Horrible Husband Quotes

Weak? Oh, I am sick of hearing that phrase. Sick of using it about others. Weak? Do you really think, that it is weakness that yields to temptation? I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to. To stake all one's life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not-there is no weakness in that. There is a horrible, terrible courage. I had that courage.

Do you know about the spoons? Because you should. The Spoon Theory was created by a friend of mine, Christine Miserandino, to explain the limits you have when you live with chronic illness. Most healthy people have a seemingly infinite number of spoons at their disposal, each one representing the energy needed to do a task. You get up in the morning. That’s a spoon. You take a shower. That’s a spoon. You work, and play, and clean, and love, and hate, and that’s lots of damn spoons … but if you are young and healthy you still have spoons left over as you fall asleep and wait for the new supply of spoons to be delivered in the morning. But if you are sick or in pain, your exhaustion changes you and the number of spoons you have. Autoimmune disease or chronic pain like I have with my arthritis cuts down on your spoons. Depression or anxiety takes away even more. Maybe you only have six spoons to use that day. Sometimes you have even fewer. And you look at the things you need to do and realize that you don’t have enough spoons to do them all. If you clean the house you won’t have any spoons left to exercise. You can visit a friend but you won’t have enough spoons to drive yourself back home. You can accomplish everything a normal person does for hours but then you hit a wall and fall into bed thinking, “I wish I could stop breathing for an hour because it’s exhausting, all this inhaling and exhaling.” And then your husband sees you lying on the bed and raises his eyebrow seductively and you say, “No. I can’t have sex with you today because there aren’t enough spoons,” and he looks at you strangely because that sounds kinky, and not in a good way. And you know you should explain the Spoon Theory so he won’t get mad but you don’t have the energy to explain properly because you used your last spoon of the morning picking up his dry cleaning so instead you just defensively yell: “I SPENT ALL MY SPOONS ON YOUR LAUNDRY,” and he says, “What the … You can’t pay for dry cleaning with spoons. What is wrong with you?” Now you’re mad because this is his fault too but you’re too tired to fight out loud and so you have the argument in your mind, but it doesn’t go well because you’re too tired to defend yourself even in your head, and the critical internal voices take over and you’re too tired not to believe them. Then you get more depressed and the next day you wake up with even fewer spoons and so you try to make spoons out of caffeine and willpower but that never really works. The only thing that does work is realizing that your lack of spoons is not your fault, and to remind yourself of that fact over and over as you compare your fucked-up life to everyone else’s just-as-fucked-up-but-not-as-noticeably-to-outsiders lives. Really, the only people you should be comparing yourself to would be people who make you feel better by comparison. For instance, people who are in comas, because those people have no spoons at all and you don’t see anyone judging them. Personally, I always compare myself to Galileo because everyone knows he’s fantastic, but he has no spoons at all because he’s dead. So technically I’m better than Galileo because all I’ve done is take a shower and already I’ve accomplished more than him today. If we were having a competition I’d have beaten him in daily accomplishments every damn day of my life. But I’m not gloating because Galileo can’t control his current spoon supply any more than I can, and if Galileo couldn’t figure out how to keep his dwindling spoon supply I think it’s pretty unfair of me to judge myself for mine. I’ve learned to use my spoons wisely. To say no. To push myself, but not too hard. To try to enjoy the amazingness of life while teetering at the edge of terror and fatigue.

You said I looked "okay," which is petty much the same thing as saying, "Well, at least your nipples are covered.

How sinister it is to relive your life backward. To see things you hadn’t at the time. To realize the horrible significance of events you had no idea were playing out around you. To uncover lies told by your husband. Jen would always have said Kelly was as straight as they come. But don’t all good liars seem that way?

Babies are the worst roommates. They’re unemployed. They don’t pay rent. They keep insane hours. Their hygiene is horrible. If you had a roommate that did any of the things babies do, you’d ask them to move out. “Do you remember what happened last night? Today you’re all smiles, but last night you were hitting the bottle really hard. Then you started screaming, and you threw up on me. Then you passed out and wet yourself. I went into the other room to get you some dry clothes, I came back, and you were all over my wife’s breasts! Right in front of me, her husband! Dude, you gotta move out.

Nick and I, we sometimes laugh, laugh out loud, at the horrible things women make their husbands do to prove their love. The pointless tasks, the myriad sacrifices, the endless small surrenders. We call these men the dancing monkeys.

I’ve smiled for photos with people who call my husband horrible names on national television, but still want a framed keepsake for their mantel.

Stephen Herondale would have killed me if he’d ever met me. I would not have been safe living among people like you, or like him. I am the wife and mother of warriors who fought and died and never dishonored themselves as you have. I have worn gear, wielded blades, and slain demons, and all I wished was to overcome evil so that I could live and be happy with those I loved. I’d hoped I had made this a better, safer world for my children. Because of Valentine’s Circle, the Herondale line, the line that was my son’s children’s children, is finished. That happened through you and your Circle and your husband. Stephen Herondale died with hate in his heart and the blood of my people on his hands. I can imagine no more horrible way for mine and Will’s line to end. I will have to carry for the rest of my life the wound of what Valentine’s Circle has done to me, and I will live forever.

I wouldn't mind if the consumer culture went poof! overnight because then we'd all be in the same boat and life wouldn't be so bad, mucking about with the chickens and feudalism and the like. But you know what would be absolutely horrible. The worst? ... If, as we were all down on earth wearing rags and husbanding pigs inside abandoned Baskin-Robbins franchises, I were to look up in the sky and see a jet -- with just one person inside even -- I'd go berserk. I'd go crazy. Either everyone slides back into the Dark Ages or no one does.

The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He steals the mother’s milk and blackens it to make printer’s ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He pretends to spare her the pangs of child-bearing so that he may have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a blood-sucker, a hypocrite, and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist’s work is to shew us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant, they love one another.

I suppose it was the end of the world for her when her husband and her baby were killed. I suppose she didn't care what became of her and flung herself into the horrible degradation of drink and promiscuous copulation to get even with life that had treated her so cruelly. She'd lived in heaven and when she lost it she couldn't put up with the common earth of common men, but in despair plunged headlong into hell. I can imagine that if she couldn't drink the nectar of the gods any more she thought she might as well drink bathroom gin.' That's the sort of thing you say in novels. It's nonsense and you know it's nonsense. Sophie wallows in the gutter because she likes it. Other women have lost their husbands and children. It wasn't that that made her evil. Evil doesn't spring from good. The evil was there always. When that motor accident broke her defences it set her free to be herself. Don't waste your pity on her, she's now what at heart she always was.

All things considered, the last six months have been a goddamn Victorian tragedy. Today my husband, Victor, handed me a letter informing me that another friend had unexpectedly died. You might think that this would push me over the edge into an irreversible downward spiral of Xanax and Regina Spektor songs, but no. It’s not. I’m fucking done with sadness, and I don’t know what’s up the ass of the universe lately but I’ve HAD IT. I AM GOING TO BE FURIOUSLY HAPPY, OUT OF SHEER SPITE.

That I was sleeping at a time when my husband was dying is so horrible a thought, I can’t confront it.

[...] over the years I’ve seen so many otherwise “good” people doing horrible things to each other – husbands strangling cheating wives, brothers protecting sisters from abusive partners. In the end you realise …’ ‘Realise what?’ ‘That there are no “good” people. There are just those who haven’t been pushed far enough yet, and those that have.

Since stepping reluctantly into public life, I’ve been held up as the most powerful woman in the world and taken down as an “angry black woman.” I’ve wanted to ask my detractors which part of that phrase matters to them the most—is it “angry” or “black” or “woman”? I’ve smiled for photos with people who call my husband horrible names on national television, but still want a framed keepsake for their mantel. I’ve heard about the swampy parts of the internet that question everything about me, right down to whether I’m a woman or a man.

I was trapped in a horrible nightmare that happened to other people, not to me. Not to my family and not to my husband.

