Holly And Michael Quotes

Ask ten different scientists about the environment, population control, genetics and you'll get ten different answers, but there's one thing every scientist on the planet agrees on. Whether it happens in a hundred years or a thousand years or a million years, eventually our Sun will grow cold and go out. When that happens, it won't just take us. It'll take Marilyn Monroe and Lao-Tzu, Einstein, Morobuto, Buddy Holly, Aristophanes .. and all of this .. all of this was for nothing unless we go to the stars.

Holly screwed up her nose, like she always did when concentrating, which was all the time. My granddaughter was heading for a nose job.

Hair brushed and face washed, Holly put her jeans and top on, a plain, blue, cotton shirt with cute thin stripes. She had no bra because she had no boobs. She didn’t even have her period yet. Such a little kid. The other girls talked a lot about bras and boobs and periods.

What else can it predict?” Now the other jocks encircled her like a bullseye. “Any event with data,” Holly said and really felt the need to leave. This was a set-up. Big Bob grinned. “Like when I’ll get a date?” Holly’s smile slid across her face. “Low probability events are hard to forecast.” “Huh?” Josh punched his shoulder. “She means, you are not likely to get a date.

Holly rolled out of bed and took off her purple and pink pajamas. Jeez, how babyish they were. For Christmas, she’d ask for something more grown-up. Not a leather teddy, but something more grown-up. She was not sure what a leather teddy was, but she heard girls talking in gym class and would have to Google it.

They all looked at Holly. She turned to face the cheerleader and said, “You need to learn that some things are more valuable than good looks. Data manipulation is more important than big boobs. Analytics is more useful than lip gloss.” Wow, she said that? Everyone laughed a bit, surprised, shocked. Holly turned and headed toward the concert hall. Grinning.

You were kind of mean to Brittany,” Holly said. “Was I? Trying to be protective, I guess. I have a problem with cheerleaders, sorority sisters, gangs, committees, groups, anything pack-related.” She shrugged. “Yeah, you’re not really a joiner.” I was never much for cheerleaders or jocks myself, especially in high school. I always knew that kind of popularity was short term, but when you’re a teenager it seemed like the most important thing in the world. But Holly was only twelve.

The big man shrugged, "I don't know. You're pretty good with the cards. Tell me what the odds are." [She] shifted her gaze to Michael, then back at Hollis. "This isn't a question of odds. Of all the men in the world, that woman chose you. If she's still out there, she's waiting for you. Staying alive any way she can until you find her. That's all that matters." Everybody waited for what Hollis would next say. "You're a real ball-buster, you know that? ...Let me pack a few things.

I was so done with looking at life through the eyes of beer-drinking cheese-heads. I wanted to go on that mission trip and look through the eyes of someone from a different culture and see what they saw. I wanted to meet people who didn’t crush the can of what they just drank on their forehead.-Rebecca Meyer, Crooked Lines

Oh, don't get me started! I love fantasy, I read it for pleasure, even after all these years. Pat McKillip, Ursula Le Guin and John Crowley are probably my favorite writers in the field, in addition to all the writers in the Endicott Studio group - but there are many others I also admire. In children's fantasy, I'm particularly keen on Philip Pullman, Donna Jo Napoli, David Almond and Jane Yolen - though my favorite novels recently were Midori Snyder's Hannah's Garden, Holly Black's Tithe, and Neil Gaiman's Coraline. I read a lot of mainstream fiction as well - I particularly love Alice Hoffman, A.S. Byatt, Sara Maitland, Sarah Waters, Sebastian Faulks, and Elizabeth Knox. There's also a great deal of magical fiction by Native American authors being published these days - Louise Erdrich's Antelope Wife, Alfredo Vea Jr.'s Maravilla, Linda Hogan's Power, and Susan Power's Grass Dancer are a few recent favorites. I'm a big fan of Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens, and Anthony Trollope - I re-read Jane Austen's novels in particular every year.Other fantasists say they read Tolkien every year, but for me it's Austen. I adore biographies, particularly biographies of artists and writers (and particularly those written by Michael Holroyd). And I love books that explore the philosophical side of art, such as Lewis Hyde's The Gift, Carolyn Heilbrun's Writing a Woman's Life, or David Abram's Spell of the Sensuous. (from a 2002 interview)

All my hard work had come to fruition that day: the new fireplace housed a might Yule log that warmed the room, casting reflections across the crystal and silver. I admired the forest green of the brocaded furniture, and the holly gathered in red ribbons hung about the walls. I decided that whatever temper Michael might be in, I would not let him spoil our first Christmas. The new damask cloth was spread with a fine repast: Peg's own Yule cakes looked even daintier than those I had already sampled. A great wheel of cheese had pride of place, beside magnificent pies of game and fruit. On a great round platter was a salamagundy salad as fresh as a bouquet of flowers; concentric rings of every delight: eggs, chicken, ham, beetroot, anchovies, and orange.

If I could turn my thoughts into spoken words and share them with someone, they’d become real and mean something. Now, they were only lines that could be erased when I didn’t feel them anymore or hopeful thoughts that, like shadows, would disappear when the sun went away. - Rebecca Meyer, Crooked Lines

In the spaces between words, my mind can go all sorts of places. Dr. Michael once taught me how to get out of them, but that was a long time ago. Like, another life.

