I Hate Complications Quotes

...that's not why we broke up. I love it, I miss it, I hate to give it back to you, this complicated thing, it's why we stayed together

DAD: Why didn't you say this when it happened? ME: It's complicated. Don't they know that regret begets regret begets regret? DR. B: Vera, you need to answer the question. ME: Because I loved Charlie too much. DAD: Loved him? DR. B: Is that all? ME: Because I hated Charlie too much.

Shoes would interfere with her conversation, for she constantly addresses the ground under her feet. Asking forgiveness. Owning, disowning, recanting, recharting a hateful course of events to make sense of her complicity. We all are, I suppose. Trying to invent our version of the story. All human odes are essentially one, "My life; what I stole from history, and how I live with it.

The more I lived with Jan, the more I loved her, the more I made her miserable. It was a vicious cycle (page 209)……The more I loved her the more I hated her. And the more she loved me, the more I harmed myself (page 269).

I hate American simplicity. I glory in the piling up of complications of every sort. If I could pronounce the name James in any different or more elaborate way I should be in favour of doing it.

It didn't last, it wasn't clear for much longer, and that's why we broke up, but when I close this book and give it to you, I don't think about that, just us holding the book it our hands to buy it and take it here with us, because damn it Ed, that's not why we broke up. I love it, I miss it, I hate to give it back to you, this complicated thing, it's why we stayed together.

Committing to Nick, feeling safe with Nick, being happy with Nick, made me realize that there was a Real Amy in there, and she was so much better, more interesting and complicated and challenging, than Cool Amy. Nick wanted Cool Amy anyway. Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you? So that’s how the hating first began. I’ve thought about this a lot, and that’s where it started, I think.

I don't think it's an invisible chromosome, or the inability to get pregnant, or anything else, that makes people so cruel to transgender folks. I think what they hate is difference. What they hate is that the world is complicated in ways they can't understand. People want the world to be simple.

The movies make the brooding guy the hero – the guy with problems the guy who carries a gun, the gun with unresolved anger, the guy with a chip on his shoulder, the guy who’s a vampire – and they tell you that you can have the mythical happy ending with that same brooding guy. But in reality, the brooding guy is cranky. He doesn’t reply to emails. He doesn’t call. He’s only half there when you’re talking to him, and he doesn’t chase you when you run. You feel insecure all the time. You get needy and sad and you hate yourself got being needy. If you don’t know why he’s brooding, you’re shut out. And if you do know why he’s brooding, you’re still shut out. (Because he’s busy brooding.)

...I did hate those people...those false artists whose work consists of the poses they strike: saying outrageous things, cultivating complicated tastes and appetites, being artificial, irritating, unbearable. People who, in fact, take from art only what is false and external...

Investigate the faeries. Great. That was absolutely guaranteed to get complicated before I got any useful answers. If there was one thing faeries hated doing, it was giving you a straight answer, about anything. Getting plain speech out out of one is like pulling out teeth. Your own teeth. Through your nose.

Strangely, they seemed to like him, hold him in contempt, and fear him all at the same time. This confused me because I felt just about the same mixture of emotions for him myself. I had thought my feelings were complicated because he and I had such a strange relationship. But then, slavery of any kind fostered strange relationships. Only the overseer drew simple, unconflicting emotions of hatred and fear when he appeared briefly. But then, it was part of the overseer’s job to be hated and feared while the master kept his hands clean.

I hate it when things are unfinished.

I hated plans. They reminded me of annoying things like Zeus's once-a-century goal-setting meetings, or dangerously complicated attacks. Or Athena.

To be honest, I thought of you as an amateur - a spoiled, entitled, runaway princeling bent on revenge who would get caught and then complicate my elegant scheme. I figured the less you knew, the better." "I hate it when you sugarcoat things," Ash said.

You selfish bitch!" She had known for a long time that putting her needs above those of Adam's wife and children was indeed selfish. She had no real answer to the accusation thrown at her. "I'm sorry" she said, with her head in her hands. "you're sorry?" came her adversary's disbelieving reply. "I am. I'm sorry he married you when he was in love with me. I'm sorry I couldn't have loved someone else. I'm sorry your marriage is a joke and I'm sorry that I'm alone. I'm sorry for a lot of things - for you, for your kids, for me and for him. I spend most of my time being sorry." For a moment there was silence at the end of the line. "all you had to do was stay away" "if only I could have." tears escaped and raced down her cheeks. "I hate you!

