Hyne Quotes

You can serve high tea around the dining room table, but afternoon tea is more of a living room occasion, with everything brought in on a tray or a cart.

A Michigander can be every bit as prickly as a New Yorker, just not out loud. The Midwesterner’s credo: keep it to yourself.

The hour [...] can be anywhere between three and six o'clock in the afternoon. The general rule is that the earlier tea is served, the lighter the refreshments. At three, tea is usually a snack -- dainty finger sandwiches, petits fours, fresh strawberrries; at six, it can be a meal -- or "high" tea -- with sausage rolls, salads, and trifle.

They listened to the Beatles for most of the journey, and Hynes explained to Gackowska why Abbey Road was the band’s best record, and how Sgt. Pepper’s wasn’t really a concept album, no matter what anyone claimed to the contrary. Then he had to explain to Gackowska what a concept album was, and a B side, until pretty soon he felt about a hundred years old and was tempted to check himself into a nursing home.

A spark embedded in a body meant for the use of others, shining for no one in the dark.

Indeed, it was not unusual for the dais to be littered with panties and boxer shorts after one of Branwell's talks at the MLA.

Plotting is an organic, and wildly inefficient process of trial and error.

Perhaps what Aristotle and Seneca were saying boils down to the same infinite regress, a pair of facing mirrors in which my own image recedes into the distance, until I dissolve in the darkness: I do what I'm told because I'm a slave, and I'm a slave because I do what I'm told.

A slave digs his own pit and stands in it, peering over the edge at everyone else's feet and counting himself lucky whenever they don't step on him. That's what Aristotle thought, anyway.

But once violence has been expended and empire has taken some person, place, or thing as its own, it gives that person, place, or thing a new name and erases the old one. This new name also erases the history of that person, place, or thing, as if everything that came before never happened.

She submitted patiently to all the handling of Hynes, as if she knew there were no use making any protest – but each day, just before four o’clock in the afternoon, something waked in her, and the training of a lifetime called her. She would tear against the wires of her pen or dash at the fence and try to leap it. She had not forgotten.

If Christians are always fighting each other,' I say, 'why do they always say, “Peace be with you”?

So, unfortunately, my girl glimmers like nothing more than a deceitful, shiny obstacle to Gage.

I need her compliant, not cowering. She certainly doesn’t disappoint.

If he needed an answer about how much he'd changed, that provided it. He didn't want Fatima Hynes or any other nameless female with vacant eyes and an ample bosom. He didn't want anyone else, ever. He wanted Evelyn Marie Ruddick—and he'd be damned if he was going to let Neckcloth Alvington have her without a fight. And if there was one thing he knew how to do better than anyone else in London, it was how to fight dirty

An advertising man understands even more viscerally than an academic that the world is made of discourse, Pescecane argued; he understands in his bones that true power resides in the infinite manipulability of signs.

As Amani frantically diced the ingredients for her Pan seared Mahi-Mahi with Mango Salsa, she recalled her first meeting with him during a class he taught on the presentation of food and organization the previous year. Amani had been immediately drawn to the tall, serious Californian, and not just because of his looks. With dark wavy hair, strong features and the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen short of Paul Newman’s, David Spencer was everything Amani admired in a man, and then some. http://omadisonpress.com/romance/all-...

As a first-generation Ethiopian immigrant, Sheba had lived in Charleston since she turned five years of age. She was Ethiopian by birth, but American by preference. She had worked hard, studied and sacrificed plenty to get where she was today, no easy feat for someone who had just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday. According to her friends, Sheba was a beauty, though when she looked in the mirror, she saw inevitable flaws; her cheekbones were too pronounced, her mouth a little too wide, her nose with that perturbing slant to it. Still, she accepted compliments gratefully, especially from her roommate, Janelle. Janelle was the true beauty, Sheba thought, with dark ebony skin so smooth that she could be a walking ad for Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate.

... the Romans created a wasteland and called it a peace. The entire empire is a mosaic of rape and murder and bastardy and forced labour, of which I am only one insignificant, dull-coloured fragment, off to the side, at the very edge. Insignificant, perhaps, but also representative. I, too, am a product of rape, murder, bastardy, and forced labour. I am the empire in a nutshell.

While some of those judgments have been so vastly off base that they bounced right off me, one was more poignant than I’d been prepared for. He labeled me a chameleon, claiming I don’t know my own color, and maybe I don’t—not beyond the smoke and fire. Because that horror has charred every moment after, and the only way to breathe in smog is with a mask. What if I choke without it?

