Hayward Quotes

There weren’t perfect people, nor were there perfect lives or perfect relationships. There were, however, perfect moments. And this was one of them.

She was suddenly aware of him in a way she hadn't been before. Hayward was good-looking in a sweet and wholesome way.

She’s using the pen name Juniper Song to pretend to be Chinese American. She’s taken new author photos to look more tan and ethnic, but she’s as white as they come. June Hayward, you are a thief and a liar. You’ve stolen my legacy, and now you spit on my grave.

It is better for a leader to make a mistake in forgiving than to make it in punishing.” —Prophet Muhammad from Joel Hayward, The Leadership of Muhammad

Great,” I muttered. “Maybe we can go out on a date, fall in love, get married, have us a whole bunch of kids and die fucking horrible deaths

A leader is a shield to the people

I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down by threats - any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution after death - then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself. But don't you see, this is just the point - what has for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but an inward music: the irresistible power of unarmed truth, the powerful attraction of its example. It has always been assumed that the most important things in the Gospels are the ethical maxims and commandments. But for me the most important thing is that Christ speaks in parables taken from life, that He explains the truth in terms of everyday reality. The idea that underlies this is that communion between mortals is immortal, and that the whole of life is symbolic because it is meaningful.

Allah's Messenger ﷺ fought [with us] in severe heat, struggling on our long journey, against the desert and the great strength of the enemy.

It is better for a leader to make a mistake in forgiving than to make it in punishing.

O Messenger of Allah! Shall I tie [the camel’s leg], or leave it loose and trust in Allah?" He said: “Tie it and put your trust in Allah.

[Hayward] honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophical calm... He was an idealist.

It was through Allah’s mercy that you [Muhammad] have been able to deal with them so gently. If you had been stern and hard-hearted, they would surely have dispersed from around you.

In that space between one beat and the next, all you are is potential. And that is where all the cool kids go to get their psychic powers.

You're just a weaponist, Jack." Jack stifled a snicker. "A weaponist?" "Like a racist but against certain weapons." "And you never met a weapon you didn't like." "A couple actually, but that was more personality differences." "Hah! No. You're just a weapon slut. There's a difference. I'm a weapon monogamist." He considered that, then added, "Well, maybe a very limited polygamist." "You haven't returned my Desert Eagle," Blade noted dryly. "It's lonely out here and I'm a man with needs.

I had never confronted my parents with the true feelings I had for them, and I had certainly never expressed the depth of my feeling for my mother, being too selfish to try when I should have.

Luckily, I have ESP. Extra sensory presumption. It means I have this unbelievable talent for guessing and occasionally, I get it right.

There's enough joy in birding to fill a lifetime.

What can you guarentee, O Nostradamus of Hayward?" I carp.

Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure.

Hayward felt that life was full of ugliness,

a subject upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he had assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than to exchange ideas.

Weeks tore to pieces all that Hayward had said; with elaborate civility he displayed the superficiality of his attainments.

It would have been reasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the barbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppets in the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that; and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when this was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason.

He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories.

She used to write as June Hayward, tweets a user named reyl089. But she published her book about China as June Song. Fucked up, right? The literal definition of yellowface, writes one reply.

As a man of deep faith, Muhammad embraced and taught a theocentric understanding of leadership; that is, he believed that ultimately God chooses and puts in place all leaders, regardless of the specific procedure of a person’s appointment to a leadership role within a community or army.

Now and then, losing his calm as he felt himself more and more foolish, Hayward became abusive, and only the American's smiling politeness prevented the argument from degenerating into a quarrel.

These mod cons, despite the brief excitement they generated, were basically chutes leading down to clay pipes, which in turn acted as simple conduits to the river, depositing the waste of the rich next to the waste of the poor, where the distinction was lost on the kholics, who attempted, each day, to clean it up.

No, sorry. Song is my middle name, actually. My last name is Hayward. Neither of my parents are, um, Asian.” I want to die. I want to open the car door and roll out onto the highway and be obliterated by oncoming traffic.

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger’s wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot, survivor of that time, that place. —ANNA AKHMATOVA, FROM POEMS OF AKHMATOVA, TRANSLATED BY STANLEY KUNITZ, WITH MAX HAYWARD

It meant good-bye to London and to Churchill, whose company Harriman thoroughly enjoyed, and to Pamela, whose bed he enjoyed (the lovers’ hiatus lasted almost three decades, until 1971, when Pamela Beryl Digby Churchill Hayward became the third Mrs. Harriman).