My parents died years ago. I was very close to them. I still miss them terribly. I know I always will. I long to believe that their essence, their personalities, what I loved so much about them, are - really and truly - still in existence somewhere. I wouldn't ask very much, just five or ten minutes a year, say, to tell them about their grandchildren, to catch them up on the latest news, to remind them that I love them. There's a part of me - no matter how childish it sounds - that wonders how they are. "Is everything all right?" I want to ask. The last words I found myself saying to my father, at the moment of his death, were "Take care." Sometimes I dream that I'm talking to my parents, and suddenly - still immersed in the dreamwork - I'm seized by the overpowering realization that they didn't really die, that it's all been some kind of horrible mistake. Why, here they are, alive and well, my father making wry jokes, my mother earnestly advising me to wear a muffler because the weather is chilly. When I wake up I go through an abbreviated process of mourning all over again. Plainly, there's something within me that's ready to believe in life after death. And it's not the least bit interested in whether there's any sober evidence for it. So I don't guffaw at the woman who visits her husband's grave and chats him up every now and then, maybe on the anniversary of his death. It's not hard to understand. And if I have difficulties with the ontological status of who she's talking to, that's all right. That's not what this is about. This is about humans being human.

I don't want to be one of those women who says horrible things about her husband, but your father had no right to take the hammer. I had that hammer when we were still dating, and he damn well knew it.

Poor old Lord Mortlake, who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the most horrible language about them both.

What you went through is horrible. I'm not disputing it.' 'Okay. So?' 'Just that this man whom you depicted—it was like he was a monster. The sum total of all the evil things in the world.' 'No, I never said that.' 'But that's how it came across.' 'That's not what I intended. It was his violence. That's all.' Here's a friend asking me if there was nothing redeemable about my ex-husband. I do not know how to justify myself. What do I tell people like him, who want a balanced picture, who want to know that this was a real person with a rainbow side, just so that they are reminded of their own humanity? I realize that this is the curse of victimhood, to feel compelled to lend an appropriate colour of goodness to their abuser.

I thought women enjoyed affairs. I thought they got sparks of pleasure at the buzz of their phone, thought they ran around with a glow, their world suddenly on fire with new love. I thought they were women with terrible husbands and unhappy lives, an affair the first step in an eventual ending of their marriage. I thought that they were horrible, selfish women. I never thought that I would be one of them. I never thought that I'd be so weak. It turned out being the perfect wife was only easy when there was no temptation, no mistake haunting and overshadowing your marriage.

I suppose it was the end of the world for her when her husband and her baby were killed. I suppose she didn't care what became of her and flung herself into the horrible degradation of drink and promiscuous copulation to get even with life that had treated her so cruelly. She'd lived in heaven and when she lost it she couldn't put up with the common earth of common men, but in despair plunged headlong into hell. I can imagine that if she couldn't drink the nectar of the gods any more she thought she might as well drink bathroom gin.

Married men are horribly tedious when they are good husbands and abominably conceited when they are not.

Men are horribly tedious when they are good husbands, and abominably conceited when they are not. A Woman of No Importance.

When something as cataclysmically horrible as your husband being shot to death on your honeymoon happens, people are both fascinated and repulsed by you.

Do you really think, Arthur, that it is weakness that yields to temptation?  I tell you that there are terrible temptations that it requires strength, strength and courage, to yield to.  To stake all one’s life on a single moment, to risk everything on one throw, whether the stake be power or pleasure, I care not—there is no weakness in that.  There is a horrible, a terrible courage

You’re not so bad-looking yourself. A bit too clean, like a metrosexual fella. Probably got a bunch of antiaging cream in your bathroom or something, but you in Dixie now, boy. You walk around looking pretty and these Southern girls will scratch your eyes out because they’re afraid you’ll tempt their husbands into committing horrible, unnatural sins.” “I should hope so.” “It’s the least you could

Tonight, I decide that if I could have one magical power, I would want to control dreams. I would inflict horrible nightmares on anyone who posed a threat to me, and meddle in my husband’s sleep to make him dream of me each night. I would imbue the fear of losing me into his subconscious, constructing a world in which I leave him for another man and he dies of sadness. I would show him my body in its most magnificent form so that he would never stop desiring me, and our house looking its best so that he would always want to stay. I would weave beautiful images of us into each of his nights so that he would continue loving me.

The nameless anxiety of the dream is indescribably horrid - the wide, Jeni, feels she simply must (wiper) must (wiper) must catch the husband's car in order to avert some kind of crisis so horrible it has no name.

Emily wasn’t aware that only the quick thinking of the dinosaur in question had, early on in their naval career, saved her husband from a potentially horrible fate involving a Thai prostitute who’d actually turned out to be a man…

Even a really bad ordinary argument, where feelings were hurt, would be so much better than this permanent sense of dread. She could feel it everywhere: in her stomach, her chest, even her mouth had a horrible taste to it. What was it doing to her health?

My aunt nodded and told me that the woman would tell me that but probably not for a while, maybe years, and then only silently, in her thoughts, so I wouldn’t hear it but one day I’d be walking down some street and feel a kind of lightness come over me, like I could walk for miles, and that would be the moment when the woman from the parking lot had suddenly understood my horrible outburst, that it had nothing to do with her or her husband or her child, and that it was okay. Forgiveness, sort of. Got that? said my aunt.

Damn you," he said. But what had she said? Simply that it might be fine tomorrow. So it might. Not with the barometer falling and the wind due west. To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of consideration for other people's feelings, to rend the thin veils of civilisation so wantonly, so brutally, was to her so horrible an outrage of human decency that, without replying, dazed and blinded, he bent her head as if to let the pelt of jagged hail, the drench of dirty water, bespatter her unrebuked. There was nothing to be said.

Hamlet, here, on this stage, is two people, the young man, alive, and the father, dead. He is both alive and dead. Her husband has brought him back to life, in the only way he can. As the ghost talks, she sees that her husband, in writing this, in taking the role of the ghost, has changed places with his son. He has taken his son’s death and made it his own; he has put himself in death’s clutches, resurrecting the boy in his place. “O horrible! O horrible! Most horrible!” murmurs her husband’s ghoulish voice, recalling the agony of his death.

No, don’t speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories–memories of things that made me love you–memories of words that made me love you–memories that are now horrible to me […] The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived.

Women are always told, chin up! Don't complain! Be quiet! Don't ever ask for more. If your life is hard, too bad, that's your lot! Stay with the terrible husband, stick with the horrible job, keep trudging along until you die." She shudders. "No one ever tells women that it's okay to leave. It's okay to get out!

Nick and I, we sometimes laugh, laugh out loud, at the horrible things women make their husbands do to prove their love. The pointless tasks, the myriad sacrifices, the endless small surrenders. We call these men the dancing monkeys. Nick will come home, sweaty and salty and beer-loose from a day at the ballpark,and I’ll curl up in his lap, ask him about the game, ask him if his friend Jack had a good time, and he’ll say, ‘Oh, he came down with a case of the dancing monkeys – poor Jennifer was having a “real stressful week” and really needed him at home.’ Or his buddy at work, who can’t go out for drinks because his girlfriend really needs him to stop by some bistro where she is having dinner with a friend from out of town. So they can finally meet. And so she can show how obedient her monkey is: He comes when I call, and look how well groomed! Wear this, don’t wear that. Do this chore now and do this chore when you get a chance and by that I mean now. And definitely, definitely, give up the things you love for me, so I will have proof that you love me best. It’s the female pissing contest – as we swan around our book clubs and our cocktail hours, there are few things women love more than being able to detail the sacrifices our men make for us. A call-and-response, the response being: ‘Ohhh, that’s so sweet.’ I am happy not to be in that club. I don’t partake, I don’t get off on emotional coercion, on forcing Nick to play some happy-hubby role – the shrugging, cheerful, dutiful taking out the trash, honey! role. Every wife’s dream man, the counterpoint to every man’s fantasy of the sweet, hot, laid-back woman who loves sex and a stiff drink. I like to think I am confident and secure and mature enough to know Nick loves me without him constantly proving it. I don’t need pathetic dancing-monkey scenarios to repeat to my friends, I am content with letting him be himself. I don’t know why women find that so hard.

A pair of young mothers now became the centre of interest. They had risen from their lying-in much sooner than the doctors would otherwise have allowed. (French doctors are always very good about recognizing the importance of social events, and certainly in this case had the patients been forbidden the ball the might easily have fretted themselves to death.) One came as the Duchesse de Berri with l’Enfant du Miracle, and the other as Madame de Montespan and the Duc du Maine. The two husbands, the ghost of the Duc de Berri, a dagger sticking out of his evening dress, and Louis XIV, were rather embarrassed really by the horrible screams of their so very young heirs, and hurried to the bar together. The noise was indeed terrific, and Albertine said crossly that had she been consulted she would, in this case, have permitted and even encouraged the substitution of dolls. The infants were then dumped down to cry themselves to sleep among the coats on her bed, whence they were presently collected by their mothers’ monthly nannies. Nobody thereafter could feel quite sure that the noble families of Bregendir and Belestat were not hopelessly and for ever interchanged. As their initials and coronets were, unfortunately, the same, and their baby linen came from the same shop, it was impossible to identify the children for certain. The mothers were sent for, but the pleasures of society rediscovered having greatly befogged their maternal instincts, they were obliged to admit they had no idea which was which. With a tremendous amount of guilty giggling they spun a coin for the prettier of the two babies and left it at that.

