Hiatus Quotes

Then why don’t you and Bubba have girlfriends? (Nick) I don’t want the drama of it. After the last one burnt up all my clothes with my Jack Daniel’s Black Label collection and tried to decapitate me with my CDs, I decided I’d take a hiatus for a bit. (Mark)

The Cosmos extends, for all practical purposes, forever. After a brief sedentary hiatus, we are resuming our ancient nomadic way of life. Our remote descendants, safely arrayed on many worlds throughout the Solar System and beyond, will be unified by their common heritage, by their regard for their home planet, and by the knowledge that, whatever other life may be, the only humans in all the Universe come from Earth. They will gaze up and strain to find the blue dot in their skies. They will love it no less for its obscurity and fragility. They will marvel at how vulnerable the repository of all our potential once was, how perilous our infancy, how humble our beginnings, how many rivers we had to cross before we found our way.

Between the approximation of the idea and the precision of reality there was a small gap of the unimaginable, and it was this hiatus that gave him no rest.

Now she knew living was just a brief hiatus, a blip really, in the infinite line of nothingness that composed that shadowy realm of the unknown. It could stop at any time.

My hiatus is over, my soul and body are healed, but I will never leave the purple chair for long. So many books waiting to be read, so much happiness to be found, so much wonder to be revealed.

The beginnings of carpal tunnel were threatening to set in as I tried desperately to get myself off. But O was on seemingly permanent hiatus. And I don’t mean Oprah.

The Cosmos extends, for all practical purposes, forever. After a brief and sedentary hiatus we are resuming our ancient nomadic way of life. Our remote descendants, safely arrayed on many worlds though through the Solar System and beyond, will be unified by their common heritage, by their regard for their home planet, and by knowledge that, whatever other life may be, the only humans in all the Universe come from Earth.

In the months since Challenger, Baedecker had found it hard to believe that the country had ever flown so frequently and competently into space. The long hiatus of earthbound doubt in which nothing flew had become the normal state of things to Baedecker, mixing in his own mind with a dreary sense of heaviness, of entropy and gravity triumphant.

In a very real way, television is the new mythos. It defines the world, reinterprets it. The seasons do not change because Persephone goes underground. They change because new episodes air, because sweeps week demands conflagrations and ritual deaths. The television series rises slowly, arcs, descends into hiatus, and rises again with the bright, burning autumn.

A walk is a walk and must be taken; breakfast and dinner come when they are due. The routines of the living are inviolable, no hiatus called on account of misery, spiritual crisis, or awful weather.

They start a tickling fight, laughing hysterically, and then they're necking again. Nicksy registers that his Scottish friend and the Bird With the Big Hair have adopted that arrogant 'look-at-us-we've-just-invented-sex' demeanor of people who're fucking after a long hiatus

Love Letter" Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just tow me an inch, no- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

Thus began a break of undetermined length and meaning.

One might well ask at this point why it should be necessary for a person to be in contact with his or her historical-spiritual roots. In Zurich we have the opportunity to analyze many Americans who come to the Jung Institute and thus to observe the symptoms and results of a hiatus in culture (emigration of their forebears) and a loss of roots. In that case we are dealing with people whose consciousness is structured similarly to ours; but when we bore into the depths, we find something that resembles a gap in the steps—no continuity! A cultivated white man—and beneath that a primitive shadow, of which the

I consider it completely irresponsible that public schools offer sex education but no systematic guidance to adolescent girls, who should be thinking about how they want to structure their future lives: do they want children, and if so, when should that be scheduled, with the advantages and disadvantages of each option laid out. Because of the stubborn biological burden of pregnancy and childbirth, these are issues that will always affect women more profoundly than men. Starting a family early has its price for an ambitions young woman, a career hiatus that may be difficult to overcome. On the other hand, the reward of being with one's children in their formative years, instead of farming out that fleeting and irreplaceable experience to day care centres or nannies, has an inherent emotional and perhaps spiritual value that has been lamentable ignored by second-wave feminism.

Kita bercinta dengan cinta itu sendiri.

Rarely offstage, rarely on hiatus, Fiddler on the Roof has already been back on Broadway for four revivals, played London's West End four times, and remains among Broadway's longest-running shows ever.

Downtime is where we become ourselves, looking into the middle distance, kicking at the curb, lying on the grass or sitting on the stoop and staring at the tedious blue of the summer sky. I don’t believe you can write poetry, or compose music, or become an actor without downtime, and plenty of it, a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.

It wasn’t just 1) the artwork and sleeve notes on the album sleeve. It wasn’t 2) the possibility of a hidden track, or a little message carved in the final groove. It wasn’t 3) the mahogany richness of the quality of sound. (But CD sound was clean, the reps argued. It had no surface noise. To which Frank replied, “Clean? What’s music got to do with clean? Where is the humanity in clean? Life has surface noise! Do you want to listen to furniture polish?”) It wasn’t even 4) the ritual of checking the record before carefully lowering the stylus. No, most of all it was about the journey. 5) The journey that an album made from one track to the next, with a hiatus in the middle, when you had to get up and flip the record over in order to finish. With vinyl, you couldn’t just sit there like a lemon. You had to get up off your arse and take part.

Every time I got on my bicycle after a long hiatus it was like riding back to myself, the only way there. The dissipation of life in the city—days of to-do lists, errands, emails, small talk with strangers—generated static in my mind that I didn’t notice was there until I started pedalling and realized it was gone, the way you don’t hear the hum of a refrigerator until it stops. Such is the paradoxical freedom of cycling the Silk Road. In restricting the range of directions you can travel, in charging ordinary movement with momentum, a bike trip offers that rarest, most elusive of things in our frenetic world: clarity of purpose. Your sole responsibility on Earth, as long as your legs last each day, is to breathe, pedal, breathe—and look around.