Hate is the darkness, that's no good. And yet we've got to hate Fascists, and that's considered perfectly all right. How is that possible? It's because we hate them in the name of the light, I guess, whereas they hate only in the name of darkness. We hate hate itself, and for this reason our hate is better than theirs. But that's why it's more difficult for us. For them everything is very simple, but for us it's more complicated. We've got to become a little bit like them in order to fight them so we become a little bit unlike ourselves. But they don't have that problem; they can do away with us without any qualms. We first have to do away with something inside ourselves before we can do away with them. Not them; they can simply remain themselves, that's why they're so strong. But they'll lose in the end, because they have no light in them. The only thing is, we mustn't become too much like them, mustn't destroy ourselves altogether, otherwise they'll have won in the end...

because damn it Ed, that’s not why we broke up. I love it, I miss it, I hate to give it back to you, this complicated thing, it’s why we stayed together.

From the beginning I've searched out those writers unafraid to stir up the emotions, who entrust me with their darkest passions, their most indestructible yearnings, and their most soul-killing doubts. I trust the great novelists to teach me how to live, how to feel, how to love and hate. I trust them to show me the dangers I will encounter on the road as I stagger on my own troubled passage through the complicated life of books that try to teach me how to die.

Needle&Thread: Kite...how did everything change? My heart beats for you, my soul craves yours. During the Second Debt we shared everything. We were free. I hate this distance now. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. You give me nothing, but I see everything. Trust me. Come to me tonight. Let me show you I’m yours forever. This doesn’t have to be complicated. I love you. Love is simple, kind. Love is forgiveness. Can we forgive each other before it’s too late? Tears ran silently over my cheeks as I pressed send.

That's Collin."She panicked."He can't see you!" Don't tell me you're afraid of your own brother?"Staton seemed to think that was funny.She hated the smirk that crept over his face. She shoved him."You want Collin to kill you?Hide." That made him laugh louder."Kill me?" Stop it,"she warned him,or he'll hear you." You think I should be afraid of your brother?I'm immortal." Collin's heavy steps filled the downstairs hallway.Her heart raced.Why was life so complicated?

I could hate Vincent the king, who had slaughtered whatever family I had left, who had overseen the torture of my people, who had relentlessly killed and destroyed. But how could I hate Vincent, my father, who looked at me that way? My anger made everything certain and easy. My love made everything complicated and difficult. I allowed myself to be distracted.

And yes, I say, I do like girls. I don't pursue them, though, and there are a lot of reasons for that. It's gotten me in trouble before, but I also think I have ridiculously high standards because the whole dating, fooling around thing seems so complicated. And not in a good way. I hate obligations, and if you want to be with a girl, it's like you're expected to do certain things. And do them a certain way.

I believe contemplation shows us that nothing inside us is as bad as our hatred and denial of the bad. Hating and denying it only complicates our problems. All of life is grist for the mill. Paula D’Arcy puts it, “God comes to us disguised as our life.” Everything belongs; God uses everything. There are no dead-ends. There is no wasted energy. Everything

Why not?" he asked. "It's complicated," she replied. "Why?" After a pause she hesitatingly answered, "Because I hate you less now than I did before.

I think what they hate is difference. What they hate is that the world is complicated in ways they can’t understand.

I don't know how late it got. I probably fell asleep, but I don't remember. I cried so much that everything blurred into everything else. At some point she was carrying me to my room. Then I was in bed. She was looking over me. I don't believe in God, but I believe that things are extremely complicated, and her looking over me was as complicated as anything ever could be. But it was also incredibly simple. In my only life, she was my mom, and I was her son.

So…” I start. “I… You wanted me to stop by?” Just so we’re clear, he’s still melting my insides with a single look, and I’m still a babbling idiot who can’t form a sentence. Xavier moves closer to me, a single whiff of his cologne enough to make my knees buckle. “No,” he shocks me by saying. My jaw hangs limply. “I wanted you to come and stay,” he corrects, and a herd of murderous butterflies assault my stomach. “Stay tonight?” He moves closer again. “Forever,” he says unapologetically. I avoid his gaze. “Xav, I—” “Don’t fucking go, Vee.” He cuts to the chase, cupping my face in his hands without a single thought as to the possibility of people seeing us. “I know this is shitty, and complicated, and it’d be easier for you to get on that plane, but… I don’t want easy—fuck easy. I want you. I love you, Vee,” he croaks, pressing his forehead flush to mine. “Just… stay.