Athena—a beautiful, Yale-educated, international, ambiguously queer woman of color—has been chosen by the Powers That Be. Meanwhile, I’m just brown-eyed, brown-haired June Hayward, from Philly—and no matter how hard I work, or how well I write, I’ll never be Athena Liu.

Even on social and cultural matters Muhammad liked to engage with people and hear views, routinely publicly praising the view of the person who initiated the discussion or whose opinion eventually prevailed, even if it had differed from his own. He delighted in good ideas, and made sure everyone knew who had advanced them, without claiming them as his own. He believed that credit should go to whom it was due.

One shelf became two. Then a wall. Then eight-foot rolling racks from a shut library in Hayward, Wisconsin. Maudie suggested changing the shop name to reflect its inventory. Bread and Books. Loaves and Lit. Pulp and Provender. Lark laughed off the idea. She said all of it was bread.

From a Berkeley Notebook' ~Denis Johnson One changes so much from moment to moment that when one hugs oneself against the chill air at the inception of spring, at night, knees drawn to chin, he finds himself in the arms of a total stranger, the arms of one he might move away from on the dark playground. Also, it breaks the heart that the sign revolving like a flame above the gas station remembers the price of gas, but forgets entirely this face it has been looking at all day. And so the heart is exhausted that even the face of the dismal facts we wait for the loves of the past to come walking from the fire, the tree, the stone, tangible and unchanged and repentant but what can you do. Half the time I think about my wife and child, the other half I think how to become a citizen with an apartment, and sex too is quite on my mind, though it seems the women have no time for you here, for which in my larger, more mature moments I can’t blame them. These are the absolute Pastures I am led to: I am in Berkeley, California, trapped inside my body, I am the secret my body is going to keep forever, as if its secret were merely silence. It lies between two mistakes of the earth, the San Andreas and Hayward faults, and at night from the hill above the stadium where I sleep, I can see the yellow aurora of Telegraph Avenue uplifted by the holocaust. My sleeping bag has little cowboys lassoing bulls embroidered all over its pastel inner lining, the pines are tall and straight, converging in a sort of roof above me, it’s nice, oh loves, oh loves, why aren’t you here? Morgan, my pyjamas are so lonesome without the orangutans—I write and write, and transcend nothing, escape nothing, nothing is truly born from me, yet magically it’s better than nothing—I know you must be quite changed by now, but you are just the same, too, like those stars that keep shining for a long time after they go out—but it’s just a light they touch us with this evening amid the fine rain like mist, among the pines.

He had always had a passion for life and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Phillip, this type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street.

Muhammad was gentle and flexible when he recognized sometimes that a greater good might be accomplished by releasing someone from a vow. When a young man happened to tell him that his pledge to emigrate with him (presumably to Medina) had made his parents cry, he humanely said: “Go back to them, and make them smile just as you had made them weep.

Alan Turing proposed the Turing Test: a computer is intelligent if you can't tell it from a human when you talk with it. No computer has been able to make it.

This book is a personal memoir; but it is also a larger story-about carelessness and guilt, and the wreckage they can make of lives.

Larry Wall's classic Programming Perl described the three programmer's virtues: hubris, laziness, and impatience.

Nobody knows how to make machines that heal after they sustain damage.

Lunacy attracting lunacy. Then, of course, they encourage each other, I suppose, validate each other.

... he understood how little time comprised a life, and how tenacious and wondrous and frustrating the interim between oblivions could be.

All gods are selfish and vain. Gods demand worship. Gods demand prayer.

That's what life was like. Implications and half-complete expressions, undefined expectations, ever unsure what exactly was needed, or what, in fact, was happening.

Reagan liked to quip about détente: “Détente—isn’t that what a farmer has with his turkey—until Thanksgiving Day?

It is entirely possible to miss something you've never had." - Ethan Bane

As a prophet and communal leader, Muhammad was entitled to special treatment, such as eating better while campaigning with his men. Yet he ate only what his warriors ate and suffered privations — intense heat, hunger and thirst, exhaustion and discomfort — equally with them. When he led a force of slightly over three hundred warriors to Badr in March 624, for example, they had only seventy camels between them. Three or four men therefore rode cramped on each camel. Muhammad asked for no preferential treatment, even though no one would have begrudged him the right to ride alone, and he uncomfortably shared his camel with ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib and Zayd ibn Harithah (some sources say Marthad ibn Abi Marthad al-Ghanawi).