Midnight Mass was required, and at Saint Aloysius, it lasted ninety minutes. Because the church was crowded with what Mother called “one timers” who attended Mass only on Christmas Eve, we arrived at 11:00 p.m. to get a seat near the front. The church was splendidly decorated. Poinsettias bloomed everywhere, huge wreaths and sprigs of holly tied with red bows hung on every pillar, potent incense enveloped us, and six tall candles burning on the main altar lighted our way out of the long, cold darkness. Carols sung from the choir loft filled the church and evoked the sensuous beauty and mystery of this holy night. While other children chatted with friends and showed off their holiday apparel, My PareNTs, gail aNd i, Mara aNd NiCho- las; ChrisTMas, 1974; CaNToN, ohio I sat quietly, awaiting the chimes that announced the first minutes of Christmas and heralded the solemn service: the priest’s white and gold vestments, his ritualized gestures, the Latin prayers, the incense, the communion service with the transfigured bread and wine, and the priest’s blessings from the high altar that together

Tolle Wände haben Sie", sagte Sibel damals, als sie Platz nahmen auf der schwarzen Couch, "da könnte man super Kunst aufhängen." "Nein, nein, auf keinen Fall", sagte Michael Keplin, "ich habe mich mal viel mit Künstlern beschäftigt. Da könnte ich lange Vorträge drüber halten. Was malen sie alle für Bilder? Sie verarbeiten damit ihre eigenen Probleme. Und warum bitte soll ich mir die Probleme anderer Menschen an die Wand hängen?

is the hardest part. If I forget you, I’m sure I’ll hear about it but know I love you. My betas: Mandi, Jennifer, Melissa, Holly, Roxana, Megan, & Linda—I love you all and I couldn’t do this without you. Each time I send you the mini cliffhangers you come back for more. I love torturing you and making you smile. Thank you for your friendship! Christy Peckham: I couldn’t do this

. Michael Warner defines a public as “a concrete audience, a crowd witnessing itself in visible space . . . A public also has a sense of totality, bounded by the event or by the shared physical space . . . [It] comes into being only in relation to texts and their circulation.” The term names the phenomenon wherein bodies coalesce around texts. Michael Warner, Publics and Counterpublics (Cambridge, MA: Zone Books, 2002), 65–66.

29. These tensions are discussed at length in Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner, “Sex in Public,” Critical Inquiry 24, no. 2 (Winter 1998): 547–566.

Hollis asked me, “How’d the meeting with the editor at the Daily News go?” “About like you’d expect. It’s very clear to me that they’re only interested in the number of papers they sell or clicks the story gets online, not in helping out our homicide investigation. I swear, sometimes it feels like there are some awfully bloodthirsty people in the media who want more murders so they can have juicier stories that sell more papers.

Without waiting for Ian to reply or escort me, I turn and walk down the hallway. I come to an office where I see a large man, thick through the shoulders and chest, with iron gray hair and dark eyes. Michael Gallagher. Holly's father.

His eyes twinkled as he continued, "I remember when you were just a young filly. Look at the fine horse you have become. I have seen you work hard and study. You are a strong and elegant horse, Holly. Most importantly, I have seen you bring joy to the kids.".

Once upon a time, when I first ventured out to cover war in the Middle East, I carted around palm-sized books of poems by early twentieth century poets like Wilfried Owen, and at night I would fall asleep beneath a dim lamp light submerged in beautifully written conflict memoirs by John Hersey and Michael Herr, comforted by the anecdotes of sadness and self-preservation. These days, I carry with me a hand-scrawled notebook of the above words of wisdom and reflection, treasuring the many inspiring humans who have welcomed me into their lives in their darkest and most triumphant moments. These beautifully ordinary people remind me that we all have the innate potential not only to surmount, but to thrive. Go forth and conquer. The choice is yours.

Tolkien’s advice to Michael also contains the rather counterintuitive suggestion to strengthen his faith by going to a Mass celebrated by “a snuffling or gabbling priest”—that is, one who mumbles the liturgy or rushes through it in a mechanical manner—or by “a proud and vulgar friar.” This, he says, “will be just the same (or better than that) as a mass said beautifully by a visibly holy man.”12 Why would Tolkien, with his great devotion to the Eucharist, consider that a slipshod liturgy could be “the same” or “better” than a beautiful and devoutly celebrated one? It is precisely his Eucharistic spirituality that undergirds his thinking.¶ Here Tolkien is emphasizing his belief that the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist is brought about ex opere operato (“by the work worked”), meaning that sacramental grace comes from the validity of the rite and of the priest’s ordination; it does not depend on the aesthetically pleasing nature of the liturgy or on the personal holiness of the priest who has consecrated it. Tolkien had by this stage in his life of faith learned to relax into the sheer objectivity of the Blessed Sacrament, undeflected by exterior irritations or distractions—or at least he felt there was spiritual value in making the attempt.

But Michael's a stand-up guy. He doesn't want me under those circumstances. He wants us to be staring into each other's eyes while the stars align and angels take flight and true love is affirmed forever, amen.