Hurricanes A Memoir Quotes

Life is a hurricane, and we board up to save what we can and bow low to the earth to crouch in that small space above the dirt where the wind will not reach. We honor anniversaries of deaths by cleaning graves and sitting next to them before fires, sharing food with those who will not eat again. We raise children and tell them other things about who they can be and what they are worth: to us, everything. We love each other fiercely, while we live and after we die. We survive; we are savages.

In the frantaic world of today, with everything in a ceaseless uproar like a forest in a hurricane, it's a good thing to see that your roots go a long way down.

Success comes from saying “Fuck it. I ain’t through just yet” and then giving it another go. Resiliency is what breeds success.

Kissinger would probably be outraged even if he reread his own memoirs, on the grounds that they are not favorable enough.

and the University of Pennsylvania, he penned a memoir of his time in America. Shortly after marrying the twenty-eight-year-old Marie Brigitte Plunkett,

The classroom gradually filled up with our other roommates, but one bed remained unclaimed, heightening the air of mystery surrounding its future occupant. Then, suddenly, the door crashed open and into the room strode a human hurricane—a sturdy, confident fellow who greeted everyone with great cheer and a ferocious hug. He was almost four years older than me. He introduced himself to me as Brian Blessed. He was not yet the globally renowned actor, mountaineer, adventurer, and star of TV shows, stage musicals, and movies as disparate as Blackadder, Cats, Flash Gordon, and I, Claudius. But I could tell instantly that he was a one-off; they broke the mold when they made Brian. Like Norman and me, he, too, was of humble origin, from the South Yorkshire mining town of Mexborough. I was beginning to feel more comfortable by the minute.

BARRY GIFFORD, Author of "Wild at Heart", on DANGEROUS ODDS by Marisa Lankester: "Marisa Lankester's unique chronicle of high crimes and low company is as wild a ride as any reader is likely to be taken on. She was the lone woman in the eye of a predatory hurricane that blew across continents and devastated countless lives. That she survived is testament to her brains and bravery. The old-timers who invented violence as a second language contended that nothing is deadlier than the female, to cross her was to buck dangerous odds, and this book tells you why." Film "Wild at Heart" won Palme D’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, Film by David Lynch

assessing Ronald Reagan. There are so many basic questions that even his friends cannot quite figure out, such as (to start with the most basic one): Was he smart? From the brilliant-versus-clueless question flows even more complex ones. Was he a visionary who clung to a few verities, or an amiable dunce who floated obliviously above facts and nuances? Was he a stubborn ideological coot or a clever negotiator able to change course when dealing with Congress and the Soviets and movie moguls? Was he a historic figure who stemmed the tide of government expansion and stared down Moscow, or an out-of-touch actor who bloated the deficit and deserves less credit than Gorbachev for ending the cold war? The most solidly reported biography of Reagan so far—indeed, the only solidly reported biography—is by the scrupulously fair newspaperman Lou Cannon, who has covered him since the 1960s. Edmund Morris, who with great literary flair captured the life of Theodore Roosevelt, was given the access to write an authorized biography, but he became flummoxed by the topic; he took an erratic swing by producing Dutch, a semifictionalized ruminative bio-memoir, thus fouling off his precious opportunity. Both Garry Wills in his elegant 1987 sociobiography, Reagan’s America, and Dinesh D’Souza in his 1997 delicate drypoint, Ronald Reagan, do a good job of analyzing why he was able to make such a successful connection with the American people.