A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things.

When my world gets reset to zero, my starting post is blood. Specifically, the elements of it, the working compounds that make it what it is. Red cells, white cells, DNA, plasma full of proteins, enzymes, antibodies, minerals, electrolytes—all the things that when poked and prodded right tell you just about everything you want to know about a person. Fascinating stuff, and a little freaky, when you think about it. Blood was where I returned to after the accident that smashed my knee. It was where I went when I got out of prison. It was where I was when Mercy fell into my lap. Now it seemed, blood was my whole reason for being.

Perhaps not exactly a life wasted, but an overly courteous and restrained one, obedient, a life of service. Undermined, mostly, by a bitterness that had flowed, until today, deep under his proper-yet-seething skin.

Weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till Hayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so innocent in appearance that Hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they led him, answered blandly; Weeks made a courteous objection, then a correction of fact, after that a quotation from some little known Latin commentator, then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was disclosed that he was a scholar.

One of the quips Reagan scribbled on a notepad after waking up after surgery was Winston Churchill’s famous line from his autobiography My Early Life that “there is no more exhilarating feeling than being shot at without result.

Components of his experiences seemed to break down, sorting into hard facts, like a series of crystals, as if they could be arranged, made sense of, as if they could be held, easy to view, hold, and look at from different angles.

I have been looking for an institution to continue my degree, but I couldn't because they didn't allow me to do it part time. My friend introduced me to original-degree.com and it literally changed my life. I am now continuing my degree, and working as well.

Dun dah,” Jack intoned. “Sorry, but that’s the wrong answer. The correct answer is . . .” He slung one arm around Ethan’s neck and pulled him in until they were chest to chest. “Blowjob. Come on, baby. Suck my brains out through my dick. That way, no headache!

I wept for my family, all if us, my beautiful, idyllic, lost family. I wept for our excesses, our delusions and inconsistencies; not that we had cared too much or too little, although both were true, but that we had let such extraordinary care be subverted into extraordinary carelessness. We'd been careless with the best of our many resources: each other. It was as though we had taken for granted the fact that there would be more where we had come from too; another chance, another summer, another Brooke, Bridget or Bill.

The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can't get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. "But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all eternity." "What do you deduce from that?" asked Hayward. "Why, merely the futility of regret. It's no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.

they suggest I publish under the name Juniper Song instead of June Hayward (“Your debut didn’t reach quite the same market we’re hoping for, and it’s better to have a clean start. And Juniper is so, so unique. What kind of name is that? It sounds Native, almost.”). Nobody talks about the difference in how “Song” might be perceived versus “Hayward.” No one says explicitly that “Song” might be mistaken for a Chinese name, when really it’s the middle name my mother came up with during her hippie phase in the eighties and I was very nearly named Juniper Serenity Hayward.

Watching the Greater Sage-Grouse stomping and popping, as they had done for millennia before, I could feel the urgency of their individual efforts together with that irony peculiar to life: despite the knowledge of one's own ultimate and bloody mortality, we need to dance like there will always be a tomorrow.

Idealism and naiveté were youthful cousins. Foresight and the considerations of age and experience often brought inaction, compromise, second-guessing; the ability to foresee the extent of actions--to understand implications of cause and effect--could effectively thwart spontaneous, if impractical, decisions.

Nobody moved. "Now it's silly of me to make this all too serious," she said, changing the matter - of - fact inflection in her voice to one of levity. "You all look stricken and there's no need to be. Everything will be practically the same, you'll see." She smiled at us in a secret way, knowing how to make us giggle.

One of my favourite things to say to myself is that “I can become someone who can....”. Right now, I may be overwhelmed by trauma, unable to sleep, fearful that I won’t actually finish this book. But, I can become someone who can overcome all those things. This focuses attention on the now and on continual progress rather than events and milestones.

George Will’s equally serviceable formula was “He does not want to return to the past; he wants to return to the past’s way of facing the future.” Reagan’s variety of future-oriented optimism rooted in historical attachment has become almost unrecognizable in the age of a postmodernism that is openly contemptuous of history and historical experience.

What I'm trying to say is that there's more to a story than events taking place in one location, to one person. You need to look at everything, at the same time, in the entire universe. Look at every person, every creature. Turn over every rock. See? In one glistening instant, plucked from the stream of time as it passes by: countless episodes, from a myriad of human lives, all vital, all entangled in a shared moment. So many threads...