I'd always hated the word realistic. Or, more truthfully, I'd always hated the way people used the word realistic - as if it were a limitation, as if reality were something that conformed so severely to likelihood that surprising things could never, ever happen. From what I'd seen, reality was much more complicated than that. Sometimes it was remarkably predictable, but a lot of the time it didn't go the way anybody would expect. I didn't believe in using probabilities to rule out possibilities.

Claire hated to say it, but she knew the answer, in her heart. “Because he feels something for me, and he wanted to give me a chance to live. Like him. With him. But I refused.” Shane turned and looked at her, a blank expression on his face that turned quickly into . . . something else. Claire was glad Myrnin had gotten out while he still could. “Great,” he said. “I knew it.” “It’s not like that. He’s—” She shook her head in frustration. “It’s not like he’s in love with me or anything; it’s more complicated than that. I don’t even think he understands it, exactly.” “Yeah, he only loves you for your mind,” Shane said...

I that too often, women take pieces of themselves they have no reason to hate, and they carry those pieces around like failures. If enough women stopped apologizing, then maybe there'd be less of an expectation for us to always burn bright and stand still. Maybe our complications would become our backbones instead of our scarlet letters. Hannah, it's a relief to stand tall in my own body, rather than shrink because I'm not the woman someone else expected me to be.

I just figured you might want to make an exception for these particular feelings, bothersome though they may be, because they're about you." Angrboda stared at him, he stared back at her and, for once, he seemed to be absolutely serious. "What? I care for you as well," he said, "as much as I hate to admit it. Caring about things makes life for complicated doesn't it. Best not to care about anything at all in my opinion. And then you came along. I find it quite bothersome indeed.

Young people. I hate to break it to you, but literally nothing is complicated for young people. You just think it is.

I think what they hate is difference. What they hate is that the world is complicated in ways they can’t understand. People want the world to be simple.

I picked fights with them, because I was terrified of connecting with them.

Going somewhere?” Tamlin asked. His voice was not entirely of this world. I suppressed a shudder. “Midnight snack,” I said, and I was keenly aware of every movement, every breath I took as I neared him. His bare chest was painted with whorls of dark blue woad, and from the smudges in the paint, I knew exactly where he’d been touched. I tried not to notice that they descended past his muscled midriff. I was about to pass him when he grabbed me, so fast that I didn’t see anything until he had me pinned against the wall. The cookie dropped from my hand as he grasped my wrists. “I smelled you,” he breathed, his painted chest rising and falling so close to mine. “I searched for you, and you weren’t there.” He reeked of magic. When I looked into his eyes, remnants of power flickered there. No kindness, none of the wry humor and gentle reprimands. The Tamlin I knew was gone. “Let go,” I said as evenly as I could, but his claws punched out, imbedding in the wood above my hands. Still riding the magic, he was half-wild. “You drove me mad,” he growled, and the sound trembled down my neck, along my breasts until they ached. “I searched for you, and you weren’t there. When I didn’t find you,” he said, bringing his face closer to mine, until we shared breath, “it made me pick another.” I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to. “She asked me not to be gentle with her, either,” he snarled, his teeth bright in the moonlight. He brought his lips to my ear. “I would have been gentle with you, though.” I shuddered as I closed my eyes. Every inch of my body went taut as his words echoed through me. “I would have had you moaning my name throughout it all. And I would have taken a very, very long time, Feyre.” He said my name like a caress, and his hot breath tickled my ear. My back arched slightly. He ripped his claws free from the wall, and my knees buckled as he let go. I grasped the wall to keep from sinking to the floor, to keep from grabbing him—to strike or caress, I didn’t know. I opened my eyes. He still smiled—smiled like an animal. “Why should I want someone’s leftovers?” I said, making to push him away. He grabbed my hands again and bit my neck. I cried out as his teeth clamped onto the tender spot where my neck met my shoulder. I couldn’t move—couldn’t think, and my world narrowed to the feeling of his lips and teeth against my skin. He didn’t pierce my flesh, but rather bit to keep me pinned. The push of his body against mine, the hard and the soft, made me see red—see lightning, made me grind my hips against his. I should hate him—hate him for his stupid ritual, for the female he’d been with tonight … His bite lightened, and his tongue caressed the places his teeth had been. He didn’t move—he just remained in that spot, kissing my neck. Intently, territorially, lazily. Heat pounded between my legs, and as he ground his body against me, against every aching spot, a moan slipped past my lips. He jerked away. The air was bitingly cold against my freed skin, and I panted as he stared at me. “Don’t ever disobey me again,” he said, his voice a deep purr that ricocheted through me, awakening everything and lulling it into complicity.