But we have, if not our understanding, our own experience, and it feels to me sealed, inviolable, ours. We have a last, deep week together, because Wally is not on morphine yet, because he has just enough awareness, just enough ability to communicate with me. I’m with him almost all day and night- little breaks, for swimming, for walking the dogs. Outside it snows and snows, deeper and deeper; we seem to live in a circle of lamplight. I rub his feet, make him hot cider. All week I feel like we’re taking one another in, looking and looking. I tell him I love him and he says I love you, babe, and then when it’s too hard for him to speak he smiles back at me with the little crooked smile he can manage now, and I know what it means. I play music for him, the most encompassing and quiet I can find: Couperin, Vivaldi, the British soprano Lesley Garret singing arias he loved, especially the duet from Lakme: music of freedom, diving, floating. How can this be written? Shouldn’t these sentences simply be smithereened apart, broken in a hurricane? All that afternoon he looks out at us though a little space in his eyes, but I know he sees and registers: I know that he’s loving us, actively; if I know nothing else about this man, after nearly thirteen years, I know that. I bring all the animals, and then I sit there myself, all afternoon, the lamps on. The afternoon’s so quiet and deep it seems almost to ring, like chimes, a cold, struck bell. I sit into the evening, when he closes his eyes. There is an inaudible roaring, a rush beneath the surface of things, beneath the surface of Wally, who has now almost no surface- as if I could see into him, into the great hurrying current, that energy, that forward motion which is life going on. I was never this close to anyone in my life. His living’s so deep and absolute that it pulls me close to that interior current, so far inside his life. And my own. I know I am going to be more afraid than I have ever been, but right now I am not afraid. I am face to face with the deepest movement in the world, the point of my love’s deepest reality- where he is most himself, even if that self empties out into no one, swift river hurrying into the tumble of rivers, out of individuality, into the great rushing whirlwind of currents. All the love in the world goes with you.

One can only keep this type of life up for so long without cracking all over, like a broken car window, as you are still clinging to some adherence of your old shape, but you are shattered just the same.

In his memoirs the author Roald Dahl, who took part in the invasion as a Hurricane pilot, confirmed the impression that the Vichy French were unprepared. Sent to strafe the Vichy aerodrome at Rayak, he recalled, on his first low pass over the landing strip, being astonished to see ‘a bunch of girls in brightly coloured cotton dresses standing out by the planes with glasses in their hands having drinks with the French pilots, and I remember bottles of wine standing on the wing of one of the planes as we went swooshing over’.19 It was a Sunday morning and ‘the Frenchmen were evidently entertaining their girlfriends and showing off their aircraft to them, which was a very French thing to do in the middle of a war at a front-line aerodrome. Every one of us held our fire on that first pass over the flying field and it was wonderfully comical to see the girls all dropping their wine glasses and galloping in their high heels for the door of the nearest building . . . we destroyed five of their planes on the ground.’ But the hope

Even after a few years, the charm hadn't disappeared. I still enjoyed finding the first tulip of spring, seeing a buck race across my lawn, feeding cracked corn to birds, gathering kindling for the stove, walking on a blustery beach in December. I even enjoyed boarding up the windows in preparation for a hurricane or going out at night in a robe and pajamas to sweep falling snow off my car before it froze solid. I liked being exposed to the elements as I never was in New York. I think it's good to know the difference between what exists naturally and what is manmade. In cities we lose sight of these basic differences and, I believe, in the end, of ourselves.

Brains and beauty! Adorable Desiree is one of the smartest dogs around. She not only knows the cues for sit and wait, but can give high 5! born in 2003. Desiree is a healthy girl who was rescued from Hurricane Katrina. She loves playing with other dogs, but she's bossy with them, so it's a good idea to introduce the dogs before bringing her home.. She's not great with children, so needs an adult-only home. Desiree loves having activities and a job to do. She can jump really high fences, so you have to watch out for that! but if you're looking for an active, silky-soft dog, Desiree would love to meet you. She really needs her happy-ever-after!

Sam and I sat across from each other in silence for what seemed like forever until he finally spoke. “Deceit is an art form for most addicts. Lies close enough to the truth that they remain undetected—and lies so grandiose you’d never imagine a person could make them up—are the foundation of a house of cards. Pull out just one half-truth, and the whole thing collapses. “You have become an expert at lying, Stephen.” I winced as my guilt hung around my neck like an albatross. Finally, in a voice that sounded small, weak, and strange even to me, I said, “I had a dream, you know. I’m in the middle of a monster-sized whirlwind, and I can see myself, hear myself screaming for help with one hand barely above the fray and—” “Stephen,” Sam interrupted, “Only a fool stays put during a hurricane.

By the end of the tour, my view from center stage was one of apocalyptic beauty: wrung-out bodies, dirt kissed and pressed against the barricades; crowd surfers on their violent journeys; paradoxical mosh pits springing up like clear sky hurricanes, and my favorite sight of all . . . the jumping—endless and in unison as if the earth before our inconsequential everything had been wired to a current and triggered by the kick.