Goodness is adorable, and it is immortal. When it is trodden down into the earth it springs up again, and human beings scrabble in the dust to find the first green seedling of its return. The stock cannot survive save by the mutual kindness of men and women, of old and young, of state and individual. Hatred comes before love, and gives the hater strange and delicious pleasures, but its works are short-lived; the head is cut from the body before the time of natural death, the lie is told to frustrate the other rogue’s plan before it comes to fruit. Sooner or later society tires of making a mosaic of these evil fragments; and even if the rule of hatred lasts some centuries it occupies no place in real time, it is a hiatus in reality, and not the vastest material thefts, not world wide raids on mines and granaries, can give it substance.

They had waited for too long, and the result was this hiatus, and the reflection that time and patience may bring poor rewards, that time itself, if not confronted at the appropriate juncture, can play sly tricks, and more significantly, that those who do not act are not infrequently acted upon.

My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.” Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour’s length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast.

There are no Time Warriors left alive as far as any one knows, but given the nature of their disciplines, they may only be on hiatus.

there is the rare kind of time in which I live - the pause, the hiatus, when the heart is like a feather....

HIATUS When life starts to overwhelm you, take a break from the things making you feel anxious. Whatever it is will be there when you get back to it. And if it’s not, maybe you’re better off without it.

I stand in the corners - the darkest pits of the room and sometimes I stand in the center feeling the stale cold envelop me just watching everyone disappear, I know they label it hiatus, but hiatus is just like death. It could be a long time before I could ever say hello again - and sometimes I never got to say goodbye. I'm just now realizing how long this empire called goodreads has survived, I'm always here seeing new faces, new people, new ways of thinking. But my main question is - How could they leave all this behind? A deep sorrow that sounds like a ringing silence delves into my ears when I realize time has gone by fast and here I am finding direct mails from 2020, or 2019, 2018, 2017, even further. I'm scared - alone and out of touch. I remember a couple from my early years....They both disappeared. Ken got shot again. Alastor up and left. I remember forenthico and bree fighting over a valentine's day present he presented to match with her. Abbigail is gone. I haven't heard from Elizabeth in a long while. Nezuko is silent. Alice, Tsukishima, Fizzii, Giran, Moonkitty, Sylvia, River, Star. If you see this I'm still waiting.

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).

The earth is made of it. Green. Moss, algae, lichen, mould. It's the colour everything was before there were flowers, the colour of the first trees, the trees that didn't have leaves, had needles instead, the trees that grew in the first hiatus between cold and warm -

Old Rekohu’s claim to singularity, however, lay in its unique pacific creed. Since time immemorial, the Moriori’s priestly caste dictated that whosoever spilt a man’s blood killed his own mana - his honor, his worth, his standing & his soul. No Moriori would shelter, feed, converse with, or even see the persona non grata. If the ostracized murderer survived his first winter, the desperation of solitude usually drove him to a blowhole on Cape Young, where he took his life. Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s best guess) enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna Carta” to create a harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam first tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to the Pygmy. Peace, not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these far-flung islands. Who can deny Old Rekohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of Progress governed by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster? “Here,” declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and where only, were those elusive phantasms, those noble savages, framed in flesh & blood!” (Henry, as we later made our back to the Musket confessed, “I could never describe a race of savages too backwards to throw a spear as ‘noble.

worthy. I no longer make room for people who won't allow me to make room for myself. I am deserving of space that doesn't come with resentment attached to it when I need it. I am deserving of hiatuses to re-collect myself without it being held against me. I am allowed to breathe.

…a paradox would appear to be a maximum that looks false at first sight and, only after mature reflection, seems to express what the author believes to be true and, because of the hiatus between the expectations of popular opinion and its provocative form, also appears to be witty

HIATUS When life starts to overwhelm you, take a break from the things making you feel anxious. Whatever it is will be there when you get back to it. And if it’s not, maybe you’re better off without it. SELF-LOVE I Love yourself today, Love yourself tomorrow, And every day after that.

I wanted to see Hiatus Kaiyote at the Double Door with him; I wanted to take him to this Afghani spot I had found in the suburbs with the most delicious mantoo and murgh chalau; I wanted to get his opinion on holistic remedies for my shitty, failing knees: I wanted my fucking friend back.

It is essential to consider as a constant point of reference in this essay the regular hiatus between what we fancy we know and what we really know, practical assent and simulated ignorance which allows us to live with ideas which, if we truly put them to the test, ought to upset our whole life.

Quand je considère ma vie, je suis épouvanté de la trouver informe. L'existence des héros, celle qu'on nous raconte, est simple ; elle va droit au but comme une flèche. Et la plupart des hommes aiment à résumer leur vie dans une formule, parfois dans une vanterie ou dans une plainte, presque toujours dans une récrimination ; leur mémoire leur fabrique complaisamment une existence explicable et claire. Ma vie a des contours moins fermes... Le paysage de mes jours semble se composer, comme les régions de montagne, de matériaux divers entassés pêle-mêle. J'y rencontre ma nature, déjà composite, formée en parties égales d'instinct et de culture. Ça et là, affleurent les granits de l'inévitable ; partout, les éboulements du hasard. Je m'efforce de reparcourir ma vie pour y trouver un plan, y suivre une veine de plomb ou d'or, ou l'écoulement d'une rivière souterraine, mais ce plan tout factice n'est qu'un trompe-l'oeil du souvenir. De temps en temps, dans une rencontre, un présage, une suite définie d'événements, je crois reconnaître une fatalité, mais trop de routes ne mènent nulle part, trop de sommes ne s'additionnent pas. Je perçois bien dans cette diversité, dans ce désordre, la présence d'une personne, mais sa forme semble presque toujours tracée par la pression des circonstances ; ses traits se brouillent comme une image reflétée sur l'eau. Je ne suis pas de ceux qui disent que leurs actions ne leur ressemblent pas. Il faut bien qu'elles le fassent, puisqu'elles sont ma seule mesure, et le seul moyen de me dessiner dans la mémoire des hommes, ou même dans la mienne propre ; puisque c'est peut-être l'impossibilité de continuer à s'exprimer et à se modifier par l'action que constitue la différence entre l'état de mort et celui de vivant. Mais il y a entre moi et ces actes dont je suis fait un hiatus indéfinissable. Et la preuve, c'est que j'éprouve sans cesse le besoin de les peser, de les expliquer, d'en rendre compte à moi-même. Certains travaux qui durèrent peu sont assurément négligeables, mais des occupations qui s'étendirent sur toute la vie ne signifient pas davantage. Par exemple, il me semble à peine essentiel, au moment où j'écris ceci, d'avoir été empereur..." (p.214)

