the window, curious to look out, and her senses awaken. It was only a moment ago (for sleep knows no time) that the flat horizon was a loamy gray swell merging into the fog behind the icy glass. But now rocky, powerful mountains are massing out of the ground (where have they come from?), a vast, strange overwhelming sight. This is her first glimpse of the unimaginable majesty of the Alps, and she sways with surprise. Just now a first ray of sun through the pass to the east is shattering into a million reflections on the ice field covering the highest peak. The white purity of this unfiltered light is so dazzling and sharp that she has to close her eyes for a moment, but now she's wide awake. One push and the window bangs down, to bring this marvel closer, and fresh air - ice-cold, glass-sharp, and with a bracing dash of snow - streams through her lips, parted in astonishment, and into her lungs, the deepest, purest breath of her life. She spreads her arms to take in this first reckless gulp, and immediately, her chest expanding, feels a luxurious warmth rise through her veins - marvelous, marvelous. Inflamed with cold, she takes in the scene to the left and the right; her eyes (thawed out now) follow each of the granite slops up to the icy epaulet at the top, discovering, with growing excitement, new magnificence everywhere - here a white waterfall tumbling headlong into a valley, there neat little stone houses tucked into crevices like birds' nests, farther off an eagle circling proudly over the very highest heights, and above it all a wonderfully pure, sumptuous blue whose lush, exhilarating power she would never have thought possible. Again and again she returns to these Alps sprung overnight from her sleep, an incredible sight to someone leaving her narrow world for the first time. These immense granite mountains must have been here for thousands of years; they'll probably still be here millions and millions of years from now, every one of them immovably where it's always been, and if not for the accident of this journey, she herself would have died, rotted away, and turned to dust with no inkling of their glory, She's been living as though all this didn't exist, never saw it, hardly cared to; like a fool she dozed off in this tiny room, hardly longer than her arm, hardly wide enough for her feet, just a night away, a day away from this infinitude, these manifold immensities! Indifferent and without desires before, now she's beginning to realize what she's been missing. This contact with the overpowering is her first encounter with travel's disconcerting ability to strip the hard shell of habit from the heart, leaving only the bare, fertile kernel.

She knew the effort it took to keep one’s exterior self together, upright, when everything inside was in pieces, broken beyond repair. One touch, one warm, compassionate hand, could shatter that hard-won perfect exterior. And then it would take years and years to restore it. This tiny, effeminate creature dressed in velvet suits, red socks, an absurdly long scarf usually wrapped around his throat, trailing after him like a coronation robe. He who pronounced, after dinner, “I’m going to go sit over here with the rest of the girls and gossip!” This pixie who might suddenly leap into the air, kicking one foot out behind him, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun, fun, fun it is to be me! I’m beside myself!” “Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. Hemingway - He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. How to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it! He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair. Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy. And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes. Is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald? The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself. The loss of her true heart. An amusing, brief little time. A time before it was fashionable to tell the truth, and the world grew sordid from too much honesty. In the end as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves. Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glance of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes. The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted. What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

He smiled at her and gave a reassuring wink. He couldn't help himself. Chance figured old habits die hard, but the fact was when he grinned at her, or winked, he wasn't trying to get into her pants. He truly grinned with her. She made him smile. She could prove to be a good friend.

He smiled at her and gave a reassuring wink. He couldn't help himself. Chance figured old habits die hard, but the fact was when he grinned at her, or winked, he wasn't trying to get into her pants. He truly grinned with her. She made him smile. She could prove to be a good friend

Old habits die hard: no amount of Internet could change my parents’ Soviet-era trust in the television as the only source of the latest news.

Peeling a strip of thumbnail with his teeth and putting it carefully into his pocket—kahunas and sorcerers were rare these days, but old habits die hard—he watched the clouds on the horizon, thinking. He reached down and idly patted Ilima’s head.