I took a swallow of beer. “I’d put my wife in a chair when I’m supposed to pull off her garter, and I’d dance around her to ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’ like in Reservoir Dogs.” “Yes! And I’d want my husband to show up at the last minute all red like in The Hangover. The pictures would be awesome.” I turned back to the show with a smile. Thisis the date I should have been on tonight. This was a date I would have gone home with. “Hey,” she said, leaning her head back on the couch and looking at me. “I’m sorry I was rude to you when we first met.” I chuckled. “So you’re going to stop giving me shit about my driving?” “No. You’re a horrible driver. I meant that stuff.

Ashima feels lonely suddenly, horribly, permanently alone, and briefly, turned away from the mirror, she sobs for her husband. She feels overwhelmed by the thought of the move she is about to make, to the city that was once home and is now in its own way foreign. She feels both impatience and indifference for all the days she still must live, for something tells her she will not go quickly as her husband did. For thirty-three years she missed her life in India. Now she will miss her job at the library, the women with whom she's worked... She will miss the country in which she had grown to know and love her husband. Though his ashes have been scattered into the Ganges, it is here, in this house and in this town, that he will continue to dwell in her mind.

And now it’s really over. I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that’s what I want! I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but … it remains to be seen whether I really have talent. “Eva’s Dream” is my best fairy tale, and the odd thing is that I don’t have the faintest idea where it came from. Parts of “Cady’s Life” are also good, but as a whole it’s nothing special. I’m my best and harshest critic. I know what’s good and what isn’t. Unless you write yourself, you can’t know how wonderful it is; I always used to bemoan the fact that I couldn’t draw, but now I’m overjoyed that at least I can write. And if I don’t have the talent to write books or newspaper articles, I can always write for myself. But I want to achieve more than that. I can’t imagine having to live like Mother, Mrs. van Daan and all the women who go about their work and are then forgotten. I need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to! I don’t want to have lived in vain like most people. I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death! And that’s why I’m so grateful to God for having given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all that’s inside me! When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies. I haven’t worked on “Cady’s Life” for ages. In my mind I’ve worked out exactly what happens next, but the story doesn’t seem to be coming along very well. I might never finish it, and it’ll wind up in the wastepaper basket or the stove. That’s a horrible thought, but then I say to myself, “At the age of fourteen and with so little experience, you can’t write about philosophy.” So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It’ll all work out, because I’m determined to write!

When the wife was found alive, the victim of a horrible car accident that might not have been discovered in time were it not for the husband's persistence, I was shocked to find myself actually tearing up. It was cathartic, the relief that she was okay after all--- something true crime programming rarely gave you. But there was more to it than that. Somehow, Sam had sanded down my cynical edges. I'd built up this armor for so long, and I'd always worried I wouldn't recognize myself without it. But it turned out that I liked who I was with Sam.

It’s my personal opinion that airlines can do two things to make air travel better for everyone. The first is to have the people taking boarding tickets recognize the person who seems the most unreasonably determined to be sitting on the plane, hold up their arm, and joyfully announce over the loudspeaker: “YOU, SIR! You are our winner for most unaccountably and frantically eager to get on a plane that will not leave until every single person is seated anyway. Well done, you! Can you tell us how you feel now that you’ve won?” At best he’ll realize he’s being a bit douchey, laugh it off, and might calm the hell down from now on. At worst he’ll start yelling and then everyone else gets a good show. Then give him a small medal and a mild tranquilizer. Plus a mild tranquilizer for the person who has to sit next to him. And, if you’re handing them out, I’ll take one too. In fact, mild tranquilizers for everyone! (I apologize for the gender stereotyping, but in fairness it usually is a he. And he’s usually in a business suit. And he often has triple-diamond status. And he’s occasionally my husband.) Frankly,

THE OTHER DAY I HAD INSOMNIA AND I MADE MY CATS A WATER BED OUT OF A ZIPLOC BAG AND A SHOEBOX. THEY POPPED IT WITH THEIR CLAWS AND THEY ALMOST DROWNED. THEN I TRIED TO PUT BABY SOCKS AROUND THEIR FEET BUT THEY KEPT PULLING THEM OFF SO I TRIED WRAPPING RUBBER BANDS AROUND THE SOCK HEMS AND THEN MY HUSBAND WOKE UP WHILE I WAS PINNING ONE OF THE CATS DOWN TO PUT THE SOCK ON HIM AND HE WAS ALL, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE THESE CATS ALL WET?” AND I WAS LIKE, “I’M TRYING TO HELP THEM ENJOY WATER BEDS,” AND THEN VICTOR MADE ME GO TO SLEEP. IT WAS A DISAPPOINTMENT TO EVERYONE INVOLVED.

Hamlet, here, on this stage, is two people, the young man, alive, and the father, dead. He is both alive and dead. Her husband has brought him back to life, in the only way he can. As the ghost talks, she sees that her husband, in writing this, in taking the role of the ghost, has changed places with his son. He has taken his son’s death and made it his own; he has put himself in death’s clutches, resurrecting the boy in his place. “O horrible! O horrible! Most horrible!” murmurs her husband’s ghoulish voice, recalling the agony of his death. He has, Agnes sees, done what any father would wish to do, to exchange his child’s suffering for his own, to take his place, to offer himself up in his child’s stead so that the boy might live.

Hamlet, here, on this stage, is two people, the young man, alive, and the father, dead. He is both alive and dead. Her husband has brought him back to life, in the only way he can. As the ghost talks, she sees that her husband, in writing this, in taking the role of the ghost, has changed places with his son. He has taken his son’s death and made it his own; he has put himself in death’s clutches, resurrecting the boy in his place. ‘O horrible! O horrible! Most horrible!’ murmurs her husband’s ghoulish voice, recalling the agony of his death. He has, Agnes sees, done what any father would wish to do, to exchange his child’s suffering for his own, to take his place, to offer himself up in his child’s stead so that the boy might live.

Many Yanomamo women bear horrible scars from injuries inflicted on them by their husbands... In one [incident] that was particularly revolting a man bludgeoned his philandering wife with a piece of heavy firewood, delivering many sickening blows to her head and face. Even after she was lying unconscious on the ground with blood streaming from her ears, nose, and scalp, he continued to bash her with potentially fatal blows while all in the village ignored the scene. Her head bounced off the ground with each ruthless blow, as if he were pounding a soccer ball with a baseball bat. The head-man and I intervened at that point-he was killing her. I later sewed up her wounds after getting permission to do so from her still violently angry husband

Amy found out she had cancer not long after finishing Textbook, and she called me. She knew that in the years after my book The Fault in Our Stars was published, I’d come to know many young people who were gravely ill, and she wanted to know if I had advice for her. I told her what I think is true—that love survives death. But she wanted to know how young people react to death. How her kids would. She wanted to know if her kids and her husband would be okay, and that ripped me up. Although I’m usually quite comfortable talking with sick people, with my friend I found myself stumbling over words, overwhelmed by my own sadness and worry. They won’t be okay, of course, but they will go on, and the love you poured into them will go on. That’s what I should’ve said. But what I actually said, while crying, was, “How can this be happening? You do so much yoga.” In my experience, dying people often have wonderful stories of the horrible things healthy people say to them, but I’ve never heard of anybody saying something as stupid as, “You do so much yoga.” I hope that Amy at least got some narrative mileage out of it. But I also know I failed her, after she was there for me so many times. I know she forgives me—present tense—but still, I desperately wish I could’ve said something useful. Or perhaps not said anything at all. When people we love are suffering, we want to make it better. But sometimes—often, in fact—you can’t make it better. I’m reminded of something my supervisor said to me when I was a student chaplain: “Don’t just do something. Stand there.

What will Helene’s fate be? My own, beyond doubt. How can a mother ensure that the man to whom she gives her daughter will be the husband of her heart? You pour scorn on the miserable creatures who sell themselves for a few coins to any passer-by, though want and hunger absolve the brief union; while another union, horrible for quite other reasons, is tolerated, nay encouraged, by society, and a young and innocent girl is married to a man whom she has only met occasionally during the previous three months. She is sold for her whole lifetime. It is true that the price is high! If you allow her no compensation for her sorrows, you might at least respect her; but no, the most virtuous of women cannot escape calumny. This is our fate in its double aspect. Open prostitution and shame; secret prostitution and unhappiness.