Man—a little, eccentric species of animal, which—fortunately—has its day; all on earth a mere moment, an incident, an exception without consequences, something of no importance to the general character of the earth; the earth itself, like every star, a hiatus between two nothingnesses, an event without plan, reason, will, self-consciousness, the worst kind of necessity, stupid necessity…

I’d like to return to prose after a fifteen-year hiatus. An epistolary novella maybe. A man went into the mountains fifteen years ago to write the following letter to a woman: “Dear B., I’d like to strike you down with an iron rod. Maybe I love you. If you feel the same way and your wishes conform to mine, then please please get in touch with me posthaste. We’ll discuss this matter together and make the necessary arrangements if everything works out. With warm wishes, Your Bernd.” The letter is, however, never mailed and never written. In further letters to B. from Bernd, he pursues, among other things, the question: why? The last letter could be the one in which Bernd lets B. know that the matter has been settled since he has just been struck down by a group of women with iron rods.

This book is dedicated to everyone who has ever loved a story so much they could quote it. There's nothing in the world quite like being part of a fandom. Never let anyone shame you for it. Read those books. Watch those movies. Binge those TV shows. Love those characters. Admire those celebrities. Write that fan-fiction. Draw that fan art. Go to those conventions. Sing that (on-hiatus, totally-not-broken-up) boy band at the top or your lungs. Do what makes you happy.

In all honesty, I should admit I have researched much of the scientific evidence refuting G-d’s existence, as a result of which I suspect I am a true believer in him the way I am in Santa. But I will unhesitatingly, and joyfully, O-Holy-Night his name between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, with the mutual understanding that as of Christmas Day, once the presents are opened, my relationship with him goes on hiatus until I camp out for best viewing of the Macy’s parade the following year.

I can read the newspapers only through Robert’s eyes, who only can read them at Vieusseux’s in a room sacred from the foot of woman. And this isn’t always satisfactory to me, as whenever he falls into a state of disgust with any political régime, he throws the whole subject over and won’t read a word more about it. Every now and then, for instance, he ignores France altogether, and I, who am more tolerant and more curious, find myself suspended over an hiatus (valde deflendus), and what’s to be said and done?

There was nothing average about Mack’s subsequent managerial career, though. During his final three years in Pittsburgh, Mack served as a player-manager. After a four-year hiatus from the game, he returned in 1901 to manage the brand-new Philadelphia Athletics, a charter member of the American League. The man from East Brookfield, Massachusetts, would guide the A’s for their first fifty—yes, fifty—years. Connie Mack spent a total of sixty-one years in Major League Baseball, finally retiring at the age of eighty-eight.

Consider this, Mr. D’Arnoq urged us. Two thousand savages (Mr. Evans’s best guess) enshrine “Thou Shalt Not Kill” in word & in deed & frame an oral “Magna Carta” to create a harmony unknown elsewhere for the sixty centuries since Adam tasted the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. War was as alien a concept to the Moriori as the telescope is to the Pygmy. Peace, not a hiatus betwixt wars but millennia of imperishable peace, rules these far-flung islands. Who can deny Old Rēkohu lay closer to More’s Utopia than our States of Progress governed by war-hungry princelings in Versailles & Vienna, Washington & Westminster? “Here,” declaimed Mr. D’Arnoq, “and here only, were those elusive phantasms, the noble savages, framed in flesh & blood!

But Avril had gotten former M.I.T. #1 Men's Singles Corbett Throp to drive Mario down to V.F. Rickey's Rickey's cerebral Student Union thing, where Thorp used his old student I.D. (thumb over expiration date) to get them past the Security lady at the Rectus Bulbi and down to the YYY studio's freezing pink, where the only person who didn't talk like an angry cartoon character, a severely carbuncular man at the engineer's board, would by way of comment point only at a tripartite onionskin screen that stood folded beneath a handless wall-clock, possibly signifying that no hiatus could be that long if the absent party hadn't taken her trusty screen. Mario hadn't had any idea M.P.'d used a screen, on-air. That's when he'd gotten agitated.

Practical affairs task the human brain throughout the day. At night, the mind takes a deserved hiatus to consider the impossible and the absurd. In the carnage of our nighttime sleep tussles, the colored liqueurs of the true, the possible, fantasy, and the mythic beliefs become intermixed. Eyelets of the commonsensical and the imaginative are incorporated, and a new realism emerges out of our distilled perception of the veridical derived from the phenomenal realm of sensory reality and the philosophic world of ideals contained in the noumenal realm. The resultant psychobiologic vision immerses us in bouts of intoxicating inspiration and artistic stimulation and leaves us rickety boned and weakened after enduring a dreaded hangover of perpetual doubt laced with vagueness and insecurity.