You killed a Christian? Fine. But if the victim had been a Muslim. . . The rules for restitution for wrongful death are also illuminating for Infidels. The Koran (2:178) establishes a law of retaliation (qisas) for murder: equal recompense must be given for the life of the victim, which can take the form of blood money (diyah): a payment to compensate for the loss suffered. In Islamic law (Sharia), the amount of compensation varies depending on the identity of the victim. ‘Umdat al-Salik (Reliance of the Traveller), a Sharia manual that Cairo’s prestigious Al-Azhar University certifies as conforming to the “practice and faith of the orthodox Sunni community,” says that the payment for killing a woman is half that to be paid for killing a man. Likewise, the penalty for killing a Jew or Christian is one-third that paid for killing a male Muslim.1 The Iranian Sufi Sheikh Sultanhussein Tabandeh, one of the architects of the legal codes of the Islamic Republic of Iran, explains that punishments in Iran for other crimes differ as well, depending on whether the perpetrator is a Muslim. If a Muslim “commits adultery,” Tabandeh explains, “his punishment is 100 lashes, the shaving of his head, and one year of banishment.” (He is referring, of course, to a Muslim male; a Muslim female would in all likelihood be sentenced to be stoned to death.) “But if the man is not a Muslim,” Tabandeh continues, “and commits adultery with a Muslim woman his penalty is execution.”   Bible vs. Koran “Muhammad is the messenger of Allah. And those with him are hard against the disbelievers and merciful among themselves.” —Koran 48:29 “So whatever you wish that men would do to you, do so to them.” —Matthew 7:12 Furthermore, if a Muslim kills a Muslim, he is to be executed, but if he kills a non-Muslim, he incurs a lesser penalty: “If a Muslim deliberately murders another Muslim he falls under the law of retaliation and must by law be put to death by the next of kin. But if a non-Muslim who dies at the hand of a Muslim has by lifelong habit been a non-Muslim, the penalty of death is not valid. Instead the Muslim murderer must pay a fine and be punished with the lash.

Until my mother's abduction, the children of Luce County weren't kept under lock and key. Possibly not even after, because old habits die hard, and because no one ever really things that bad things are going to happen to them. Especially after they've already happened to somebody else.

It was easy to set fire to who I used to be. Old me. The me that was with Mercer. I'd be new. Better. No more crime, no more looking over my shoulder. Even if old habits die hard.

Old habits die hard.

He ignored her apology. “Jayne? For once, could you drive like you didn’t just knock over a bank?” Jayne laughed. “Sorry, boss. Old habits die hard.” Kiara arched a brow. “She was a bank robber?” Jayne signaled her next turn. “I prefer the term ‘wealth redistributor.’ After all, a woman has needs, and I have more than most.” Kiara was aghast and impressed, and a little scared. “You really robbed banks?” Jayne winked at her in the rearview mirror. “My father was Egarious Toole. He had me on the job with him from the time I was four, and he taught me well.” Definitely impressed, Kiara grinned. Egarious Toole was one of the most renowned thieves ever born. But unlike most of his ilk, he was also known as the Gentleman Bandit because he was always so polite to those he robbed.

Molly's having a dreadful day, she quickly gets off the bus and searches for her lottery ticket, as Joe is walking up the street he suddenly sees a paper in the bin and reaches for the paper, "old habits die hard, at that point Molly's lottery ticket flies out of her hand straight into Joe's face, "wow what have we here Patch, "the faithful dog" "I think it is a lottery ticket, "let's see if we have wone, then a whole lot of drama erupts.

It’s okay. Old habits die hard, I guess.

Bad habits are like a comfortable bed, easy to get into, but hard to get out of.” Bruce Barton said, “What a curious phenomenon it is that you can get men to die for the liberty of the world who will not make the little sacrifice that is needed to free themselves from their own individual bondage.

The most radical truths are really simple ones. God is real. He loves you. Good and evil exist. Good will win. You are made in the image of God. You are also fallen. Jesus died for you. He also rose for you. God’s world is beautiful. We are tasked with caring for it. Men and women exist. Families happen when they unite. Families are like building blocks of a healthy world; we should try to keep them together, and not topple them over. Prayer is real; it changes you as much as it changes the world. Life is hard, but God is with you. Suffering will happen, but it will sanctify you. Love is not a feeling, it is a sacrifice, usually in small things. God loves you, period. Your good deeds won’t change that; your bad deeds won’t change that. I will never leave you. Neither will Mom.

Mind if I come in?” “Do you have a warrant?” Old habits die hard.