Let me start with this: I am an apostate. I have lied. I have cheated. I have done things in my life that I am not proud of, including but not limited to: • falling in love with a married man nineteen years ago • being selfish and self-centered • fighting with virtually everyone I have ever known (via hateful emails, texts, and spoken words) • physically threatening people (from parking ticket meter maids to parents who hit their kids in public) • not showing up at funerals of people I loved (because I don’t deal well with death) • being, on occasion, a horrible daughter, mother, sister, aunt, stepmother, wife (this list goes on and on). The same goes for every single person in my family: • My husband, also a serial cheater, sold drugs when he was young. • My mother was a self-admitted slut in her younger days (we’re talking the 1960s, before she got married). • My dad sold cocaine (and committed various other crimes), and then served time at Rikers Island. Why am I revealing all this? Because after the Church of Scientology gets hold of this book, it may well spend an obscene amount of money running ads, creating websites, and trotting out celebrities to make public statements that their religious beliefs are being attacked—all in an attempt to discredit me by disparaging my reputation and that of anyone close to me. So let me save them some money. There is no shortage of people who would be willing to say “Leah can be an asshole”—my own mother can attest to that. And if I am all these things the church may claim, then isn’t it also accurate to say that in the end, thirty-plus years of dedication, millions of dollars spent, and countless hours of study and

The most unsettling part of the visit, however, came when the doctor casually asked if I’d ever considered having any work done, as they were having a special on Botox. Then I stabbed him in the knee with a pen. But just in my mind, because you can never find a pen when you really need one. In reality I just told him that I wasn’t a fan of paying money to inject paralyzing poison into my face and that I was actually quite proud of my laugh lines, which I view as a badge that tells people I’m not an asshole. He countered that it was really the frown line between my eyebrows that he’d focus on. I pointed out that I’d gone through a lot of living to get that frowny wrinkle and I wasn’t about to erase it now. “MY HUSBAND MADE THAT LINE,” I said, with a defensiveness that surprised even me. “This line represents every time I have ever argued with him about everything in the damn world. It’s a line that says, ‘Don’t cross me or I will cut you.’ It’s practically a medal for time served and I EARNED IT.

How old am I? Over thirty, indeed? What cream do I use on my face? How many children do I have? Really—none? They offer condolences and smack their lips over my bad luck. My husband’s family must be very upset—I am married, of course? No? Again, they offer their regrets: a great shame that nobody wanted me. They understand—it is known to happen to some girls. Usually the very ugly or poor ones. Their concern extends to my parents: They must be unhappy, ashamed even, to have an old, unmarried daughter. And the relatives, horribly embarrassed, certainly? By now, I try to insist it may not be a complete disaster to be unmarried, but Setareh feels the need to intervene and freestyle the translation a little. She explains to the girls that, in her personal view, it is indeed a little tragic for my family. That concession renders sympathetic faces all around.When Sakina steps out of the room, questions become juicier: In the West, do I walk around almost naked in the streets? And have I “had relations” with a thousand men?

First time they met was on a cruise, if you think of “cruise” in maybe more of a specialized way. In the wake of her separation, back in what still isn’t quite The Day, from her then husband, Horst Loeffler, after too many hours indoors with the blinds drawn listening on endless repeat to Stevie Nicks singing “Landslide” on a compilation tape she ignored the rest of, drinking horrible Crown Royal Shirley Temples and chasing them with more grenadine directly from the bottle and going through a bushel per day of Kleenex, Maxine finally allowed her friend Heidi to convince her that a Caribbean cruise would somehow upgrade her mental prognosis. One day she went sniffling down the hall from her office and into the In ’n’ Out Travel Agency, where she found undusted surfaces, beat-up furniture, a disheveled model of an ocean liner that shared a number of design elements with RMS Titanic. “You’re in luck. We’ve just had a . . .” Long pause, no eye contact. “Cancellation,” suggested Maxine. “You could say.” The price was irresistible. To anyone in their right mind, too much so.

I will never forget the sensation that plagued my body as my husband’s business partner told me of Jeff’s fate that day. As his words reached my ears, I found myself in a fog of utter disbelief and paralyzing fear. It was almost as if I was part of a movie. As his business partner was telling me what happened, life began to move in slow motion and I was trying to convince myself that what I was hearing wasn’t true. “Jeff has been in a horrible car accident and has been airlifted to Advocate Christ Hospital,” he said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Not my Jeff. There’s no way. The tears came without warning. It was as if a dam broke on a lake I didn’t know existed. This wasn’t really happening. We were a young couple with two small children living the American dream. We had everything going for us. This couldn’t really be happening to me. To us. To him. I had to force myself to focus on his words, “Wait, where was he taken again?” I asked. He repeated the name, but it didn’t sound any more familiar. “Where is that?” I asked. “In Chicago,” he said. Why Chicago? I wondered. I thanked him and somehow managed to end the conversation without completely losing it. God kept me focused and at peace. I still don’t remember how I got everything done that day.

Camille heard the rustle of grass. She opened one eye and saw Oscar settling down beside her. “We can spare a few minutes,” he said. She sat up and cradled her knees in her arms. He plucked a blade of grass and commenced peeling it down the center. They heard the Australian snoring from his spot a few yards away, completely hidden in a blanket of green. “I guess we can spare more than a few minutes.” Oscar smiled and met her gaze, holding it a moment. She suddenly realized how horrible she must look-her hair, her clothes, her skin. “Do you miss him?” he asked, not seeming to notice any of those things. Camille uprooted a purple flower and a white daisy near it. “Of course I do. But I’m hoping with the stone I won’t have to very long.” “Not your father, Camille. Randall.” She took a deep breath, shocked she hadn’t thought of her fiancé for so long. How many days had it been? A full week, maybe more. “Oh. Well…I suppose I do.” Oscar raised an eyebrow and laughed at her clear lack of conviction. Camille shrugged. “What? A lot has happened and right now getting back to San Francisco isn’t something I’m concerned about.” Oscar nodded and chewed on the tip of his blade of grass. “It’s not that Randall isn’t a perfectly good man,” she said, fiddling with the flowers in her hands. The roots crumbled dirt onto her lap. “He’s kind and caring and handsome and an excellent businessman.” Oscar continued to nod. “And he’ll make a fine husband, I’m sure,” she added, knowing he really was all those things. If only all of them combined could make up for what she didn’t feel while with him. “I’m sure,” Oscar repeated. Had he been mocking her? She thought she had caught a trace of sarcasm. All this talk about Randall had her itching. “Why do you ask?” “Just wondered if you missed home,” Oscar answered and threw the mangled blade of grass behind him. “Do you?” she asked, ashamed to her Oscar know how little she desired to return. He thought for a moment, tugging up another switch of grass and rolling it between his fingers. “No,” he answered with stark certainty. “I have everything I’d miss right here.” Every inch of Camille’s body smoldered under Oscar’s gentle, and so very forward, gaze. He’d miss her. She looked into his gray-blue eyes, rimmed by thick, honey-colored lashes-had they always been so full? The bridge of his nose crooked to the left slightly, perhaps broken in a fight after he’d moved from her father’s carriage house to a small apartment along the San Francisco harbor front. She’d never noticed the charming imperfection before. She watched as his eyes traveled over her own features, touching on the wound by her temple and settling on the heart-shaped fullness of her lips. Oscar held his piercing stare. “We probably won’t arrive home in time for your wedding.

Rebecca,why haven't you burned his wardrobe yet?" Rebecca turned to see what had provoked that question, then just stared. Her husband was wearing one of those horribly bright satin coats better suited to a costume ball, this one in a ghastly orange, with excesive lace at the wrists and the throat. With his long black hair and his soft cheeks so smoothly shaved,it made him look somewhat effeminate when she knew he was anything but. But he actually looked to be trying not to laugh when he said to his mother, "She'll do nothing of the sort. She likes my taste in clothes. It reminds her of when we first met." Rebecca continued to just stare, her mind in a whirl. It sounded as if he was just teasing, but she couldn't be sure. To imply that she had fond memories of their first meeting wasn't even remotely amusing. She had nothing of the sort. "You can't seriously intend to take your wife out wearing something like that?" Julie continued. "What's wrong with what she's wearing?" "Not her,you fool.You! You're married now. Your old taste in clothes-" "Marriage has nothing to do with taste, Mother," Rupert cut in. "Well, perhaps a little,at least in women, but nothing a'tall to do with one's wardrobe.Shall we go, m'dear?" The last was added for Rebecca as he put an arm around her to lead her out of the room. His hand on her hip was all she could think about. But his mother refused to be dismissed so easily. Julie actually shouted at him, "Find a new tailor! You're mortifying your wife!