The friction began at this first meeting. O’Neill was not initially impressed with Reagan and said to him, “You’ve been a governor of a state, but a governor plays in the minor leagues. You’re in the big leagues now.” (O’Neill had said the same thing to Jimmy Carter four years before.) Reagan replied, “Oh, you know, no problem there.” Despite the genial response, O’Neill’s comment represented the very kind of Washington haughtiness that set Reagan’s teeth on edge. Aides to the president-elect were incensed.

I remember at the reception you said to me, 'I'm the daughter of a father who's been married five times. Mother killed herself. My sister killed herself. My brother has been in a mental institution. I'm twenty-three and divorced with two kids.' I said, 'Brooke, either you've got to open the window right now'--we were on the tenth floor--'either you've got to open the window right now and jump out, or say "I'm going to live," because you're right, it's the worst family history that anybody ever had, and either you jump out the window or you live.

It was an exquisite memorial to that than which the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his life. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had never lived.

week before the election, the New Republic’s Morton Kondracke wrote that “it seems more likely by the day that Ronald Reagan is not going to execute a massive electoral sweep. In fact, the movement of the presidential campaign suggests a Carter victory.”14 David Broder had written: “There is no evidence of a dramatic upsurge in Republican strength or a massive turnover in Congress.” Though polls in the days leading up to the election showed Reagan ahead of Carter, most were near or within the margin of error, and everyone was predicting a late-night nail-biter. The New York Times poll three days out had Reagan ahead by a single point; veteran California pollster Mervin Field said, “At the moment there is a slight movement toward Carter.” George Gallup said, “This election could very well be a cliffhanger just like 1948.”15

It looked as though knowing that you were right meant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had no intention of undermining the boy's faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and found it an absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own views accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost everything that other people believed. Once Philip asked him a question, which he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had fallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting discussion in the newspapers. "But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and St. Augustine be wrong?" "You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave doubts whether I am either?" asked Weeks. "Yes," answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question seemed impertinent. "St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned round it." "I don't know what that proves." "Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what to us is positively incredible." "Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?" "I don't." Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said: "I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as wrong as what they believed in the past." "Neither do I." "Then how can you believe anything at all?" "I don't know." Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward's religion. "Men have always formed gods in their own image," said Weeks. "He believes in the picturesque." Philip paused for a little while, then he said: "I don't see why one should believe in God at all.

Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself, because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of prettiness? But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.

she had made a conscious and counter-cultural choice to embrace silence and not fill it with noise

The first hackers were people in software who like solving problems and believe in freedom and helping each other. They produced a lot of computers and software.

It’s the curse of the birder to never stop birding, however remote the possibility of seeing or hearing a bird. Our eyes and ears are always primed. It’s a kind of personal schizophrenia, hearing voices no one else can hear and seeing ghosts among the trees that somehow the normals ignore or can’t perceive.

fucking mask, at least for about five seconds, before he ripped it off after some little dick in the crowd outside the hotel had called out, “Hey, Frankie Batman!” He’d rounded up a few acceptable people, like Leland and Pam Hayward, the Bennett Cerfs, Claudette Colbert, that classy old dame, and commandeered a table, handed a waiter a hundred bucks and asked for three

Slate-throated Restart

Hill City and Hayward is as close to that area as I’ve ever been. It was a long time back, when it was pretty dangerous. I was on my way to Cheyenne at the time, and in a hurry to get there. I was none too eager to get scalped.” Cooper glanced at the Apache. “No offense.

Platinum Flooring Company’s certified and skilled installers are trained to install hardwood products for any give art form, which would not only make your new floor look great, but last long for years to come. The Platinum Flooring Company’s specialist would not only help you select the perfect laminate flooring for your home that would suit your home décor as well as budget, but would also install your new laminate flooring for a fast, worry-free installation experience. Platinum Flooring Company is a full service, Hayward based flooring and installation firm specializing in classic design with a global influence. Whether designing residential or commercial spaces, Platinum Flooring has built a reputation on achieving highly individual results for a discerning clientele across the state of California and Beyond. At Platinum Floor Company, we have a separate team of stair installers headed by a stair specialist, having intense knowledge of different wood species, latest technology tools and in-depth knowledge of angular complexities. “Wooden floor, especially hardwood is good as it can take a lot of abuse and has a greater life expectancy compared to laminate or engineered floors.”, says Alex Vongsouthi – Founder, Platinum Flooring Company. But there are several reasons which can make your wood floor crack or separate between boards, cup, crown, etc. some being high traffic on the floor, spillages, sunlight and high percentage of moisture content in the room. With this it can be difficult to know whether floors need to be replaced or can be fixed. Platinum Flooring is renowned for its high standards and uncompromising service quality, with the expertise of a high-end retailer in Hardwood, Engineered wood and Laminate flooring.