Old habits die hard,

Old habits died hard, but they died.

Old habits die hard; most Americans still cling to what they were taught as children.

Old habits die hard, emotional triggers like stubborn weeds, profoundly twisted and entrenched, rising to the surface.

In fact, Duke University researchers found that more than 40% “of our actions are unconscious habits.” This idea validates the saying “old habits die hard” and explains why new habits often are exceedingly difficult to establish.

Old habits die hard. Some refused to die at all.

I need to find out who she is,” he told Javier as he entered the shower room with the rest of the team. “If they had to take her out on a stretcher, then chances are someone knows her name.” “Good for you, my friend, for not giving up in the face of obvious adversity. And because I am such a good friend, I shall come with you when you visit her so I might laugh when the female retaliates against you for messing up her face.” Javier flew backward with the force of the punch Ethan laid on him. Rubbing his jaw, his friend glared up at him. “That wasn’t very nice.” Ethan snarled. “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown the ball so damned hard, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. I’m glad you find my situation so g**damned funny.” Jumping to his feet, Javier raised his fists. “Alright, my friend. Let’s go. You obviously need to work off some tension, might as well do it now. Think of your coming beating as a courting favor because I’m going to give you some black eyes to match those of your mate.” “I’d like to see you try.” With a feral grin, Ethan lumbered at his friend, paws swinging as the other players in the shower room scattered. Old habits died hard, and when it came to working out frustration, the easiest route still involved violence. Ethan refused to view it as stalling out of fear. Kodiak bears feared nothing, especially not one fated female. But just in case, perhaps once he de-stressed, he would pick up flowers, or buy a whole damned floral shop for her.

Even so long after the Outbreak, I still had to fight the urge to reach for a light switch. Old habits die hard.

Nasiha,” she said sharply, hoping to get the girl to remember her duty was to serve Adara. Even though they were long past those days when Nassi was Adara’s servant, old habits died hard. “We are going to be fine.

Old habits die hard, emotional triggers like stubborn weeds, profoundly twisted and entrenched, rising to the surface. Elin

old habits died hard—or not at all.

But old habits die hard.

Old habits and bad ones—they both died hard and, as often as not, killed you if you couldn’t put them away.

A week later, as he stood on the terrace of Zach’s house with a beer in his hand, Ryan wondered if there was a more fucked up man in the world. The door behind him opened. “You’ll catch a cold,” Hannah said. For a few seconds before she closed the door, he could hear the sounds of laughter and the voices of his family. It wasn’t any special occasion. Old habits just died hard. When Christmas was approaching, they all tended to gravitate toward Zach’s house. December was an unofficial family month in the Hardaway clan. “I never do,” Ryan said before taking another sip. “But you should go inside. It is cold.” Looping her arms around his neck, Hannah pulled him down and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t stay out here long, all right? You’ll freeze your balls off. That would be a shame. I’m rather fond of them.” He chuckled and smacked her on the bottom lightly. “Go inside.” Laughing, she left. Ryan returned to sipping his beer and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. The terrace door opened and closed again. “You’ll catch a cold,” Jamie said. Setting the bottle down, Ryan turned his head. He smiled. “I won’t if you come here and warm me up, Jamie bear.” Jamie rolled his eyes, his nose scrunching up adorably, but walked over and let Ryan pull him into his arms. He was warm, so warm, and smelled amazing, like all of Ryan’s favorite things in the world. Ryan buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and said, “You should probably go inside. It really is cold out here.” He didn’t want Jamie to go. “I’m good,” Jamie said, leaning back into Ryan’s chest for warmth. Ryan rubbed his hands up and down Jamie’s arms, covered only by a soft cashmere pullover. “You sure you don’t want me to go grab your jacket?” “I’m not cold, really,” Jamie said. “Why are you hiding from everyone?” “I’m not hiding.” Jamie didn’t say anything for a while. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, “Are you freaking out because of what happened?” Ryan sighed. “I told you: I’m not freaking out.” At least not about what Jamie thought. “Right,” Jamie said, his tone skeptical. “Then what’s the problem? You’ve been a little weird since…” “Since I helped you out?” Jamie let out a laugh. “Yeah. Since you helped me out. If you aren’t freaking out, why have you been looking at me oddly?” “I have?” Ryan said, stroking Jamie’s arms after a freezing blast of wind made Jamie shiver. “You have.