In Kafka’s works the family table locks the child into a site where Father presides; it offers one of the prime occasions for paternity to enthrone itself, conducting prescriptive raids on the child’s bearing—invading his plate, entering and altering his body, adjusting his manner of being. The table becomes the metonymy for all law, the place where sovereign exceptionalism asserts itself: Father does not have to obey his own law, he can pick his teeth or clean his ears while the eaters submit to the severity of his rule. The children, in Kafka at least, and in the simulacrum of home in which many others were grown, are consistently downgraded to the status of unshakable refugees, parasites, those who quiver under the thickness of anxiety while laws, like platters, are passed and forced down one’s delicate throat. Give us this day our daily dread: it is difficult to imagine the Kafka family going out to eat, though that is what it would have taken for the death grip of mealtime to loosen, let go. At home, at the table, little Franz Kafka was eaten alive. By the time of the famous “Letter to Father,” he was vaporized. He says so himself: A good deal of the damage done to the young psyche occurred at table. The neighborhood restaurant might have rerouted the oppressive domesticity of home rule—it might have introduced a hiatus or suspensive regime change that would allow for hunger’s pacing. Part of a spectacle of public generality, the theater of ingestion—possibly also of incorporation—the restaurant causes the hold on the child to slacken, if only because there are witnesses and waiters whose work consists in diminishing the intensities of paternal law and the sacrificial rites that underlie their daily distribution—the daily apportionment of dread.

Philosophy can speak of the Cross in many tongues; when it is not the ‘Word of the Cross’ (1 Corinthians 1, 18), issuing from faith in Jesus Christ, it knows either too much or too little. Too much: because it makes bold with words and concepts at a point where the Word of God is silent, suffers and dies, in order to reveal what no philosophy can know, except through faith, namely, God’s ever greater Trinitarian love; and in order, also, to vanquish what no philosophy can make an end of, human dying so that the human totality may be restored in God. Too little, because philosophy does not measure that abyss into which the Word sinks down, and, having no inkling of it, closes the hiatus, or deliberately festoons the appalling thing with garlands: The Cross is thick bestrewn with roses: who has joined roses to the Cross?37 in place of Jerome’s ‘naked, to follow the Naked One’. Either philosophy misconceives man, failing, in Gnostic or Platonic guise, to take with full seriousness his earthly existence, settling him elsewhere, in heaven, in the pure realm of spirit, or sacrificing his unique personality to nature or evolution. Or, alternatively, philosophy forms man so exactly in God’s image and likeness that God descends to man’s image and likeness, since man in his suffering and overcoming of suffering shows himself God’s superior. Here God only fulfils himself and manages to satisfy his own desires by divesting himself of his essence and becoming man, in order, as man, ‘divinely’ to suffer and to die. If philosophy is not willing to content itself with, either, speaking abstractly of being, or with thinking, concretely of the earthly and worldly (and no further), then it must at once empty itself in order to ‘know nothing . . . except Jesus Christ and him crucified’ (I Corinthians 2, 2). Then it may, starting out from this source, go on to ‘impart a secret and hidden wisdom of God, which God decreed before the ages for our glorification’ (ibid., 2, 7). This proclamation, however, rises up over a deeper silence and a darker abyss than pure philosophy can know.

In 1995, the gray wolf was reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park after a seventy-year hiatus. Scientists expected an ecological ripple effect, but the size and scope of the trophic cascade took them by surprise.7 Wolves are predators that kill certain species of animals, but they indirectly give life to others. When the wolves reentered the ecological equation, it radically changed the behavioral patterns of other wildlife. As the wolves began killing coyotes, the rabbit and mouse populations increased, thereby attracting more hawks, weasels, foxes, and badgers. In the absence of predators, deer had overpopulated the park and overgrazed parts of Yellowstone. Their new traffic patterns, however, allowed the flora and fauna to regenerate. The berries on those regenerated shrubs caused a spike in the bear population. In six years’ time, the trees in overgrazed parts of the park had quintupled in height. Bare valleys were reforested with aspen, willow, and cottonwood trees. And as soon as that happened, songbirds started nesting in the trees. Then beavers started chewing them down. Beavers are ecosystem engineers, building dams that create natural habitats for otters, muskrats, and ducks, as well as fish, reptiles, and amphibians. One last ripple effect. The wolves even changed the behavior of rivers—they meandered less because of less soil erosion. The channels narrowed and pools formed as the regenerated forests stabilized the riverbanks. My point? We need wolves! When you take the wolf out of the equation, there are unintended consequences. In the absence of danger, a sheep remains a sheep. And the same is true of men. The way we play the man is by overcoming overwhelming obstacles, by meeting daunting challenges. We may fear the wolf, but we also crave it. It’s what we want. It’s what we need. Picture a cage fight between a sheep and a wolf. The sheep doesn’t stand a chance, right? Unless there is a Shepherd. And I wonder if that’s why we play it safe instead of playing the man—we don’t trust the Shepherd. Playing the man starts there! Ecologists recently coined a wonderful new word. Invented in 2011, rewilding has a multiplicity of meanings. It’s resisting the urge to control nature. It’s the restoration of wilderness. It’s the reintroduction of animals back into their natural habitat. It’s an ecological term, but rewilding has spiritual implications. As I look at the Gospels, rewilding seems to be a subplot. The Pharisees were so civilized—too civilized. Their religion was nothing more than a stage play. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing.8 But Jesus taught a very different brand of spirituality. “Foxes have dens and birds have nests,” said Jesus, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”9 So Jesus spent the better part of three years camping, fishing, and hiking with His disciples. It seems to me Jesus was rewilding them. Jesus didn’t just teach them how to be fishers of men. Jesus taught them how to play the man! That was my goal with the Year of Discipleship,

In the early days of the so-called repatriation, some seventy thousand people left Japan and crossed the sea to North Korea. With the exception of a brief three-and-a-half-year hiatus, the process continued until 1984. During this period, some one hundred thousand Koreans and two thousand Japanese wives crossed over to North Korea. That’s one hell of a mass migration. In fact, it was the first (and only) time in history that so many people from a capitalist country had moved to a socialist country.