It is complicated,’ they say. I am so sick of this response. Many people use it repeatedly to escape depth and confronting reality. They use it to take solace in the fact that they don’t know (or don’t wish to know) the ugly truth of what is happening right in front of their eyes. They reduce crimes, injustice, war, pain, hunger, rape, and everything that must be unpacked, dissected, and confronted to this: ‘It is complicated.’ They say this about COVID-19, too. Oh, how I have grown to hate this response. Every time I hear this statement from someone, it sounds like ‘I am a loser’ to my ears. ‘It is complicated’ is the favorite response of lazy brains that refuse to think and do. Oh, my friends, I insist it is not complicated. If you really want to know, it is not so complicated. However, if you are really looking for reasons and excuses to justify your silence, complicity, and to protect your self-interest, then you are absolutely right – it is complicated!

Do I feel empathy for Trump voters? That’s a question I’ve asked myself a lot. It’s complicated. It’s relatively easy to empathize with hardworking, warmhearted people who decided they couldn’t in good conscience vote for me after reading that letter from Jim Comey . . . or who don’t think any party should control the White House for more than eight years at a time . . . or who have a deeply held belief in limited government, or an overriding moral objection to abortion. I also feel sympathy for people who believed Trump’s promises and are now terrified that he’s trying to take away their health care, not make it better, and cut taxes for the superrich, not invest in infrastructure. I get it. But I have no tolerance for intolerance. None. Bullying disgusts me. I look at the people at Trump’s rallies, cheering for his hateful rants, and I wonder: Where’s their empathy and understanding? Why are they allowed to close their hearts to the striving immigrant father and the grieving black mother, or the LGBT teenager who’s bullied at school and thinking of suicide? Why doesn’t the press write think pieces about Trump voters trying to understand why most Americans rejected their candidate? Why is the burden of opening our hearts only on half the country? And yet I’ve come to believe that for me personally and for our country generally, we have no choice but to try. In the spring of 2017, Pope Francis gave a TED Talk. Yes, a TED Talk. It was amazing. This is the same pope whom Donald Trump attacked on Twitter during the campaign. He called for a “revolution of tenderness.” What a phrase! He said, “We all need each other, none of us is an island, an autonomous and independent ‘I,’ separated from the other, and we can only build the future by standing together, including everyone.” He said that tenderness “means to use our eyes to see the other, our ears to hear the other, to listen to the children, the poor, those who are afraid of the future.

Here I was with Barrons dead. Again. I knew he wasn’t really dead, or at least he wouldn’t be for long, but my grief was too fresh and my emotions too complicated. “How long until he—” I broke off, horrified to hear the catch of a sob in my voice. “Why do you give a fuck?” “I don’t, I mean, I just—shit!” I turned and beat at the wall with my fists. I didn’t care that my parents could hear the dull thud or that the wall shuddered beneath my blows. I didn’t care what Lor thought of me. I hated Barrons being dead. Hated it. Beyond reason. Beyond my understanding. I punched until Lor caught my bloody fists and pulled me away. “How long?” I demanded. “I want to know! Answer me or else!” He grinned faintly. “What, you gonna feed me bloody runes?” I scowled. “Do you guys tell each other everything?” “Not everything. Pri-ya sounded pretty fucking fascinating to me. Never did get all the details.

Complicated. I hated that word. To me, it sounded like an excuse. Whenever people, more specifically grown-ups, didn't want to explain something, they would always say, "It's complicated." Whatever. Why couldn't they just be straight up?

I half shrug and keep my voice level. "This is how we gain experience, both in this game and in life. We win some battles. We lose others. We learn and we keep moving." "I hate that life has gotten so complicated." I smile. "I'm not sure it was ever uncomplicated." Maddy shrugs. "I don't know. It was, at least, less complicated. It feels like everything is falling to pieces. And I don't know who I am without this game. I don't know where I can find other safe places that let me be myself.

The Enforcers came for you in the middle of the night I heard. To avoid complicated emotional complexities with distraught families. They took you and you never came back. I hated them. I hated this. I hated their system. I hated the world they had created.