I felt that combination of excitement at what lay ahead and panic at potentially missing the bird. That pit in the stomach is a common feeling for birders, whose lives are defined by that short distance between emotional extremes of jubilation and “that’s it—I’m never doing this again!

Success comes to those who can make decisions, not the cleverest.

It seems to me that, in the real world, it is impossible to be guided solely by either the impulses of feeling or my rational calculation. Neither is likely to make us happy. In my own view, we have need of them both. Wisdom, I suppose, lies in knowing when to call upon one and when on the other.

Call me a monster, I think. Give me a name of your own. I have been called so many things over the centuries. Sometimes I forget which names have been given and which have been taken. Monster-goddess-Photine. I am that which you say I am. Let me be the monster.

As I always say, my home is in Christianity but I have cottages everywhere. I feel peace about this and am free of theological anxiety about it.

I flopped down on the couch. “I also want to know what the connection is between Brubaker and McMahon. There’s no other way that McMahon could’ve known about Chancellor.” “Yeah, I don’t get that one,” Cal said. “I thought Chancellor was buried.” “On the surface, it should’ve been. No one lost money in the end, and those who knew agreed to keep it silent.” “But someone’s pissed off enough to come after you.” I nodded. “Check on Brubaker’s partners, Bradford Wellington and Hayward St. Clair. Maybe they have some connection to McMahon.

You want to do things, you want to become things," said Hayward, with a shrug of the shoulders. "It's so vulgar.

Hayward pushed the door open brusquely, her cheeks still full of lunch.

Pershing responded by reassigning the Fifteenth to serve alongside French soldiers. The French Army desperately needed troops. If Hayward’s men were so anxious to fight, they could exchange their American-issued weapons for French ones and fight under French commanders.22 Hayward and his soldiers reported to Givry-en-Argonne, where they were taught to use French grenades, rifles, and machine guns. The New Yorkers also learned sufficient French in short order. The French high command renamed the Fighting Fifteenth le 369 ième Régiment d’Infanterie États Unís.23 “We are now a combat unit,” Hayward excitedly wrote, “one of the regiments of a French Division in the French Army, assigned to a sector of trenches.”24 Because the black soldiers seemingly had been abandoned by their own army, the French called them les enfants perdus— the lost children.

The man who is persuaded that the human mind is incompetent even to determine whether there be a God or not, will inevitably turn a deaf ear to those who claim to be His accredited messengers. Only those who are already assured that there is a God, capable, if He should see fit, of manifesting His will to men, are in a position to attend to the proofs of revelation. In her work of preaching the Gospel the Church has to deal with many who either doubt God's existence, or in some way identify Him with the universe which He has made. For such as these only proofs drawn from natural reason can be of service. Moreover, materialism and pantheism are permanent factors in human thought, and in every age they are found in open conflict with the Church as the great bulwark, not merely of revealed religion, but of theism. The Church cannot defeat their disastrous propaganda unless she is able to meet them on their own ground, and establisb by irrefragable arguments the existence and principal attributes of a personal God.

That haunting longing for the moon returned. Stronger, broader, flavoured with all the bone-deep desire only a nocturnal creature could feel for their sole light-giver, the lonely satellite that watched over them when the rest of the daylight world abandoned them.

Out of perverseness, I jumped on the subway and went down to a sound stage on Fourth Street to watch the shooting of Kay Doubleday's big strip scene in Mad Dog Coll, a gangster film that can still, to my embarrassment, be seen occasionally on late-night TV... Kay Doubleday was in my class at Lee Strasberg's; it was in the interest of art, I told myself, to watch her prance down a ramp, singing and stripping her heart out.

The minute we moved in (1712 North Crescent Heights), Dennis Hopper decided to give a party for Andy (Warhol), who was coming out to Los Angeles, and he decided that the one thing that would really make the house stand out, fabulously, would be billboards. So he papered the downstairs bathrooms with billboards. He had also decided that the food at the party would be hot dogs and chili. So we had a hot-dog stand! And Dennis had found huge papier-mâché Mexican figures with firecrackers hanging on them.