There was dissent in the aftermath. There was an opposition. There were lawyers and priests and activists, but for those of us documenting Duterte’s war, the protests were no more than a whisper in a hurricane.

The expanding wave of intense heat caused his exterior optical glass to explode, as the blast created its own hurricane force winds that propelled the monstrous fireball outward and skyward.

We who still live do what we must. Life is a hurricane, and we board up to save what we can and bow low to the earth to crouch in that small space above dirt where the wind will not reach.

BARRY GIFFORD, Author of "Wild at Heart" on DANGEROUS ODDS by Marisa Lankester: "Marisa Lankester's unique chronicle of high crimes and low company is as wild a ride as any reader is likely to be taken on. She was the lone woman in the eye of a predatory hurricane that blew across continents and devastated countless lives. That she survived is testament to her brains and bravery. The old-timers who invented violence as a second language contended that nothing is deadlier than the female, to cross her was to buck dangerous odds, and this book tells you why." Film "Wild at Heart" won Palme D’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, Film by David Lynch

Never, never believe any war will be smooth and easy, or that anyone who embarks on the strange voyage can measure the tides and hurricane he will encounter. The statesman who yields to war fever must realize that, once the signal is given, he is no longer the master of policy but the slave of unforeseeable and uncontrollable events.

Never, never believe any war will be smooth and easy, or that anyone who embarks on the strange voyage can measure the tides and hurricane he will encounter. The statesman who yields to war fever must realize that, once the signal is given, he is no longer the master of policy but the slave of unforeseeable and uncontrollable events.” I

Later, before we hugged good-bye, I asked my mother if she would mind if I wrote about her. She didn't hesitate a moment. "I don't give a shit. I'm old! I'm tired! I work too much!" The first of these claims is relative, the second hard to believe. In her late sixties, my mother has more energy than most college students I've met. She has more energy than most squirrels I've met. My brother Scott and I have a nickname for her: "Hurricane Marilyn." We use the nickname when we catch sight of her climbing out of her Prius just before a visit to one of our homes. We watch her cross the street, arms flailing, keys and receipts and gifts for the grandchildren spilling from multiple bags, a fast-moving storm front of narration and complaint and anecdote and fervent family affection--a Jewish mother of the first order-- and we shout, "Batten the hatches, everyone! Hurricane Marilyn's about to make landfall!

October 14, 1954 in Washington, D.C. seemed like a day like any other, until we were dismissed from school early because the teacher said there was a bad storm coming. The sky was turning quite dark as we hurried home. “Grandma, why did the teacher tell us to go straight home?” Grandma was trying to remain her calm self, but I know how much storms terrified her. Argentina has the most severe lightning and tornadoes in the world. She was leaning against the kitchen counter in the corner to steady herself. She always said she would love to go hide in a closet during thunderstorms. “It’s a hurricane they’ve named Hazel. Your mom will be home soon, I hope. She is out getting more food and supplies like candles and batteries in case we lose power and have no light. We’re so lucky to have a gas stove so we can still cook.” Dad came home early from his job with the Department of Agriculture in Beltsville, Maryland and Mom made it home just before the winds started. Dad chided Mom, and lessened the tension with, “Now don’t be getting any notion of taking a bath, Eva Beat-rice, there is no time for that!” Dad liked to change the pronunciation of her middle name, Beatrice, to Beatrice when he was teasing her. Mom always ran the water and took a bath during every storm. Dad always said, “Someday you’ll be flying through the air in the bathtub and they’ll find you blocks away!

In many situations, I’m expected to improvise and create with no warning and with complete chaos all around me, like building a house in a hurricane.

In the hands of the untalented, a clarinet is a lethal weapon. There are states that allow the sale of automatic assault weapons but ban the use of clarinets at school concerts. If played poorly, they are the sonic equivalent of Hurricane Katrina.

Similarly, there comes a time when one must recognize the futility of continuing the personal physical fight against cancer, when chemo is no longer a desirable option, when one should begin the process of saying goodbye and understand that death is not the enemy, but merely the next part of life. Determining that time is a deliberation that each of us must make with her own heart and soul. This is what Kathryn has done; she respects the force of nature acting on her body and has no delusions about somehow still overcoming; she made the cogent decision to evacuate ahead of the hurricane. To me, she has won her war against cancer so valiantly fought in the nonphysical realm. Yet