I admit I was stupid. Oh, mija, you don’t know what I’d give to start over.” He leaned toward her and said, “If I had a woman like you in my life, I think I would know what I had.” She laughed at him. “Good God, you’re so obvious. You’re coming on to me!” Some habits die so hard, he thought. But he was close enough to smell her sweet perfume and it addled his brain a little bit. “Dios, no! I wouldn’t dare! I’m admiring you, that’s all.” “Well, you can stop admiring me—I’m never getting within a hundred miles of another one of you.” “Another one of—me?” “You’ve been through two wives and a million other women. Not exactly a good résumé, Mike.” He leaned back on his hands and smiled at her. “For a little while, I thought you liked me.” She lifted her eyebrows. “I’m not about to be tricked by a flirtatious man.” He shrugged. “If you are, it will be kept in confidence, Brie,” he said, smiling at her. “This

The enemy of forming new habits is past behaviors, and research suggests that old habits die hard.

As difficult an environment as the DA's Office could be, I saw no overarching conspiracy against women. The unequal treatment was usually more a matter of old habits dying hard.

Old habits 'DIE' hard, they have to be 'KILLED'! Yes...for once I would propogate some violence in dealing with habits that do not serve us...'Cold blooded murder of non serving habits' , 'merciless elimination of non serving habits'.. Substitute with newer,more powerful habits !!!

OLD HABITS DIE HARD... Love is a difficult habit to break..!!

Quotes and Comparison-2 Several quotes by various philosophers and figures, such as William Shakespeare, Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein, James Russell Lowell, Galileo Galilei, Bill Gates, Ernest Hemingway, Dale Carnegie, Aristotle, and Stephen Hawking, provide a critical comparison with a journalist and scholar Ehsan Sehgal Quotes. 7. I choose a lazy person to do a hard job. Because a lazy person will find an easy way to do it. Bill Gates A lazy one remains only the lazy, whether one provides only difficult or non-difficult ways; the problem is laziness, not the nature of matter. Ehsan Sehgal 8. Don't compare yourself with anyone in this world. If you do so, you are insulting yourself. Bill Gates You may compare yourself with others in the world to correct your flaws and do your best to become unique. Without that, you learn nothing. Ehsan Sehgal 8. If you are born poor it's not your mistake, But if you die poor it's your mistake. Bill Gates As a nature, each one is born equal, the world divides that into the classes for its motives. It is not a mistake; one is born and dies, rich or poor. It is one's fate since the world runs with it. Ehsan Sehgal 9. As a writer, you should not judge. You should understand. Ernest Hemingway As a writer, you should judge and observe; it leads you to understand. Ehsan Sehgal 10. Feeling sorry for yourself, and your present condition is not only a waste of energy but the worst habit you could possibly have. Dale Carnegie Feeling sorry for oneself demonstrates the way of realizing the tragedies and mistakes of life that may soften the burden of the pain, looking forward with the best efforts. Indeed, sorry is a confession, not a waste of time. Ehsan Sehgal 11. The United Nations was set up not to get us to heaven, but only to save us from hell. Winston Churchill The States of the World reorganized the intergovernmental organization the League of Nations as the United Nations, not for saving us from hell but for bringing us to hell, obeying the Veto Drivers. However, be sure that changing all the long-standing objects, subjects, figures, systems, and monopolies will create a way of peace and heaven. Ehsan Sehgal 12. Pleasure in the job puts perfection in work. Aristotle Pleasure in whatever subject shows willingness and accuracy, not perfection since humans are incapable of that. 13. Dignity does not consist in possessing honours, but in deserving them. Aristotle Sober character, honest conduct, and sweet talk entitle a person to real dignity, nothing else. Ehsan Sehgal 14. You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honour. Aristotle Indeed, without concrete action, courage collapses and stays dishonored and unvalued since alone courage establishes nothing. Ehsan Sehgal 15. Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious. Stephen Hawking Before observing the stars, first, one should also maintain a foot position for safety so that one can confidently focus on the mysteries and science of the universe; indeed, curiosity reaches and reveals the realities of that. Ehsan Sehgal