The only distinguishing characteristic of a literature professor at the millennium was that he or she wrote about other people's writing. Apart from that, the writing he wrote about didn't even need to be literature, or writing about literature, or even writing about writing about literature. He needed theory...In the unflickering glare, at the center of a severe perspective, Nelson suddenly felt the visceral truth of the world as text; he apperceived the fundamentally linguistic nature of reality. Everything was text, at every level of existence, all the way up from quarks to queer theory. Words arranged in lines; lines arrayed on pages; pages pressed together, bound, and trimmed in books; books arranged cover to cover along a shelf like the words in a line of text; shelves stacked one atop the other like lines of text on a page; rows of shelves pressed together, with just the barest passage for the reader, like the pages of a book.

Love is a lie someone made up a long time ago that everyone fell for.

Sometimes I dont know if a memory is a real thing or just some lie I'm tellin meself to help me get by.

Donna got the hairdryer goin and hey, maybe she's still in the tub and might just drop it by accident, put 'er out of 'er obvious misery.

Sad I s'pose, if I could bring meself to give a fuck.

That what we are now is just a collection of our blunders and our missteps, a mashed and battered accumulation of all our wrongs.

Meet Brian Hynes, a skilled Sr Process Manager based in Nashua, NH. He is a specialist in economics and finance, with a deep understanding of market dynamics and financial analysis. Brian's chosen career path in finance stems from his interest in leveraging economic principles to make informed investment decisions. His goal is to build a successful career in the finance industry, utilizing his expertise to optimize financial strategies and drive business growth.

I live in a library now, surrounded by the greatest works of literature in the world, but I’m here to tell you, reader, literature is not the foundation of civilization. The foundation of civilization is hot water. Civilization is plumbing.

This is the greatest mystery of all: even a bird can be a slave, but even in its cage, it sings.

I am just another author no one will remember, and this is just another book that changes nothing.

The truth is, I will never know, and neither will you. No touching final reunion will ever be performed in this play. Nothing will be revealed or redeemed or healed. The story will simply stop. The players will run out of text. They will walk off the stage in mid-scene or even in the middle of a line. Suddenly the main character - don't call him the hero - will simply be gone, and you will never see him again. He will die alone at some undetermined time in the future, out of sight of history. He will leave the world the way he came into it - alone, unknown, unrecorded. Nobody, not even he, knows where he came from, and nobody will know when and where he goes.

Maybe Sparrow can't walk as far as Chicken, but he can walk well enough to fill his belly. And maybe he can't fly as quickly as Swift, but he can fly fast enough to escape the fox and keep from being enslaved by man. Remember Sparrow. He's not excellent at anything, but just good enough at everything.

And to hear Euterpe tell it, most of the world was full of Monsters. And in my imagination, I associated most of these monsters with men.

Nothing human is alien to me, says the playwright, but men were alien to me, because I didn't think they were people. It never entered my imagination that I might grow up to become one of them.

If I am Sparrow, and Sparrow is me, is it possible that someday he will watch from his cage as I fly straight up into the blue, getting smaller and smaller, shrinking from the outline of a bird to a pair of wings to a squiggle to a dot, until I vanish?

I have lifted the rock and seen the worms writhing underneath.

So perhaps you're not surprised by the difference between the two faces each man wears - not tragedy and comedy, like the dramatist's masks, but banker and panting beast, scribe and trembling lover, tradesman and rutting animal.

And there, for the first time, in the beating silence of the air, during an endless moment that lasts for ever and no time at all, I finally become my secret name, my true name. I become Sparrow.

... if he climbs just a little higher, he can escape, he can sail away and never come back. He can be Sparrow for ever. But of course, he's forgotten about the string, the one they tied around his leg. He's pulled it as taut as he can, higher and higher, further and further away from the city below, but he can never pull it far enough. He can never pull it until it breaks.

Then Sparrow can't rise any more. The string pulls tight, his wings flail and lose their lift, and he plummets, spiralling back down the way he came, past the moon, through the stars. [] Something's reeling him in, and he's falling, falling, falling [] straight back into the bruised and tender flesh of the boy, alone on the bed.

Instead, I have the freedom of the unremarkable, the powerless, and the insignificant.

A broken tool myself, I live in a house full of unread books and broken tools, the irreparable detritus of a dead empire. I am the last Roman, the emperor of junk.

He said that all bad men are slaves, whatever their station in life, and that only the wise man is free, no matter how lowborn he is. But then he said that the vast majority of men are bad and only very few are wise, and so, worse luck, we're all slaves really, when you think about it.

Chief Levine sensed that Curley had run his course, but loyalty dictated that he throw the weight of Ward 14 behind his old hero. Hynes, nevertheless, was elected by a narrow margin. Particularly rankling to Levine was the fact that the “Youth for Hynes” campaign was led by a Jewish Harvard Law School graduate and native New Yorker, Jerome Lyle Rappaport.