So I committed this horrible offense of treating my husband as if what strangers saw counted, which destroys the whole purpose of marriage, which betrays the trust which is the real point of marriage.

Anna didn’t watch her sister go back into the house. When she heard the door shut, tears filled her eyes. It was the oddest feeling inside her. She felt horrible for letting her family down and letting her husband down. But at the same time she felt as though she were about to be set free.

Ashima feels lonely suddenly, horribly, permanently alone, and briefly, turned away from the mirror, she sobs for her husband. She feels overwhelmed by the thought of the move she is about to make, to the city that was once home and is now in its own way foreign. She feels both impatience and indifference for all the days she still must live, for something tells her she will not go quickly as her husband did. For thirty-three years she missed her life in India. Now she will miss her job at the library, the women with whom she's worked. She will miss throwing parties. She will miss living with her daughter, the surprising companionship they have formed, going into Cambridge together to see old movies at the Brattle, teaching her to cook the food Sonia had complained of eating as a child. She will miss the opportunity to drive, as she sometimes does on her way home from the library, to the university, past the engineering building where her husband once worked. She will miss the country in which she had grown to know and love her husband. Though his ashes have been scattered into the Ganges, it is here, in this house and in this town, that he will continue to dwell in her mind.

Through centuries and across cultures, women were intimidated and coerced into marriage through horrible means-kidnapping, physical violence, even gang rape. In eighteenth -century England, the doctrine of coverture dictated that a woman had no legal rights within a marriage, other than those afforded her by her husband. Early American laws replicated this idea, and did not change until the 1960's. Before then, most states had "head and master" laws, giving husbands the right to beat their wives and take full control of family decision making and finances, including the woman's own property.

if you stop pushing so hard? Or if you don’t try to escape? What horrible outcome makes game playing an attractive and sensible option? “What I don’t want is to have a useless and heated conversation that creates bad feelings and doesn’t lead to change.” Third, present your brain with a more complex problem. Finally, combine the two into an and question that forces you to search for more creative and productive options than silence and violence. “How can I have a candid conversation with my husband about being more dependable and

who’ve been treated like garbage by their horrible husbands and would rather wait for widowhood than endure a divorce.

The couple did have one conflict they seemed to struggle over. Wesley like to have the television on when he fell asleep. Marie didn’t. She preferred silence and could go to sleep quickly if the television was off, but found herself night after night staying awake until Wesley fell asleep, then turning off the TV so she could sleep. Marie had brought it up on occasion, but never really shared exactly how much it really bothered her. But when her job changed and she had to get up earlier, she found herself more and more annoyed with what she began to see as Wesley’s selfish ways. […] Marie finally told him what had been bothering him for so long, and then she burst into tears, saying “I guess it’s over for us.” Wesley was dumbfounded. He told her that growing up with a single mom who worked two jobs, he was alone most of the time and the television was all he had. “One time, our house was broken into and the television was stolen. I was devastated. It was my only comfort at night and with the TV gone, I had nothing. It was horrible. Lonely and horrible.” Marie had never heard this story, and her heart crack open for the little boy her husband had once been.

The couple did have one conflict they seemed to struggle over. Wesley liked to have the television on when he fell asleep. Marie didn’t. She preferred silence and could go to sleep quickly if the television was off, but found herself night after night staying awake until Wesley fell asleep, then turning off the TV so she could sleep. Marie had brought it up on occasion, but never really shared exactly how much it really bothered her. But when her job changed and she had to get up earlier, she found herself more and more annoyed with what she began to see as Wesley’s selfish ways. […] Marie finally told him what had been bothering him for so long, and then she burst into tears, saying “I guess it’s over for us.” Wesley was dumbfounded. He told her that growing up with a single mom who worked two jobs, he was alone most of the time and the television was all he had. “One time, our house was broken into and the television was stolen. I was devastated. It was my only comfort at night and with the TV gone, I had nothing. It was horrible. Lonely and horrible.” Marie had never heard this story, and her heart cracked open for the little boy her husband had once been.

question: “What is one negative belief about yourself in light of what has happened to you?” I’m crazy.—Kylie I don’t matter.—Denise I am unlovable.—Madelyn I’m sloppy seconds.—Alexis I’m damaged goods.—Lynette I’m not sexy enough.—Quanesha I am tired of being his porn substitute.—Lucy I’m willing to humiliate myself to keep my commitment.—Benya Overweight and out of shape, I will never please a man.—Melissa I am invisible—not a soul knows what I am dealing with.—Sarenna I’m on husband number two. I can’t compete—not then and not now.—Paige It’s my fault; he had an affair because I’m too controlling.—Jeri Lyn I deserve what happened to me. I am paying for sins in my past.—Gloria I’m too old and can never measure up to what my husband has seen.—Rose I am not a good enough housekeeper. I am not good enough in bed.—Dorothy Anne I’m a horrible person. I can’t tell anyone what I’ve done to keep him happy.—Eliana I’m too critical and angry. She must be sweet. No wonder he doesn’t want me.—Andrea I can’t trust anyone. The person I trusted the most . . . lied over and over and over again.—Jillian

doesn’t do to let your enemies get too strong. We must fight, not just for the Irish Republic, but for women. Never again should a woman be subjugated by her husband, forced to endure horrible conditions, all because he is a man. Along with independence will surely come rights for women,

Turning my head away from his bourbon-heavy scent, I twisted his cummerbund around and undid the cheap buckle. His breath grew shorter as he cupped and massaged the generous D cups, his touch rudimentary but acceptable. “Tonight?” he gasped hopefully. I considered the request. It had been weeks since we’d last had sex, the quick event occurring after Matt had, from out of nowhere, put an offer on the Atherton house. Granted, it was a horrible home. Ugly and with a choppy floor plan that was badly out of style, but still. For my cheap husband, it was a huge and unexpected step in the right direction for our social standing and my happiness. “Yes.” I moved closer, as if in enjoyment of his touch. Matt had been a sexual disappointment early on, one that required me to take care of my own needs. Most recently, I had done so with the explosive but short-lived Ned Plymouth dalliance. I’d had high hopes for that pairing, and I frowned as I placed the cummerbund on the counter, thinking of the lost potential with my former boss. Matt grunted, his mouth now sucking at my nipples with loud and frantic wet smacks of his lips. I undid his pants and pulled down on the zipper. “Let’s go to the bed.” I injected some husk into my voice, as if I were eager, and not just to get it over with. On my back, with him above me, I thought of William Winthorpe. There was something dark and delicious about him, a temptation that had existed as soon as he’d introduced himself at my interview. William. There had been a tug in his tone, a tightening of the cord between us. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Gruff and sexual.

At this same time Sally’s young husband returned after having suffered horrible experiences when his ship had been torpedoed. More horrible to us was the knowledge that both these young men like thousands of others would have to return to their diminished units, and would undoubtedly be sent overseas again.

And the horrible insanity of all the lost hours and days spent arguing is that it turns out nothing on the “list” actually mattered. It was all just a redirection of the real problem. But we’ll fight to our last breath over thing 1, forever convinced that our BP wife is actually mad about the thing she says she’s mad about.