IN THE GREAT DICTATOR’S CLOSING SCENES, CHARLIE CHAPLIN’S timid Jewish barber is, through a complicated plot twist, mistaken for the film’s Hitler-like character, also played by Chaplin. Clad in a German military uniform, he finds himself standing before a microphone, expected to address a mammoth party rally. Instead of the rapid-fire invective the crowd anticipates, Chaplin delivers a homily about the resilience of the human spirit in the face of evil. He asks soldiers not to give themselves to “men who despise you, enslave you . . . treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder . . . unnatural men—machine men with machine minds and machine hearts. You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts. “Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world,” the humble barber tells the crowd, “millions of despairing men, women, and little children—victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me, I say—do not despair. . . . The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. . . . Liberty will never perish.” Chaplin’s words are sentimental, maudlin, and naïve. I cannot listen to them without wanting to cheer.

I don’t think it’s an invisible chromosome, or the inability to get pregnant, or anything else, that makes people so cruel to transgender folks. I think what they hate is difference. What they hate is that the world is complicated in ways they can’t understand.

I don't think it's an invisible chromosome, or the inability to get pregnant, or anything else, that makes people so cruel to transgender folks. I think what they hate is difference. What they hate is that the world is complicated in ways they can't understand. People want the world to be simple.

No. It’s a shitty company and I hate everything it stands for.” “Oh. Then why . . .” I scratch my nose. Oh. I did not expect that. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you, um, lawyer elsewhere?” “It’s complicated.” “Complicated?” The spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl for a moment. “My mentor recruited me.

J. Very few people have had the effect on my life that you have. The kindest, strangest, funniest, messiest, most complicated friend I’ve ever had. Almost twenty years have passed now, and I still think about you almost every day. I’m so sorry you couldn’t bear it any longer. I hate myself for not being able to save you.

Can you imagine how different things would be if our families hated each other? If they were feuding like the First Methodists and the Cavalry Baptists?” “I bet it’d be a whole lot less complicated, to tell you the truth. Heck, we probably would’ve already run off together or something by now.” “Probably so,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.

After Dad died, I told myself I wouldn’t be one of those bratty kids who made it difficult for their single parent to date someone else, or to find love with someone else or whatever. I wouldn’t be an obstacle to my mother’s happiness. It’s just that…well, I was operating under the assumption that she loved my dad, that they were made for each other, so she probably wouldn’t find anyone else anyway. Now I feel that Grom had intruded on their relationship the entire time. That maybe they could have loved each other if it weren’t for him. And somehow I feel that since Mom and Dad didn’t love each other, then I’m less…important. That I’m the result of an accident that is still complicating the lives of people I love. I also hate that I’m allowing myself to have a pity party when clearly bigger things than myself are happening. Feel free to grow up at any time, Emma. Preferably before you push away people you love. Grom retracts his hand from Mom’s mouth, and uses his fingertips to caress her cheek. My new and improved grown-up self tries not to think Gag me, but I accidentally think it anyway.