The article captured the frisson of fear that was sweeping through Nashville. The previous generation was talking of nothing else. The younger were fed by rumor and innuendo, the vivid fear of their parents making them lock their doors and keep their own youngsters under a watchful eye. The whisper campaign was out in full force. The Snow White Killer had truly reappeared after a twenty-year hiatus; the entire city was in a panic. And

Remember the six Ps. Perfect Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.

If you insist on ‘exposing us’,” Donovan said, his voice hard as ice, using air quotes, “we’ll have to do some exposing of our own. Certain people, like network executives, probably aren’t too keen on their employees engaging in blackmail. Besides, Jada is beloved. You know it, and I know it. I’m sure her fans would love to fill your Twitter mentions with all kinds of creative replies if they knew what you were attempting to do.” “You have no proof of blackmail.” Lila’s eyes spat fire. Jada held up a manicured index finger. “Oh, but I do. You know how you kept calling and leaving messages? Silly me, I thought you were asking me to do interviews. Which you were, I guess, technically. I finally got around to listening to the voice mails.” She wrinkled her nose, “Wow. Really creative vocabulary you have there, Lila. That last voice mail was quite a doozy. I wasn’t expecting the threats about how you were going to destroy me, how you were going to leak damaging rumors about me, how you’d been behind a lot of the hate I received online with bot accounts.” Jada grimaced. “Ugly stuff. You sounded drunk or high when you admitted that, so you might not remember saying all that, but you did.” Jada kept her gaze trained squarely on Lila. She ignored John’s gasp. Lila’s already pale skin turned ghastly white. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jada sniffed. “Oh, I think you do. Really, I’d hate for those messages to fall into the wrong hands.” Lila sneered, her veneer finally cracking. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re a spoiled, rich girl. You don’t have the balls.” The courage of her convictions swept through Jada. “Keep telling yourself that.” Jada turned to the other member of the blackmailing crew. “As for you, John, I’m sure people would love to know their perfect Mr. America has slid into the DMs of no less than three contestants from My One and Only with a woe-is-me story, trying to get back together with them, all at the same time.” Jada snapped her fingers. “Did I forget to mention I ended my social media hiatus to check my DMs? I do so love it when women have each other’s backs.” Jada gave the cowards a moment to respond. When none came, she offered up the kill shot. “If none of that reasoning convinces you, and I can't imagine why it wouldn’t, please remember this spoiled, rich girl has a billionaire grandmother who loves her very, very much. If I tell her what you both attempted to do to me, she will ruin both your lives, barely lifting a finger. Contrary to what you believe, Lila, I don't make idle threats. I suggest you both slink away and forget you ever knew my name.

That which does not break you leaves cause for celebration.

Despite my long hiatus from drawing, I

We can now see the deadly hiatus which existed between the fading of President Roosevelt’s strength and the growth of President Truman’s grip of the vast world problem. In this melancholy void one President could not act and the other could not know. Neither the military chiefs nor the State Department received the guidance they required. The former confined themselves to their professional sphere; the latter did not comprehend the issues involved. The indispensable political direction was lacking at the moment when it was most needed. The United States stood on the scene of victory, master of world fortunes, but without a true and coherent design. Britain, though still very powerful, could not act decisively alone. I could at this stage only warn and plead.

The Fertile Void is a necessary, albeit bewildering, hiatus. Paradoxically, as Rubenfeld observed in her book The Listening Hand, it is “a place of change in which one sometimes feels ‘stuck.’” For a proactive woman, the response to being “stuck” is to expend more energy, make more lists, go to more seminars, try to muster more will power, make more decisions. But the result, she often finds, is just spinning her wheels. The solution, ironically, is not more movement, but less. The cure for “stuck” is “still.” A gathering in of the energy unleashed by Saying No and Letting Go. That is what the Fertile Void can offer, an opportunity to exchange the wish to control life for a willingness to engage living.

(some connections never die) honor the friendships that allow you to pick up from where you last left off, regardless of how long it's been since you connected. the friendships that survive hiatuses, silences, and space. those are the connections that never die.

I clicked on her account, noting that her hiatus had lasted all of twenty-five minutes before she posted again with a video of her face trying not to move or blink, like she was one of those living statues you find in Washington Square Park. “I love you like Kanye loves Kanye,

I had often fantasized about a forced hiatus where I could catch up on the classics and while away the hours. But the dark secret about this fantasy is that you only end up on a forced hiatus if something bad is happening to you.

Reality had to be placed on hiatus, after all, if one wished to access ancient memories. Something

What happened with Dane?” Jack asked casually. “Did you break up?” “No, not at all. We’re still together.” I paused uncomfortably before adding, “But we’re on . . . hiatus. Just for three months, until Tara comes for her baby and I go back to Austin.” “Does that mean you’re free to see other people?” “We’ve always been free to see other people. Dane and I have an open relationship. No promises, no commitments.” “There is no such thing. A relationship is promises and commitments.” “To conventional people, maybe. But Dane and I believe you can’t own someone.” “Sure you can,” Jack said. I raised my brows. “Maybe it’s different in Austin,” Jack continued. “But in Houston, a dog doesn’t share his bone.” -Jack & Ella

The wearing of prolonged company or intimacy is not seen as a destruction of the fascination of pure possibility, and people keep escaping from silences, absences, lack, emptiness and loneliness as phobia, calling these things “bad” without realizing the systematic dissatisfaction of being when finally obtained, and without taking into account the scarce enjoying of the world is gained much more through the hiatus of being, from its interruptions, as furtively and always pushed by the anxious search of a being that satisfies less, the more one tries to make it positive in experiences.