Cuando se quedaron solos los Delfines, Jacinta se despachó a su gusto con su marido, y tan cargada de razón estaba y tan firme y valerosa, que apenas pudo él contestarle, y sus triquiñuelas fueron armas impotentes y risibles contra la verdad que afluía de los labios de la ofendida consorte. Esta le hacía temblar con sus acerados juicios, y ya no era fácil que el habilidoso caballero triunfara de aquella alma tierna, cuya dialéctica solía debilitarse con la fuerza del cariño. Entonces se vio que la continuidad de los sufrimientos había destruido en Jacinta la estimación a su marido, y la ruina de la estimación arrastró consigo parte del amor, hallándose por fin este reducido a tan míseras proporciones, que casi no se le echaba de ver. La situación desairada en que esto le ponía, inflamaba más y más el orgullo de Santa Cruz, y ante el desdén no simulado, sino real y efectivo, que su mujer le mostraba, el pobre hombre padecía horriblemente, porque era para él muy triste, que a la víctima no le doliesen ya los golpes que recibía. No ser nadie en presencia de su mujer, no encontrar allí aquel refugio a que periódicamente estaba acostumbrado, le ponía de malísimo talante. Y era tal su confianza en la seguridad de aquel refugio, que al perderlo, experimentó por vez primera esa sensación tristísima de las irreparables pérdidas y del vacío de la vida, sensación que en plena juventud equivale al envejecer , en plena familia equivale al quedarse solo, y marca la hora en que lo mejor de la existencia se corre hacia atrás, quedando a la espalda los horizontes que antes estaban por delante. Claramente se lo dijo ella, con expresiva sinceridad en sus ojos, que nunca engañaban. When the Dauphins were left alone, Jacinta dealt with her husband in her own way; she was so right, so firm, and valiant that he could hardly retaliate, his petty tricks becoming mere laughable, impotent weapons against the truth that flowed from the lips of the wronged wife. She made him tremble with her steely judgements, and it was no longer easy for the clever gentleman to triumph over that tender soul whose dialectics had usually weakened under the force of his affection. Then it became evident that the continuity of Jacinta's suffering had destroyed her respect for her husband, and the ruins of that respect had destroyed some of her love, and then the greater part of it, until it was finally reduced to such miserable proportions that it was scarcely visible. The ungraceful position in which Santa Cruz found himself inflamed his pride all the more; and with this disdain – no longer disguised, but now real and effective – that his wife was showing him the poor man suffered horribly, because it was very sad for him that his blows could no longer hurt his victim. To be a nobody to his wife, not to find in her that periodic refuge to which he was accustomed, put him in a very bad frame of mind. And his confidence in the security of that refuge was such that, upon losing it, he experienced for the first time in his life that terrible sadness produced by irreparable losses and the emptiness of life; a sensation which in the prime of youth equals aging; when surrounded by one's family, equals loneliness; which convinces one that the best of life is behind, leaving one's back turned on the horizons that were once ahead. She told him so clearly, with expressive sincerity in her eyes, which never deceived.

Some people might think that this “furiously happy” movement is just an excuse to be stupid and irresponsible and invite a herd of kangaroos over to your house without telling your husband first because you suspect he would say no since he’s never particularly liked kangaroos. And that would be ridiculous because no one would invite a herd of kangaroos into their house. Two is the limit. I speak from personal experience. My husband, Victor, says that “none” is the new limit. I say he should have been clearer about that before I rented all those kangaroos.

I think God gave you a perfect, intelligent, handsome husband and he had to even the score by giving you the most horrible mother-in-law imaginable so everyone wouldn’t think he was choosing favorites

Before we were married, we attended pre-marital counseling at a Mennonite church in Ohio. Eventually, I trusted our pastor and his wife enough to confide in them about Uncle Abe and Aden. I went to their office alone where I poured out my story for the first time, relieved to share my secret. The pastor’s wife looked at her husband with such sad eyes, and for a moment, I thought she understood me. “Oh, those poor men,” she said. “They must feel horrible about what they did.” The pastor nodded. “You must forgive them.” I thanked them and left, but inside I was seething. Even so, at the time, I thought they were right and took their advice. Now, all these years later, I wonder: How many women had shared similar abuse with their pastors? How many women heard those words?

When someone is attacked, we call it assault. As horrible as that is, what is even worse is torment. Torment is when you’re assaulted and you cannot escape, like prisoners of war and those who are held captive in slavery. For some women, their version of slavery and captivity in torment is called marriage. Tragically, some women settle for this kind of life. Or perhaps even worse, they tell their church leadership, only to be told that when Paul said our bodies belongs to our spouses, it means the wife is basically a piece of property. Some tragic studies report that an assaulted wife who goes to her church instead of the police or a licensed counselor will be less likely to get ongoing emotional help and legal protection, but rather will return to the abuse in the name of submission—as if the abuse is what God had in mind for her. Anytime a husband or church leader demands the wife obey the Bible without doing the same for the husband, he is sanctioning abuse. Any professing Christian man who assaults his wife is a heretic preaching a false gospel with his life. A man is to love his wife as Christ loves the church. Jesus’ relationship with the church is not one of rape, violence, abuse, and degradation. There is no place for any assault—including sexual assault—in any marriage.

His voice is so kind and gentle, I start to wonder if maybe I imagined the whole thing. After all, he’s been such a good husband. Would he really lock me up in a room and make me pull out my hair? That doesn’t sound like something he would do. Maybe I just have a fever and this is all a horrible hallucination? No. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. I know it was.

Praskovya took great pride in biting things back. Convinced that her husband was a horrible man who had made her life a misery, she was now sorry for herself. And the sorrier she became, the more she hated her husband. She began to wish he was dead, and then not to, because without him there would be no income.

Julie had recently told Matt that she felt horrible for dying on him, and the next day he sent her a note with a lyric from the musical The Secret Garden. In it, the ghost of a beloved wife asks her grieving husband if he could forgive her, if he could hold her in his heart and “‘find some new way to love me/Now that we’re apart.’” Matt had written, Yes. He added that he didn’t believe that people disappeared but that something in us was eternal and survived. Walking to my car that day, I hear Julie’s question: Will you think about me? All these years later, I still do. I remember her most in the silences.

Her mother couldn’t forgive him for being a horrible husband, but Riley couldn’t hate him for being the best dad she’d ever known.

It was another beautiful crisp, clear day, in what has always been considered picturesque Überlingen. The village was internationally known for its traditional beauty and was a popular vacation destination long before the war. As usual, there was just a hint of a breeze off the brilliantly blue lake and I could understand why so many Germans would come here for their urlaub or vacation. Having a little money left over from the last check sent by Mina, I found a nice room for the three of us, overlooking the lake at a classy resort hotel. For the next two days we lived quite comfortably in our new surroundings. In fact we even enjoyed a real hot bath, something that I had almost forgotten. As I soaked in the warm, sudsy water I could hear my children laughing and giggling in the next room, and longed for a time when the world would be at peace again. During the day we walked along the shore of the beautiful Bodensee, but in the back of my mind, I knew that this was nothing more than a horrible illusion and couldn’t last; besides I had to find work. In reality, the children and I would have to settle in somewhere so that we could find some sort of stability. It was also important that they enroll in a school again. That “somewhere” turned out to be a room in a house owned by two old ladies who took in boarders. The old house faced the railroad station and was quaint in the old world style. It fit right into the picture postcard appearance of romantic Überlingen. Erika, the younger of the two ladies, was very kind and helpful to me. There were also two other tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Koestoll. He was German and she seemed to be what could be considered a typical French housewife, who devoted her life to her German husband. Herr Koestoll, was old and feeble and they sustained themselves on a very small pension. In fact it was so bad that he couldn’t even afford shoes. However their happiness didn’t seem to depend on money. I grew very fond of them for the short time that we knew each other.

the suit, if there is one, we still lose because of the publicity.” I was scarcely hearing a word of it. Horrible images were playing crazily inside my mind. The 911 call, the fact it was aborted, made me see it. I knew what happened. Lori Petersen was exhausted after her ER shift, and her husband had told her he would be in later than usual that night. So she went to bed, perhaps planning to sleep just awhile, until he got home—as I used to do when I was a resident and waiting for Tony to come home from the law library at Georgetown. She woke up at the sound of someone inside the house, perhaps the quiet sound of this person’s footsteps coming down the hallway toward the bedroom. Confused, she called out the name of her husband. No one answered. In that instant of dark silence that must have seemed an

The two wars that I have participated in were not horribly fascinating like the devil-protected, fiery gates at all. Rather, war is unspeakably disgusting. War is seeing poorly trained American boys committing atrocities—savagely cutting the ears off of injured enemy soldiers. It is stopping them and then wondering about being shot in the back. War is a young husband with his privates blown away and begging you for a grenade and you are tempted to give him one. War is the elderly, half-crazed peasant suffering from “interrogation wounds” lying in the mud beside his dead wife who had been sexually assaulted because he would not tell secrets that he probably did not possess. War is to see an American Marine cut in two by machine gun bullets; seeing him writhing in the dirt, trying to pull his own intestines out of the black, gritty sand and shove them back into the cavity that was his abdomen while pleading with his eyes for you to come out in front of the lines and help him; war is seeing that tortured silent plea just after seeing two of his buddies try, but be killed immediately by sinister, hissing sniper fire from nowhere. War is a young man, your own brother (say), with half his face shot away, while he is choking and drowning in his own vomit as it pulsates out of his throat. This is war. To veil it with the word, “hell,” is a manipulative lie, like calling it “heaven.” Face it; be able to discuss it for what it is—horrible death over and over—so that we are truly motivated to stop it.