I contemplated the phone for some time. Never had I heard her so oddly gay and forthright; as a matter of fact, we hadn't discussed sex since adolescence. Her entire inner life was secretive and mysterious, and no one dared violate it. She sent out powerful "No Trespassing" signals and I had learned to honor them. It crossed my mind that my sister was drunk.

I wrote in a bedroom crowded with ghosts," Brooke Hayward says. "My mother would disapprove, and my father would be horrified. The moral of my book is that you pay for everything. They were rich, accomplished, famous and beautiful. We were drowned in privilege, yet it ended in all this hideous tragedy." (interview from People magazine (May 23, 1977)

Today, I’m sitting in the corner chair and feeling very conspicuous. First, because I’m not wearing a velour tracksuit in a choice of pastel shades, and second because I’m not a woman. You might even say, thirdly I’m over the age of twenty-five – and mentally over the age of twelve, but that would just be nasty.

TINY CRAB CAKES 1 egg 1½ cups fresh breadcrumbs (see Note) ¼ cup finely chopped scallions (2–3 scallions) 1 tablespoon mayonnaise 1 teaspoon lemon juice (juice of about ⅙ medium lemon) ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce ¼ teaspoon seafood seasoning mix, such as Old Bay 8 ounces fresh lump-style crabmeat, picked over 2–3 tablespoons vegetable oil Scallion brushes for garnish (optional; see page 19) MAKES ABOUT 24 MINI CAKES (4–6 SERVINGS) 1. To make the Curry-Orange Mayo, whisk together the mayonnaise, curry powder, orange zest, orange juice, and Tabasco in a small bowl. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours or up to 3 days. When ready to serve, transfer to a pretty bowl and sprinkle with the scallions. 2. To make the crab cakes, lightly beat the egg in a large bowl. Add ¾ cup of the breadcrumbs, the scallions, mayonnaise, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and seasoning mix. Stir well to blend. Add the crabmeat and mix gently, being careful not to shred the crabmeat entirely. 3. Spread the remaining ¾ cup of breadcrumbs onto a plate. Form the crab mixture into 24 cakes, using a scant tablespoon for each one, and dredge lightly in the crumbs. Arrange on a wax paper-lined baking sheet. 4. Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in one or two large skillets over medium heat. Cook the cakes until golden brown and crisp on one side, about 2 to 2½ minutes. Flip and repeat. The cakes should be hot inside. Repeat with any remaining cakes, adding more oil as necessary. Serve immediately, or place on a foil-lined baking sheet, wrap well, and refrigerate for up to 24 hours, or freeze for up to 2 weeks. 5. If you make the cakes ahead, remove from the refrigerator or freezer 30 minutes prior to reheating. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake the cakes until hot and crisp, 10 to 15 minutes. 6. Arrange on a platter with the sauce for dipping, and garnish with the scallion brushes, if desired. Note: Tear 3 slices of good-quality bread into pieces and whir in a food processor to make breadcrumbs. Portland Public Market The Portland Public Market, which opened in 1998, continues Maine’s long tradition of downtown public markets, dating back to the 19th century. Housed in an award-winning brick, glass, and wood structure, the market, which was the brainchild of Maine philanthropist Elizabeth Noyce, is a food-lover’s heaven. Vendors include organic produce farms; butchers selling locally raised meat; purveyors of Maine-made cheeses, sausages, and smoked seafood; artisan bakers; and flower sellers. Prepared take-away food includes Mexican delicacies, pizza, soups, smoothies, and sandwiches, and such well-known Portland culinary stars as Sam Hayward (see page 127) and Dana Street (see page 129) have opened casual dining concessions.

Julie Hayward felt absolutely foolish. It was just like her outlandish best friend to think a visit to a psychic was a good engagement gift. Eloise Roman, who now called herself Gustavia, had a macabre sense of humor.

My subconscious seems to like the darkness. I can sense it shifting a gear as the visual distractions are extinguished. It works better; preferring the low volume hum of the sprawling city at night in its subservience to the sounds of nature.

Asking whether computers can think is like asking whether submarines can swim.

...have you received your identity from God? He is the only one you were created for and only He knows what your destiny needs to be.

Berns was vitally concerned about the philosophical ground of virtue in the individual, which was the necessary foundation of a decent regime. Jaffa was concerned with the philosophic ground of the regime, which he thought was the necessary foundation for individual virtue.