Just as I was on the verge of release, loud banging was heard at the front door, rudely jolting us back to reality. Desperately adjusting my spinning vision to normality, I saw Toby fuming in front of our nakedness. The boy was shouting obscenities at Jack and me. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back; I had enough of Toby’s erratic behavior. I commanded him to leave my flat, and our relationship terminated from that moment forward. I had no wish to see this irrational guy again. I was no longer responsible for his childishness, even if he threatened suicide. By now I had enough of his stupidity and told him that was none of my business if he decided to take his own life. Toby stomped out of my lodgings, cursing and hurling profanity at us. This offensive episode had ruptured our evening of blissful sexuality. Jack and I decided to take a hiatus. I also needed a respite from Toby’s drama. My four-year on-again-off-again relationship with the Portuguese Filipino ended that very evening. I had been holding on to that relationship, hoping I would uncover a glimmer of your positive traits in the boy. I learned that people don’t change; what changes is our perception of them. Toby slowly relinquished his suicidal absurdity over time. Our friendship remained cordial despite all that had transpired. He continued to try to reignite our passions, which to me had passed the point of no return. I never looked back after I left for Canada to pursue my postgraduate studies. That was the final chapter to my relationship with Toby. Well, Young, here we are, reminiscing about the past when we have the present and the future to enjoy each other’s company. Be well, be good, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Love you always, Andy.

May 30: Shooting is on hiatus for Memorial Day. Marilyn stays home working on a watercolor of a red rose she wants to present to President Kennedy for his forty-fifth birthday.

Did the International Committee of the Red Cross know anything about this? Did the United States? The UN? Yes, yes, and yes. And what did they do about it? Nothing. In the early days of the so-called repatriation, some seventy thousand people left Japan and crossed the sea to North Korea. With the exception of a brief three-and-a-half-year hiatus, the process continued until 1984. During this period, some one hundred thousand Koreans and two thousand Japanese wives crossed over to North Korea. That’s one hell of a mass migration

Other Books written by Daniel Schinhofen: Binding Words: Morrigan's Bidding Life Bonds Hearthglen Forged Bonds Flame of War Aether’s Revival: Aether's Blessing Aether's Guard Luck’s Voice: Suited for Luck Cashing In Apocalypse Gates Author’s Cut: Rapture Valley of Death Gearing Up Elven Accord Downtime and Death Can of Worms Unexpected Dev-elopments Alpha World: (Completed.) Gamer for Life Forming the Company Alpha Company Playing for Keeps Fractured Spirit The Path to Peace Darkhand Gamer For Love Last Horizon: (Completed.) Last Horizon Omnibus NPC’s Lives: (Hiatus) Tales from the Dead Man Inn Resurrection Quest: (Hiatus) Greenways Goblins

as my relationships with others change, my relationship with myself evolves too. at times i can’t get enough of myself, and at other times i need a hiatus from me. at times i understand myself, and at other times i find need for rediscovery. at every phase, I AM MY OWN PRIORITY.

He loves the Mafia thing, too,” Logan said. “He spent months and months in Chicago for research and he wore a pocket watch the whole time. And he’s hell-bent on getting it made, especially now that he’s back from his”—Logan hesitated before finishing with—“hiatus. But that can’t happen until he does this rom-com. And as I mentioned—

By Monday afternoon it was as if the hiatus of the last month had never occurred. Ten crates unloading, nine boxes opened, eight phones ringing, seven staff complaining, six desks in various states of assembly, five damaged chairs, four cases pending, three workmen hammering, two computers crashing and a cat locked in a filing cabinet with no key. Arthur Bryant was sitting back at his desk, beaming amidst the chaos, looking for all the world as if he had never left.

Greek science on Aristotle’s terms, which had already fallen into decrepitude under the late Roman Empire, will take a long hiatus during the Middle Ages.

We did meet and talk; we even had a relatively relaxed meeting in 1984 at a Japanese restaurant, soothed by sushi and sake, to discuss all the things we weren’t going to do – and then Steve joined us to hear about it. Roger was doubtless misled by our general bonhomie and acquiescence into believing that we accepted Pink Floyd was almost over. David and I meanwhile thought that after Roger had finished Pros And Cons, life could continue. We had, after all, had a number of hiatuses before. Roger sees this meeting as duplicity, rather than diplomacy – I disagree. Clearly, our communication skills were still troublingly non-existent.

When life gives you lemons, make orange juice, and leave the world wondering how the hell you did it.

sometimes there have been moments when I have perfectly understood the self-portrait called Man Screaming which Egon Schiele painted after his return from Trieste to Vienna, and it has dawned upon me what a nightmare hiatus we all pass through, on the way from birth to death. Surely the only logical response would be to stand on a bridge and scream? But no, self-deception sees us through.

People say they want something serious, but as soon as it starts heading that way, they bolt. Either they're lying, or they realize they don't want something serious with me. Hence my hiatus. It doesn't stop me from wanting to get married someday. It's just that the "someday" sounded much further away when I was twenty-four versus twenty-nine.