Suddenly self-conscious, the pointer a withered tulip, as if under a spell.

I’d rather have a black-market king, who loves me with the untamable fury of Hell, than a devil who dresses in white, regards me below his career, and flashes his bewitching smile to hide his blackened soul.

No buy-in. If you win, you owe nothing for playing. The house will cover it. But if the dealer wins, you spend the rest of the night at Magie Noire with me.” Magie Noire is a membership-only sex club; yearly fees are fifty grand. Neither Ivy nor Rena have been there, but they’ve filled me in enough. “Fuck. No,” Liam growls at the same time Maddox chimes, “I want in on that action.

my eyes seek out Wells and Ivy. She whispers in his ear, and he winks at me. They both know how much I need this one night, freedom before I take one for the Carver team.

If I lose the best out of three, I’ll go to Magie Noire with you.” I pause for effect, slanting my head to the onyx-haired gentleman at the table. “And Maddox.” “And me.” Jax raises his hand. “That’s how we roll.” “Fine, Magic Jax. And you,” I allow. His pierced lips flourish into a boyish grin. “You’re on, pretty lady,” Cash says, shuffling the cards. “Three rounds of blackjack to determine the winner.

Sometimes, not losing is a win.

my eyes keep gravitating back to Liam’s. Different again. Still a midnight forest, opaque and luring. But there’s something else. Pandemonium.

The women who captivate men like us aren’t the pieces of ass you generally convince to drop their panties. They’re the pains in the ass—independent, doing-fine-without-you, crawl-under-your-skin women who fuck with your head.” “Yeah,” Ty interjects with a chuckle. “You’re so fucked, man.

A lost battle is not a lost war.

maybe,” he drawls, “you like thinking of her as a pretentious bitch because then if she rejects you, it’s about her character flaw, not about yours.

Things tightly held are generally those with the greatest value.

that final prove it challenge she dished out confuses me. That wasn’t about sex. That was about proving I’m more. Why does that matter to her? Why did it matter to me?

Celeste Carver and I would be a disaster. Explosive. In every imaginable way. Images of her detonating assail me—her whimpers and moans and bellows of ecstasy, the feel of her trembling in my arms, both of us accelerating until we crash in a unified shattering. Sweaty. Spent. Wrecked.

Fine,” he says, tone leery. “Make sure she keeps her date this week then.” That is a prime example of how the Chief is a royal asshole sometimes. My molars grind at the thought of sending her out with another man. At least it will be that name-not-worth-screaming loser this time. Dustin.

Until Wells, everyone I ever knew used me, stole from me, threw me away. Treated me like I was nothing.

I press myself into her back, letting my hands rest on the counter—my beer still clutched in one—and my arms bracket her in.

I may have peeked at her shampoo when she was locked in the room with Ivy earlier, in an effort to put a name to that honeysuckle aroma. It was a perfectly logical thing to investigate. I’m a researcher. Finding answers is in my blood. It’s what I do. Lunatic.

While I’m enchanted by this softer side of her, there’s still that matter of her playing me in the elevator to resolve. Payback’s a bitch, Ace.

you’re the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.” She tilts her head with a lopsided smile, the wisps of her hair grazing her collarbone. “That’s presumptuous. We’re not even there yet.” Leaning in close so my lips brush her ear, I slide my free hand across her lower back and tug her closer to me. “Not presumptuous, Ace. You’re easily the most stunning woman in any room.

To those who drown in silence but swim against the current for others. I see you.

Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise. —Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

There is no escaping choices. They swirl around us, lurking inside life lessons and simple mundane actions alike. Empowering? Sometimes. Exhausting? Definitely.

CELESTE

Eat the forbidden fruit or ignore the slithering snake licking at your neck. Never look back or turn to salt. Obey the king’s absurd edict or be devoured by lions for your convictions. No wonder children harbor so much anxiety—that was just first grade in Catholic school.

Having four guards is a bit overkill, but my father has been ridiculously overprotective this past year, ever since he discovered that Ivy and her husband, Wells, are two of the five leaders for KORT—the country’s most powerful cabal. It’s the same cabal that The Order—the secret society my father is a member of—serves, so his paranoia shouldn’t be newfound. It was an eye-opening period for us both. Up until then, I believed my father simply owned a successful home-development business. He does, but it’s also a front for shady dealings, whatever they may be.

Cee, with the right placement, a pawn gets promoted to a queen. And you know who calls checkmate more than anyone? The queen. You hold all the power, squirt. You just don’t know it.” My older brother, Ben, gifted me that perspective when I was fifteen.