Girls aside, the other thing I found in the last few years of being at school, was a quiet, but strong Christian faith – and this touched me profoundly, setting up a relationship or faith that has followed me ever since. I am so grateful for this. It has provided me with a real anchor to my life and has been the secret strength to so many great adventures since. But it came to me very simply one day at school, aged only sixteen. As a young kid, I had always found that a faith in God was so natural. It was a simple comfort to me: unquestioning and personal. But once I went to school and was forced to sit through somewhere in the region of nine hundred dry, Latin-liturgical, chapel services, listening to stereotypical churchy people droning on, I just thought that I had got the whole faith deal wrong. Maybe God wasn’t intimate and personal but was much more like chapel was … tedious, judgemental, boring and irrelevant. The irony was that if chapel was all of those things, a real faith is the opposite. But somehow, and without much thought, I had thrown the beautiful out with the boring. If church stinks, then faith must do, too. The precious, natural, instinctive faith I had known when I was younger was tossed out with this newly found delusion that because I was growing up, it was time to ‘believe’ like a grown-up. I mean, what does a child know about faith? It took a low point at school, when my godfather, Stephen, died, to shake me into searching a bit harder to re-find this faith I had once known. Life is like that. Sometimes it takes a jolt to make us sit and remember who and what we are really about. Stephen had been my father’s best friend in the world. And he was like a second father to me. He came on all our family holidays, and spent almost every weekend down with us in the Isle of Wight in the summer, sailing with Dad and me. He died very suddenly and without warning, of a heart attack in Johannesburg. I was devastated. I remember sitting up a tree one night at school on my own, and praying the simplest, most heartfelt prayer of my life. ‘Please, God, comfort me.’ Blow me down … He did. My journey ever since has been trying to make sure I don’t let life or vicars or church over-complicate that simple faith I had found. And the more of the Christian faith I discover, the more I realize that, at heart, it is simple. (What a relief it has been in later life to find that there are some great church communities out there, with honest, loving friendships that help me with all of this stuff.) To me, my Christian faith is all about being held, comforted, forgiven, strengthened and loved – yet somehow that message gets lost on most of us, and we tend only to remember the religious nutters or the God of endless school assemblies. This is no one’s fault, it is just life. Our job is to stay open and gentle, so we can hear the knocking on the door of our heart when it comes. The irony is that I never meet anyone who doesn’t want to be loved or held or forgiven. Yet I meet a lot of folk who hate religion. And I so sympathize. But so did Jesus. In fact, He didn’t just sympathize, He went much further. It seems more like this Jesus came to destroy religion and to bring life. This really is the heart of what I found as a young teenager: Christ comes to make us free, to bring us life in all its fullness. He is there to forgive us where we have messed up (and who hasn’t), and to be the backbone in our being. Faith in Christ has been the great empowering presence in my life, helping me walk strong when so often I feel so weak. It is no wonder I felt I had stumbled on something remarkable that night up that tree. I had found a calling for my life.

Suddenly, I missed Jenna so much that it was almost a physical ache. I wanted to hold her hand, and hear her say something that would make this whole situation funny instead of incredibly screwed up. Archer would’ve been nice, too. He probably would’ve raised an eyebrow in that annoying/hot way he had, and made a dirty joke about Elodie possessing me. Or Cal. He wouldn’t say anything, but just his presence would make me feel better. And Dad- “Sophie,” Mom said, shaking me out of my reverie. “I don’t…I don’t even know how to start explaining all of this to you.” She looked at me, her eyes red. “I meant to, so many times, but everything was always so…complicated. Do you hate me?” I took a deep breath. “Of course not. I mean, I’m not thrilled. And I totally reserve the right to angst over all this later. But honestly, Mom? Right now, I’m so happy to see you that I wouldn’t care if you’re secretly a ninja sent from the future to destroy kittens and rainbows.” She chuckled, a choked and watery sound. “I missed you so much, Soph.” We hugged, my face against her collarbone. “I want the whole story, though,” I said, my words muffled. “All of it on the table.” She nodded. “Absolutely. After we talk to Aislinn.” Pulling back, I grimaced. “So how exactly are you related to her? Are you guys like, cousins?” “We’re sisters.” I stared at her. “Wait. So you’re like, a Brannick Brannick? But you don’t even have red hair.” Mom got off the bed, twisting her ponytail into a bun. “It’s called dye, Soph. Now, come on. Aislinn is already in a mood.” “Yeah, picked up on that,” I muttered, shoving the covers off and standing up

So it had to stop. Committing to Nick, feeling safe with Nick, being happy with Nick, made me realize that there was a Real Amy in there, and she was so much better, more interesting and complicated and challenging, than Cool Amy. Nick wanted Cool Amy anyway. Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you? So that’s how the hating first began. I’ve thought about this a lot, and that’s where it started, I think.

There is no other way," she insisted. "Nothing else but to use you as bait? Madness!" "Don't make me say it." "Say what?" Wolf asked. He was leaning against a pillar, Cymbra close by, observing his brother with the air of a man torn between sympathy and amusement. Gritting his teeth,Dragon said, "That I used her as such to lure out Magnus. It almost got her killed." "Me? What about you?" Rycca demanded, momentarily forgetting her purpose. That night of terror still lived too vividly in her memory. "It almost got you killed. You're the one who had to fight him, naked, unarmed, and him having your Moorish sword." Hawk and Wolf exchanged a look. "That's how Magnus died?" Wolf asked. He grinned. "Pretty damn good,brother." The women looked to the ceiling and sighed in exasperation. It was left to Hawk to break the deadlock. "I hate to say this, but Rycca has a point. Unless Wolscroft is lured out,this can't be resolved." "So you would use my wife-" Dragon challenged. "Fully protected," Hawk hastened to add, "surrounded by all our might. There is only one road and the forest on both sides is very thick.We could hide a hundred men within a few feet of that road and no one could detect them." Dragon was silent for a moment. He gave every appearance of waging a battle within himself. Finally,he said, "A hundred men isn't enough." Rycca's heart leaped,for she recognized that as just the tiniest concession to the plan they were discussing. "Don't forget Krysta's friends," she said quickly. "They will help too." Her husband scowled. "What friends?" "It's a little complicated," Hawk replied. "Let's just say my wife has friends in high places...and low ones. Wolscroft won't be able to belch without our knowing it." "I still don't like it..." Rycca took her husband's hand in hers. She looked up into his eyes. Gently, with all the confidence and courage she coud muster,she said, "We will never be free until this is over.