A woman accompanied her husband to the doctor’s office. After his very thorough checkup, the doctor sent the husband into the waiting area and called the wife into his office for a confidential assessment. In a concerned tone, he said, “Your husband is suffering from a severe disease combined with horrible stress. It looks as though he may die soon unless you commit to the following actions: Each morning fix him a full, warm, healthy breakfast. Always be in a good mood. Be constantly pleasant to make sure he doesn’t feel any additional stress. Make him a nice lunch, and for the next year really try to go overboard and cook his favorite meals for dinner. Don’t burden him with household chores; he can’t handle the additional pressure. Don’t discuss your problems with him; it will only increase the tension. And most importantly, try to satisfy his every physical desire. If you can do this for the next ten to twelve months, I’m confident your husband will fully regain his health.” On the way home, the husband asked, “So, what did the doctor say to you?” His wife paused for a long time and then responded, “He said you are going to die.

I stayed hidden, Hunter. She screamed and screamed and screamed for help! And I did nothing. Nothing!” Tears burned in Hunter’s eyes. He hunched his shoulders around her. “You were a child.” “A coward, I was a coward!” A horrible, tearing sob erupted from her. She slid her arms around his neck and buried her face against the side of his throat. “That’s what I can’t forget! Hiding down there, hearing her scream. Oh, why didn’t I do something?” “You would be dead, Blue Eyes. The Comanches would have killed you--just as slowly, eh? One small girl against many braves? You could do nothing.” “I could have died with some dignity!” “Not with dignity--with great pain. You are no coward.” “Oh, yes, I am! Look at me! I’m terrified to let you, my husband, touch me. You’ve been so kind to me and Amy. I should’ve overcome these feelings! And I haven’t! I don’t know why you even want me!” A sad smile twisted his mouth as he recalled how she had walked out alone to face a hundred Comanches, one small woman against an army. “You make a smile inside me, that is why I want you. The way a man wants his wife.

When I heard Toni’s calm soothing tone, I said, “Aha! Your words are telling me you understand, but your tone is telling me to calm down. There is nothing so infuriating as being told to calm down when you’re angry.” Sarah, another mom in the group, immediately agreed. “Those are two words my husband is never allowed to say to me. If he dares, I will rip his head off!” “Imagine this. You call me and say, ‘What a horrible day. The kids were totally hyper and it was pouring rain

Paul’s not just interesting for religious reasons. He’s one of the most interesting men in history, even in a secular sense. He grew up a Pharisee and when Christianity was blooming he was one of the persecutors. Modern Christians don’t talk about how evil he really was in his persecutions. He would routinely torture and execute Christians. One of his favorite things to do was torture them to the point that they’d almost pass out and then tell them to renounce Christ. But he was also highly intelligent. He understood that most Christians would rather become martyrs than do that. So he would stop torturing them and bring in their wives and make the husbands watch as he tortured them. He knew most men couldn’t tolerate that. “But a single experience on a road changed him. For the rest of his life, he gave up all his possessions and just travelled from town to town, preaching love and peace until his death. He was hated and beaten and tortured himself because of his past, but he endured it all because he knew change was possible. People might have horrible inclinations, but they can change.

The Catholic Church’s policy of blaming women and sex for the ills of the world came to full fruition in the late Middle Ages and on into the Renaissance. At minimum, hundreds of thousands of innocent women and men were hunted down, tortured horribly, reduced to physical, social, and economic wreckage, or burnt at the stake for being “witches”. The Catholic Church, so obsessed with it’s paranoid, irrational, illogical, and superstitious fantasies, deliberately tortured and executed human beings for a period of three hundred years. All this carnage, due to the Church's fear of learning, kept Europe in the throws of abysmal ignorance for a thousand years. What has been lacking in the world since the fall of the ancient world is a logical view of the godhead. To the Greek and Roman mind the gods were utilitarian; that is they offered convenient place to appreciate human archetypes. Sin and redemption from sin had nothing to do with the gods. The classic Greek and Roman gods did not offer recompense in life nor a heavenly afterlife as reward. Rather morality was determined by your service to humanity whether it was in the form of philosophy, science, art, architecture, engineering, leadership, or conquest. In this way humanity could live up to great potential instead of wasting their energy on worship, and false promises For almost a thousand years after the fall of Rome the Catholic Church’s control of society and law guaranteed that woman’s position was degraded to that of a second class citizen, far below the ancient Roman standard. Every literary reference depicts women as inferior, unworthy of inheritance, foolish, lustful and sinful. The Church ordained wife beating and encouraged total obedience to fathers and husbands. Women generally could not own land, join a guild, nor earn money like a man. Despite all this, a series of events unfolded; the crusades, rebirth of classical ideas, the printing press, the Reformation, and the Renaissance, all of which began to move womankind forward. VALENTINES DAY CARDS The Lupercalia festival of the New Year became an orgiastic carnival. A lottery ceremony ensued where men chose their sexual partners by choosing small bits of paper naming each woman present. Later the Christians, trying to incorporate and tame this sexual festival substituted the mythical saint Valentine; and ‘the cards of lust’ evolved into the valentine cards we exchange today.

Young people need looking after,” she said. “Think of that beautiful boy Galois. People felt there was something secret in his character. They were right. The secret was mathematics. His father a suicide. His own death a horrible farce. Dawn in the fields. Caped and whiskered seconds. Sinister marksman poised to fire.” I need all my courage to die at twenty. “Then there was Abel, not much older, desperately poor, Abel in delirium, hemorrhaging. So often mathematical experience consists of time segments too massive to be contained in the usual frame. Lives overstated. Themes pursued to extreme points. Adventure, romance and tragedy.” I will fight for my life. “Look at Pascal, who rid himself of physical pain by dwelling on mathematics. He was just a bit older than you when he constructed his mystic hexagram. The loveliest aspect of the mystic hexagram is that it is mystic. That’s what’s so lovely about it. It’s able to become its own shadow.” Keep believing it. “The tricky thing about mathematical genius,” she said, “is that its sources are so often buried. Galois for one. Ramanujan for another. No indication anywhere in their backgrounds that these boys would one day display such natural powers. Figures jumping out of sequence. Or completely misplaced.” (...) “Numbers have supernatural harmonies, according to Hermite. They exist beyond human thought. Divine order through number. Number as absolute reality. Someone said of Hermite: ‘The most abstract entities are for him like living creatures.’ That’s what someone said.” “People invented numbers,” he said. “You don’t have numbers without people.” “Good, let’s argue.” “I don’t want to argue.” “Secret lives,” she said. “Dedekind listed as dead twelve years before the fact. Poncelet scratching calculations on the walls of his cell. Lobachevski mopping the floors of an old museum. Sophie Germain using a man’s name. Do I have the order right? Sometimes I get it mixed up or completely backwards. (...) “Tell me about your mathematical dreams.” “Never had one.” “Cardano did, born half dead, his inner life a neon web of treachery and magic. Gambler, astrologer, heretic, court physician. Schemed his way through the algebra wars.” “Can I see the baby?” “Ramanujan had algebraic dreams. Wrote down the results after getting out of bed. Vast intuitive powers but poor education. Taken to Cambridge like a jungle boy. Sonja Kowalewski wasn’t allowed to attend university lectures. We both know why. When her husband died she spent days and days without food, coming out of her room only after she’d restored herself by working on her mathematics. Tell me, was it Kronecker who thought mathematics similar to poetry? I know Hamilton and many others tried their hands at verse. Our superduper Sonja preferred the novel.

If you were married to a man nearer to your own age, a marriage of equals—” “There is no such thing!” she cried. “A woman is always less than a man in the eyes of the world, and nothing at all in the eyes of the law and the church. A wife does not exist in her own stead, she is the property of her husband, her only purpose to provide him with children, if she can, and to ensure his comfort. To be subsumed like that… it is horrible, Laurence.

Franklin and G were playing against Derrick and Erick in solitaire.  Derrick looked over at Erick and then they bid their hands.  The game went on and Derrick and Erick were beating them horribly. 