While my family would never come out and say it, I’ve been raised as a pawn. A tool to achieve what they deem as greatness

They don’t see me as a pretty face with nothing to offer. They see me as a secret weapon, full of talents that can work in their favor, carrying on the honor of the Carver name.

That’s the truth, beautiful girl. It’s like wearing an elegant evening gown that only hints at your assets, as is expected from a cultivated lady, all the while going pantyless underneath. Never let them see, always keep them guessing, and play their game. When you finally reveal what you’re hiding beneath that plastic veneer they’ve forced you to craft, you’ll render them speechless long enough to seize it all.

Play their game. Hold the power. Be the pawn who becomes the queen and wins the whole damn battle.

Every move has a consequence. Every action, a reaction.

A woman who drops to her knees is a woman who can knock a man on his ass.

It’s like Liam Graves is on the other side of a pendulum I’m involuntarily attached to. My focus always swings to him.

Wells’s eyes are firmly planted on his wife in utter adoration, like always. It makes my insides twist with a longing I never felt until I saw them together last July. Their love is hard to look away from.

The truth is, I think about Liam Graves far more than I’d like.

Rena’s family owns La Lune Noire. I’ve yet to go, but it’s a resort, complete with all manner of scandalous seduction—covert corruption, gambling, and salacious debauchery. They cater to the wealthiest of the wicked. My alter ego is dying to experience all they offer, but the sophisticated guise I’m expected to tout thinks it’s best to avoid it.

You all deserve to have an epic love.

He steps closer—close enough that there’s a crackling, like the very molecules of the air are pulverized by whatever this energy is between us.

I feel years older than twenty-nine, but it’s a matter of perspective.

Then, do the right thing, goddammit. Get Celeste the hell out of your house and into the arms of someone who won’t put her life in danger. Someone who’s actually worthy of her.

My dress certainly displays my assets. And he took note of every single one. But when I was on that staircase, he wasn’t only regarding my sultry bends. He was entangling my soul, reeling it in for closer examination. Trying to dissect me in a way I’ve never experienced, which was unsettling. Disconcerting.

Her nails scrape into my scalp, her back bowed in pleasure, but that doesn’t prevent her from dropping a bomb. “This doesn’t change my plans. You know I still have to date those other guys, right?” Not even debatable. I sink my teeth into her nipple, my clipped, “Yep,” met with her sultry moan. “With the intent of marriage,” she tacks on, breathless. Never gonna happen. “Uh-huh.

You appeal to the broken girl inside me, not the woman I’m meant to be.

A last hurrah.” A last hurrah. I should love that answer. No strings. One night of sex with the vixen I’ve been dreaming about for seven fucking months.

By the end of the night, I’ll be the taste on your lips, the beating in your chest, the goddamn breath in your lungs. The goodbye you can’t bear.

He’s the kind of freedom I crave. Unapologetically him, even in the brashness. Floating through the weight of life like I long to do. And he listened—really listened. When he looked at me, I didn’t simply feel seen. I felt desired for the me no one knows. The me I’ve tried to suffocate.

Do it. Annihilate me until I’m catatonic,

Prepare to be wrecked.

I’ve got you. But you need to trust me.” I’m sure he simply means that in regard to our evening sexcapade, but it twists something inside me. I’m not in the habit of trusting people. But with Liam, on some level, I think I’ve trusted him for a while. Even when he was a jerk, he felt like a shield.

A dark angel,” he corrects, ashing the cigarette. He passes it to me as his plume of smoke billows out into the night. “They were cast out. I was three when my mother died. Between three and seventeen, I lived in nineteen foster homes, not counting temporary placements. At seventeen, I got signed off to join the Navy. Two years in, I met Wells. He was—don’t ever fucking repeat this to him—he was like a goddamn machine.

I’d never been so impressed in my life,” he says with such reverence that it radiates off him. “He rose so fast. He was exactly how he is now—always the best; a hard-ass, dominating every room. But behind closed doors, he cared. He asked questions, paid attention. Mentored. No one had ever done that for me.

The four of them would stick by me through anything—whether I fucked up, whether or not it was convenient. My blackened soul, my gray morals, my raging demons—none of it sends them packing. They own my shit, and I own theirs.” Belonging.

You’ve all been through a lot, but having each other is a gift.” Rooted in brokenness.

The intimacy of this night is seeping into my blood, rushing through me, swishing in my ears, so that all I can concentrate on is how no one has ever cared for me like this. Who knew something so tranquil could be so exhilarating?

A life without risk is flatlining, squirt. Don’t let ambitions or the allure of luxury and prestige rob you of the thrill a single moment can deliver. That’s all life really is—a string of moments. Make ’em good.

Then, do you. Keep taking pictures, Cee. You’ve got a great eye. Live thrilling moments and capture others.