Playlist Theme Song: Chris Isaak- Wicked Game (Jessie Villa Cover) Ed Sheeran- Bad Habits Billie Eilish- NDA Billie Eilish- idontwannabeyouanymore Sasha Sloan- Runaway The Neighbourhood- Sweater Weather Croosh (feat. IV)- Lost Seether- Words as Weapons Hemming- Hard on Myself OneRepublic (feat. Timbaland)- Apologize Righteous Vendetta- A Way Out Transviolet- Under Lana Del Rey- Born to Die nothing,nowhere- rejecter Emawk (feat. solace)- Pilot MAALA- Better Life Frank Ocean- Lost Glass Animals- Heat Waves  Johnny Rain- Harveston Lake Seether (feat. Amy Lee)- Broken KALLITECHNIS- Synergy

And more than once, I’d caught myself in a sticky situation with a girl. I guess old habits die hard.

You will find that while old habits die hard, they do, with perseverance, die. This is also true for habits of thinking.

He sat down on the bed and explained to me that there had been some investigations into my private life. It had been learned that my mother had died recently at the home. Inquiries had then been made in Marengo. The investigators had learned that I had “shown insensitivity” the day of Maman’s funeral. “You understand,” my lawyer said, “it’s a little embarrassing for me to have to ask you this. But it’s very important. And it will be a strong argument for the prosecution if I can’t come up with some answers.” He wanted me to help him. He asked if I had felt any sadness that day. The question caught me by surprise and it seemed to me that I would have been very embarrassed if I’d had to ask it. Nevertheless I answered that I had pretty much lost the habit of analyzing myself and that it was hard for me to tell him what he wanted to know. I probably did love Maman, but that didn’t mean anything. At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones were dead. Here the lawyer interrupted me and he seemed very upset. He made me promise I wouldn’t say that at my hearing or in front of the examining magistrate. I explained to him, however, that my nature was such that my physical needs often got in the way of my feelings. The day I buried Maman, I was very tired and sleepy, so much so that I wasn’t really aware of what was going on. What I can say for certain is that I would rather Maman hadn’t died. But my lawyer didn’t seem satisfied. He said, “That’s not enough.

How long must I prove myself? How many more must I kill? Sorry. Old habits die hard.

Some habits died hard. Others made it harder to die.

Old habits die hard.

Old habits die hard, huh?

He had been in Vietnam for seven months in 1968, a very hard year for American boys in Vietnam, and he had seen combat. In those days, coming awake had been as sudden as the snapping of fingers or the clicking on of a lamp; one minute you were a stone, the next you were awake in the dark. The habit had died in him almost as soon as he had been shipped back to the States, and he had been proud of that, although he never spoke of it. He was no machine, by Jesus. Push button A and Johnny wakes up, push button B and Johnny kills some slants.

I did have to resist the urge to open his bedroom door and check that he was all right. Old habits of motherhood die hard.

For good measure – and because old habits die hard – I reach a hand for his chest to make sure I’m good on my feet. Yes, his chest is as solid under that jacket as I suspected. Check.

The truth is old habits die hard and when things settle down you will feel a quiet, but subtle pull back towards complacency. You must fight this call of complacency with everything you have because it can be beaten.

Habits die hard, money is tough to come by, and temptation is a bitch.

Bronnie Ware, a palliative care nurse who served patients for the final weeks of their lives, wrote a moving article called “Regrets of the Dying.” She shared the five most common regrets of the people she had come to know: 1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. (“Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.”) 2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard. 3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings. (“Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others.”) 4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends. 5. I wish that I had let myself be happier. (“Many did not realize until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits.”)

YOU FEAR TO DIE? “It’s not that I don’t want . . . I mean, I’ve always . . . it’s just that life is a habit that’s hard to break .

Old habits died hard.

They got back to the house late. Myron's father was feigning sleep in the recliner. Some habits die hard. Myron "woke" him up. He startled to consciousness. Pacino never overacted his much.

Gourville claims that for new entrants to stand a chance, they can’t just be better, they must be nine times better. Why such a high bar? Because old habits die hard and new products or services need to offer dramatic improvements to shake users out of old routines.