What is your name?" he asked softly. She winced, knowing what was to come, "Calpurnia." She closed her eyes again, embarrassed by the extravagant name- a name with which no one but a hopelessly romantic mother with an unhealthy obsession with Shakespeare would have considered saddling a child. "Calpurnia." He tested the name on his tongue. "As in, Caesar's wife?" The blush flared higher as she nodded. He smiled. "I must make it a point to better acquaint myself with your parents. That is a bold name, to be sure." "It's a horrible name." "Nonsense. Calpurnia was Empress of Rome- strong and beautiful and smarter than the men who surrounded her. She saw the future, stood strong in the face of her husband's assassination. She is a marvelous namesake.

In a few days she came back to me and said, “Mr. Moody, I understand all about that theater business now. I went the other night. There was a large party at our house, and my husband wanted us to go, and we went; but when the curtain lifted, everything looked so different. I said to my husband, ‘This is no place for me; this is horrible. I am not going to stay here, I am going home.’ He said, ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself. Everyone has heard that you have been converted in the Moody meetings, and if you go out, it will be all through fashionable society, I beg of you don’t make a fool of yourself by getting up and going out.’ But I said, ‘I have been making a fool of myself all of my life.’” Now, the theater hadn’t changed, but she had got something better and she was going to overcome the world. “They

No, don't speak! Say nothing! Your voice wakes terrible memories - memories of things that made me love you - memories of words that made me love you - memories that now are horrible to me. And how I worshipped you! You were to me something apart from common life, a thing pure, noble, honest, without stain. The world seemed to me finer because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived. And now - oh, when I think that I made of a man like you my ideal! the ideal of my life!

It is related of Buonaparte, that he one day rebuked a French lady for busying herself with politics. "Sire," replied she, "in a country where women are put to death, it is very natural that women should wish to know why." And, dear sisters, in a country where women are degraded and brutalized, and where their exposed persons bleed under the lash-- where they are sold in the shambles of "negro brokers"-- robbed of their heard earnings-- torn from their husbands, and forcibly plundered of their virtue and their offspring; surely in such a country, it is very natural that women should wish to know "the reason why"-- especially when these outrages of blood and nameless horror are practiced in violation of the principles of our Constitution. We do not, then, and cannot concede the position, that because this is a political subject women ought to fold their hands in idleness, and close their eyes and ears to the "horrible things" that are practiced in our land. The denial of our duty to act is a bold denial of our right to act; and if we have no right to act, then may we well be termed "the white slaves of the North"-- for like our brethren in bonds, we must seal our lips in silence and despair.

I felt like I had no more stories, no more speeches, and no more “rah-rah” in me. I decided to level with the team and see what happened. I called an all engineering meeting and gave the following speech: “I have some bad news. We are getting our asses kicked by BladeLogic and it’s a product problem. If this continues, I am going to have to sell the company for cheap. There is no way for us to survive if we don’t have the winning product. So, I am going to need every one of you to do something. I need you to go home tonight and have a serious conversation with your wife, husband, significant other, or whoever cares most about you and tell them, ‘Ben needs me for the next six months.’ I need you to come in early and stay late. I will buy you dinner, and I will stay here with you. Make no mistake, we have one bullet left in the gun and we must hit the target.” At the time, I felt horrible asking the team to make yet another big sacrifice. Amazingly, I found out while writing this book that I probably should have felt good about it. Here’s what Ted Crossman, one of my best engineers, said about that time and the launch of the aptly named Darwin Project many years later: Of all the times I think of at Loudcloud and Opsware, the Darwin Project was the most fun and the most hard. I worked seven days a week 8 a.m.–10 p.m. for six months straight. It was full on. Once a week I had a date night with my wife where I gave her my undivided attention from 6 p.m. until midnight. And the next day, even if it was Saturday, I’d be back in the office at 8 a.m. and stay through dinner. I would come home between 10–11 p.m. Every night. And it wasn’t just me. It was everybody in the office. The technical things asked of us were great. We had to brainstorm how to do things and translate those things into an actual product. It was hard, but fun. I don’t remember losing anyone during that time. It was like, “Hey, we gotta get this done, or we will not be here, we’ll have to get another job.” It was a tight-knit group of people. A lot of the really junior people really stepped up. It was a great growing experience for them to be thrown into the middle of the ocean and told, “Okay, swim.” Six months later we suddenly started winning proofs of concepts we hadn’t before. Ben did a great job, he’d give us feedback, and pat people on the back when we were done.

The man's horrible curses; the howls of the dogs in the cellar; the wailing of the puppies in cages ; the sight of the blood and the torture; the shrieks of the animal that he kicked or beat, or forced into some wretched hole too small for it to turn in; the sad filmy eyes of the poor birds sitting moping with their feathers all in disarray; the piteous terrors of the woman every time her husband's savage glance lit on her, as though with every look she feared a blow,—all this was more dreadful to me than I can ever describe.

Then I sat in my dark office and I saw the weak flesh and the strong mind passing before me, as if in a diorama, like a husband and wife who hate each other, and I also saw the strong flesh and the weak mind pass by arm in arm, another model couple, and I saw them stroll around a park like the Parque de la Ciudadela (although sometimes it was more like the Gianicolo near the Piazzale Giuseppe Garibaldi), weary yet unwearying, at the pace of cancer patients or prostate sufferers, well dressed, haloed in a kind of horrible dignity, and the strong flesh and the weak mind went from right to left and the weak flesh and the strong mind went from left to right, and each time they crossed paths they acknowledged each other but didn't stop, out of politeness or because they knew each other from other walks, if only slightly, and I thought: my God, talk, talk, speak to each other, dialogue is the key to any door, ex abundantia cordis os loquitur, but the weak mind and the strong mind only nodded, and perhaps their consorts did no more than bow their eyelids (eyelids don't bow, Toni Melilla told me one day, but how wrong he was! of course they bow, eyelids can even kneel), proud as bitches, the weak flesh and the strong flesh, steeped together in the crucible of fate, if you'll permit me the expression, an expression that means nothing but is as sweet as a bitch lost on the mountainside.

marriage.” “Aye.” “I thought you were dead.” He stared ahead, silent, not turning toward her. His long, thick hair curled, hiding his face from her. “It’s for the best.” She wanted to tell him it wasn’t even close to the best. It was a tragic mistake, and she feared her growing hate for her husband would poison the child inside her. As if the baby read her thoughts, it just then kicked hard in her belly. But shame more than loyalty kept her silent. She didn’t want him to know how much she despised and feared her husband. “Won’t you even look at me?” she asked. “No.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Am I such a horrible person, Jimmy, that you can’t even look at me?” “Go away, Claire.” All that they’d shared. She’d given him her innocence. She’d protected secrets for him. Even when Robert pressed, even when he hit her, she’d not betrayed Jimmy. Frustration crowded its way past the sadness and guilt. She crossed the room toward him and laid her hand on his shoulder. He flinched and stepped away. “I won’t let you just toss me aside as if I were nothing. We

The hospital parking garage is empty when I leave. It’s three-thirty in the morning. I was with my client for nearly seven hours, helping her deliver a beautiful baby boy that she and her husband named Zeppelin. It’s horrible. He’s only hours old and already I’m imagining him being made fun of at school. But no one asked for my opinion. The husband, Matt, is an amateur guitar player and a diehard fan of ’70s rock. They’d made up their minds weeks ago.

Don’t grieve for me!” He glanced about the audience, brows high. “No? No one? The truth is, at my best, I’ve been a barely adequate king. My father’s son, I daresay. Though allow me to take just a little pride in my victory against the odds at Stoffenbeck. Unfortunate timing, to take the throne with not one but two bloody revolts on the way, but that’s no excuse, really. There’s always something horrible on the way, after all. You’ll see. Not that I bear any of you ill will, you understand. Ill will is too heavy a thing to carry through life, let alone up onto a scaffold, and it’s useless in a fight in any case.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the executioner wrap his hands around the lever. “Well! I think I’m being given the signal to finish up. To my sister, Savine…” He grinned over at her. The way he used to, when they were together, in Sworbreck’s office. When he had just thought of the best joke. One he knew she would love. That was how he wanted her to think of him. As he had been. As they had been. “I take some comfort in knowing you’ll be a far better ruler than I ever was. We have had our differences, but you remain the woman I most admire. And, let’s be honest, the only one I’ve ever loved.” He was gratified to see a tear slide down her cheek. It was not as if it had all been worth it, for one tear, but it was something. He grinned at the Lord Regent. “To her husband, Leo dan Brock, I can only say… how’s your leg?” He gave one last chuckle, and it became a sigh. “Let’s get on with it,” he said. There was a clatter as the trap dropped open.