What we feel and how we feel is far more important than what we think and how we think. Feeling is the stuff of which our consciousness is made, the atmosphere in which all our thinking and all our conduct is bathed. All the motives which govern and drive our lives are emotional. Love and hate, anger and fear, curiosity and joy are the springs of all that is most noble and most detestable in the history of men and nations. The opening sentence of a sermon is an opportunity. A good introduction arrests me. It handcuffs me and drags me before the sermon, where I stand and hear a Word that makes me both tremble and rejoice. The best sermon introductions also engage the listener immediately. It’s a rare sermon, however, that suffers because of a good introduction. Mysteries beg for answers. People’s natural curiosity will entice them to stay tuned until the puzzle is solved. Any sentence that points out incongruity, contradiction, paradox, or irony will do. Talk about what people care about. Begin writing an introduction by asking, “Will my listeners care about this?” (Not, “Why should they care about this?”) Stepping into the pulpit calmly and scanning the congregation to the count of five can have a remarkable effect on preacher and congregation alike. It is as if you are saying, “I’m about to preach the Word of God. I want all of you settled. I’m not going to begin, in fact, until I have your complete attention.” No sermon is ready for preaching, not ready for writing out, until we can express its theme in a short, pregnant sentence as clear as crystal. The getting of that sentence is the hardest, most exacting, and most fruitful labor of study. We tend to use generalities for compelling reasons. Specifics often take research and extra thought, precious commodities to a pastor. Generalities are safe. We can’t help but use generalities when we can’t remember details of a story or when we want anonymity for someone. Still, the more specific their language, the better speakers communicate. I used to balk at spending a large amount of time on a story, because I wanted to get to the point. Now I realize the story gets the point across better than my declarative statements. Omit needless words. Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell. Limits—that is, form—challenge the mind, forcing creativity. Needless words weaken our offense. Listening to some speakers, you have to sift hundreds of gallons of water to get one speck of gold. If the sermon is so complicated that it needs a summary, its problems run deeper than the conclusion. The last sentence of a sermon already has authority; when the last sentence is Scripture, this is even more true. No matter what our tone or approach, we are wise to craft the conclusion carefully. In fact, given the crisis and opportunity that the conclusion presents—remember, it will likely be people’s lasting memory of the message—it’s probably a good practice to write out the conclusion, regardless of how much of the rest of the sermon is written. It is you who preaches Christ. And you will preach Christ a little differently than any other preacher. Not to do so is to deny your God-given uniqueness. Aim for clarity first. Beauty and eloquence should be added to make things even more clear, not more impressive. I’ll have not praise nor time for those who suppose that writing comes by some divine gift, some madness, some overflow of feeling. I’m especially grim on Christians who enter the field blithely unprepared and literarily innocent of any hard work—as though the substance of their message forgives the failure of its form.

Complicating the idea that race and class are distinctly separate rather than intertwined will be hard work. It involves piercing a million thought bubbles currently dominating conversations about class in this country. It means irritating politicians and commentators, and it means calling their story of a white working class besieged by selfish and ungrateful immigrants exactly what they are – hate-mongering nonsense. Divide and rule serves no useful purpose in the politics of class solidarity, neither does it work particularly well in lifting people out of poverty. We know that targeted policies aimed at eradicating class inequalities will also go some way in challenging race inequalities, because so many black households are low income. But we can’t be naive enough to believe that those in power are in any way interested in piercing their power for the sake of a fairer society. And although working-class white and BME people have lots in common, we need to remember that although the experiences are very similar, they are also very different.