SPECIES USED TO GO EXTINCT. NOW THEY GO ON HIATUS. —Deborah MacLennan, Tables of our Reconstruction

While the Duff Gordons drank champagne at the Ritz that Thursday night, Margaret Brown was still on the Carpathia, helping out with the steerage passengers. Immigration and health officials had come on board to spare the Titanic’s third-class survivors the customary hiatus at Ellis Island, but it was after eleven o’clock before the first of them began to leave the ship. Still wearing the black velvet suit she had donned after the collision, “Queen Margaret,” as some in first class had dubbed her, worked to organize the disembarkation of the steerage women and help with their travel arrangements. The Countess of Rothes was doing likewise, and one passenger of particular concern for her was Rhoda Abbott, who was unable to walk due to her ordeal in Collapsible A. Although Rhoda assured the countess and Margaret Brown that she would be looked after by the Salvation Army, she was transferred by ambulance to New York Hospital at Noëlle’s expense and later to a hotel room that Mrs. Brown arranged for her. The small, slim countess eventually walked down the gangway and into the arms of her husband Norman, the Earl of Rothes, and before long, she, too, was in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. But Margaret Brown remained on the ship, where she improvised beds in the lounge for the remaining steerage women and spent the night with them. The next day her brother, who had come from Denver to greet her, came on board and told Margaret that her ailing grandson—the reason she had come home on the Titanic—was recovering well. This encouraged her to stay in New York, where she set up headquarters for the Titanic Survivors’ Committee in her suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

There were always sides to one committee—those who planned, those who planned and executed, and those who talked—that is, complained.

all the reasons vinyl was better than CD or cassette tape. It wasn’t just 1) the ARTWORK and SLEEVE NOTES on the album sleeve. It wasn’t 2) the possibility of a HIDDEN TRACK, or a little MESSAGE carved in the final groove. It wasn’t 3) the mahogany richness of the QUALITY OF SOUND. (But CD sound was clean, the reps argued. It had no surface noise. To which Frank replied, ‘Clean? What’s music got to do with clean? Where is the humanity in clean? Life has surface noise! Do you want to listen to furniture polish?’) It wasn’t even 4) the RITUAL of checking the record before carefully lowering the stylus. No, most of all it was about the JOURNEY. 5) The journey that an album made from one track to another, with a hiatus in the middle, when you had to get up and flip the record over in order to finish. With vinyl, you couldn’t just sit there like a lemon. You had to GET UP OFF YOUR ARSE and TAKE PART.

It was a childhood dream of mine, to make music that made people feel loved, OK? And I have a thing for making people cry. So, I took on that kind of karma for a while … But I couldn’t get that out of my blood. It was a very loving album, and a source of embarrassment for me. My masculine side had to take a bow, like a little hiatus, to get Pet Sounds to happen. But I did it. I did it ’cos I needed to. They say, “What about these high feminine parts, Brian?” – Well, that’s how I felt, man. I wanted to be a girl in my voice, so I did. I wanted to sing like a girl. Not consciously, but it was all figured out in my brain, waiting for me to do it. So I went in there, put some beautiful music on tape … That “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” … That’s a lovely, lovely record.

The nation as a democratic entity, was where man's most potent institution, the state, assumed critical importance. If the state deployed its power to step up the hiatus (between desire and capability) further, the organism would break at some point.

Where motivation was concerned, there was hardly any difference between a caveman and a civilised human. The desire to live, and live as well as the next man, was common to all. The point at which virtually all of mankind began to develop a sense of discontent was when it discovered the hiatus between desire and capability.

The climb We all climb mountains high and low, On days when there is darkness and when there is a bright glow, It cannot be established who invites who, But climb them we do, Many of us climb them within us, scaling their every peak, Most of us scale them outside us where our minds new heights seek, These mountains never rise higher than our own fancies, Often men and women have evinced these tendencies, By subjecting themselves to emotional highs and lows, Where what one is feeling exactly no one knows, Because all of us stand on our own mountains, Few bearing hopes, few bearing desires, few bearing endless wishes, but noone is free from life’s stains, Life that paints us all in many ways and places us on these mountains that lie within us or outside us, And we climb them, few from this end, few from the other end, but we all climb them without a hiatus, The climb ends, but the mountain never seems to end, because a new one is formed always, And humanity is compelled to invent new ways, to climb them on dark nights and bright days, For you only stop when the mountain of life transforms into a flat land, And then there is nowhere to go, it is the moment to wait and stand, For that final mountain of life to reappear and challenge you once more, Few choose to climb it no more and a few cannot ignore, The mountain and its lure, Because from the mountains high they deduce a feeling of thrill that is so pure, That it makes them forsake the flat land and its pace, Where you can stand, walk or run, but on a mountain you climb the contours of the place, and feel its true space!

honor the friendships that allow you to pick up from where you last left off, regardless of how long it’s been since you connected. the friendships that survive hiatuses, silences, and space. those are the connections that never die.

The Swift pulled over right next to her Thar. The shining black of the Thar next to the fading red of the Swift. The cars knew each other very well. They seemed to greet each other and reminisce their many nights together, standing side by side. They also appeared to regret the long hiatus in the past year when they hadn’t seen each other, not even once. If only their thoughts could be conveyed to their masters. But they seemed to cherish the present moment. Nothing could change that. They were close to one another again. They had found one another again. Maybe this moment could reshape the future. The machines hoped so and at the core of their engines that created such hopeful thoughts was the intense love of their once seemingly inseparable masters.

Similarly, we found that more than half the submissions from established brands were cases of advertising being started again after a very long hiatus.

Christianity is the revenge of the wandering Jew. Where would we be today if only we had not had Christianity – we would have the same brains, but we would have avoided a hiatus of one and a half thousand years. . .

Janus Athena: Something Dick said before bombing hiatus struck those here in the AI group. (Meaning JA themself, but they never use any pronouns referring to themself.)

i no longer make room for people who won’t allow me to make room for myself. i am deserving of space that doesn’t come with resentment attached to it when i need it. i am deserving of hiatuses to re-collect myself without it being held against me. i am allowed to breathe.

Along with doubt about the accuracy of conventional diagnoses, there came the realization that the primary tissue involved was muscle, specifically the muscles of the neck, shoulders, back, and buttocks. But even more important was the observation that 88 percent of the people seen had histories of such things as tension or migraine headache, heartburn, hiatus hernia, stomach ulcer, colitis, spastic colon, irritable bowel syndrome, hay fever, asthma, eczema, and a variety of other disorders, all of which were strongly suspected of being related to tension.

Today ginkgoes are contributing little if anything to local food webs compared to most contemporary indigenous plants. Regardless of whether it was once a native in North America, the complex food webs ginkgo may have supported in the past did not survive its seven-million-year hiatus. An ecosystem is the combination of an interacting community of living organisms and their physical environment, functioning as an ecological unit in a given place. The operative word in this definition is “interacting

Human reason is not the way to escape from devilish sin. Lafferty mocked its limitations. Arrive at Easterwine catalogues the use of human reason to discover the meaning of the universe—in “synthetic love essence”: “Institute members were out now trying to read patterns and shapes in the fluorescence of sea-lice, in snail-slime patterns, in the cross sections of marrow of rock-badger bones, in paddle-fish trails, in nine-year-flight-way designs, in constellations, in ballads (especially in roundels which never do find their own round), in the polterghostly unbalance of a hiatus-human species known as the adolescents, in the cross-timbers, in spark-worm responses.” We will not find what we are looking for in the fluorescence of sea-lice.

Her just-wounded heart might have been on hiatus, but it turned out that the rest of her was still alert, ready to bloom in the direction of any new sun.

It is essential to consider as a constant point of reference in this essay the regular hiatus between what we fancy we know and what we really know, practical assent and simulated ignorance which allows us to live with ideas which, if we truly put them to the test, ought to upset our whole life. Faced with this inextricable contradiction of the mind, we shall fully grasp the divorce separating us from our own creations. So long as the mind keeps silent in the motionless world of its hopes, everything is reflected and arranged in the unity of its nostalgia. But with its first move this world cracks and tumbles: an infinite number of shimmering fragments is offered to the understanding. We must despair of ever reconstructing the familiar, calm surface which would give us peace of heart. After so many centuries of inquiries, so many abdications among thinkers, we are well aware that this is true for all our knowledge. With the exception of professional rationalists, today people despair of true knowledge. If the only significant history of human thought were to be written, it would have to be the history of its successive regrets and its impotences.

The story goes from a man to a woman, From strong love to weak compassion, From strong arms to feeble alms From smouldering eyes to a forest fire calm

The damage done to American language is not yet nearly as profound as the century-long decimation of Russian under totalitarianism and Putinism, but the lessons of Russian journalists hold. Some words ought to be retired: “tremendous” can take a hiatus, for example. Essential words, in the debasement of which journalists have often been complicit, have to be rehabilitated before it’s too late. The word “politics,” or “political,” is an example. It ought to refer to the vital project of negotiating how we live together as a city, a state, or a country; of working across difference; of acting collectively. Instead, it is used to denote emptiness: hollow procedure, inflated rhetoric, tactical positioning are dismissed as “just politics.” But to use the word “politics,” or indeed any other word, and be believed, journalists will have to understand the words as meaningful and consequential. That, in turn, requires a reckoning not only with the damage Trumpism has inflicted on the public sphere but also with the conditions that made him so effective.

VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS Third Update: According to a report from Elwin, Mr. Sencen was involved in the recent destruction in the Healing Center—but apparently it happened during a skill lesson that went awry. For that reason, I’m simply noting the incident here, rather than creating a disciplinary report. It should also be noted that Mr. Sencen brought Miss Foster to the Mentors’ private cafeteria for butterblasts. —Magnate Leto VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DISRUPTING LUNCHTIME According to a report from Lady Galvin, a number of prodigies began emitting unpleasant gaseous noises midway through the lunch break and had to race to various bathrooms. No proof has been recovered, but the general consensus is that Mr. Sencen slipped Gurgle Gut into their lunches. 5 out of 10 One week of detention assigned. As far as I can surmise, every prodigy affected by Mr. Sencen’s prank had recently been gossiping about (or hassling) Mr. and Miss Vacker about their eldest brother—which is why I’m limiting his detention to a week. I cannot allow such behavior to go unpunished. But I refuse to deny the motivation. —Magnate Leto Update: Foxfire has been placed on an extended hiatus after the traumatic events during the Celestial Festival. Sessions will resume as soon as the Council determines that it is safe to do so. —Magnate Leto

Despite the far greater carnage between 1939 and 1945, seventy years later historians rarely write of the political or strategic futility of the Second World War as they so often do of the First. Apparently, losing sixty million for a subsequent general seventy-year peace and the end of nightmarish ideologies was defensible, while losing fifteen to twenty million for a twenty-one-year hiatus was sometimes not.

When right posture is attained, the practice of intentional breathing then follows. 2.49 Intentional breathing controls the three phases of breath— exhalation, inhalation, and hiatus.

That same year, Will Smith returned to the big screen after a hiatus, following 2008’s surprise disappointment, Seven Pounds. He starred in a sequel that Sony had been dying to make for many years. Men in Black 3 was a challenging movie to produce with a mature Will Smith. Now used to being the dominant creative force in his productions, he often demanded repeated changes to scripts and never worked with directors who could wield more power than he did. That was fine for Overbrook-led productions, but it became a challenge on the third Men in Black offering, which was made in a rush, to take advantage of New York tax credits. The production was a nightmare. The unhappy Smith holed up in his fifty-three-foot-long trailer, which featured a screening room, offices for assistants, and an all-granite bathroom, while multiple screenwriters reworked the script again and again. The creative conflicts between the star, his producers, and the studio were so severe that production was halted for three months to resolve them. Greenlit with a budget of $210 million, Men in Black 3 ended up costing $250 million and barely broke even.

Apparently, losing sixty million for a subsequent general seventy-year peace and the end of nightmarish ideologies was defensible, while losing fifteen to twenty million for a twenty-one-year hiatus was sometimes not.