Love isn’t easy, but it shouldn’t be this complicated. I hate the fact that I’m falling in love with him. I hate the fact that once this is over with, I will be just a memory to him, and he will live for thousands of years.” Sarah “Sarah deserves better; a human, not a ghoul who has all these problems. It’s pathetic to depend on magic to get rid of your demons.” Eric “Every time I am around Eric, I feel more acutely attracted to him. I don’t know if that’s part of his powers, but I don’t want him having that effect on me.” Sarah “Death affects us in so many ways. When you want to move on from the person you mourn, it feels like you are trying to forget about them.” Sarah “I miss Sarah’s laugh, the scent of her, the dimples in her cheeks, her drilling me with questions about everything, and I even miss her getting mad at me for trying to get her to try new stuff. I remember the first night we spent together when I made her jump off the cliff with me. I knew she was mine; I knew I wanted to bond with her. I just regret the fact I didn’t do it sooner.” Eric

I lean toward him, expecting him to unconsciously move away. To be repulsed. But he only watches me curiously. As I draw closer, his eyes widen a little. 'Wren,' he whispers. I am not sure if it's a warning or not. I hate that I don't know. At every moment, I expect him to flinch or pull back as I put one hand on his shoulder, then go up on my toes, and kiss him. This is ridiculous. Kissing him is profane. It gives me all the horrible satisfaction of smashing a crystal goblet. It's quick. Just the quick press of my dry mouth against his lips. A brief senses of softness, the warmth of breath, and then I pull away, my heart thrumming with fear, with the expectation that he will be disgusted. With the certainty that I have well and truly punished him for trying to flirt with me. The angry, feral part of me feels so close to the surface that I can almost scent its blood-clotted fur. I want to lick the scratches I made. He doesn't look alarmed, though. He's studying my face, as though he's trying to work something out. After a moment, his eyes close, pale lashes against his cheek, and he dips foward to press his mouth to mine again. He goes slower, one of his hands cupping my head. A shivery feeling courses down my spine, a flush coming up on my skin. When he draws back, he is not wearing his usual complicated smile. Instead, he looks as though someone just slapped him. I wonder if a kiss from me is like being clawed on the cheek. Did he force himself to go through with it? For the sake of keeping me on this quest? For the sake of his father and his plans? I thought to punish him, but all I have succeeded in doing is punishing myself.

I won’t say we human beings still don’t have much to learn. Sometimes we love and hate without thought. We expect too much from one another, and often we are wrong. Take that flower,” he said, pointing to the crepe myrtle. “It has a short life span, but you know just what to expect of it. The leaves are turning yellow-orange, so you know within a week they’ll fall. Fortunately—or unfortunately—we human beings have much longer lives. And that makes for many more complications. But in the end, Stephen-san, you can only look back, hoping everything that happens in your life is for a purpose.

Did I regret Cyrus’s whiteness? Truth be told, sometimes I did. If Cyrus was Bengali, I wouldn’t have to explain why chewing on the end of a drumstick was perhaps the best part of a meal, or why there were outside clothes and inside clothes and in-between clothes that you wore when you got home but weren’t ready for bed. I wouldn’t have to explain all the complicated rules about where you can and can’t put your feet, and that he could maybe kiss me in front of my parents but not on the mouth and certainly never with tongue. But what I found infinitely worse was trying to gauge whether a man had just the right amount of brown in him. He had to know about drumsticks and shoes and not hate himself, but he also couldn’t be too in love with his mother or imagine that I would change more diapers than him or ever, ever be charmed by the thought of me in a hijab. He had to be three parts Tagore, one part Drake, one part e e cummings, and that’s not even getting into whether I got a rise from smelling his face. So no, I didn’t want to ponder Cyrus’s whiteness, I just wanted to enjoy his scent and his perfectly sized dick and the fact that, of all the people I had ever met in my whole life, he felt the most like home.

Everything I've ever written was about her, no word could replace, no tongue, no experience; we both dread this world, we hate it. She wore a silk dress white and her body was a Cleopatra, absolutely ethereal. It's a disorder madness beyond belief. I could write novels about her forever. Maybe when I die I will end up in the poem with her writing more poems about our times together. Maybe one day I will meet her in real life. Her tears were my rain, her angry was thunder and lighting. I knew when it rained. I was doing something wrong, when It thundered I knew I had to write about her to make her happy. I don't know what this is, the world was always complicated.

Claire continued. "There's a complexity of... looking forward to something. Being scared it doesn’t live up to your hope... like second dates... or returning to Cancun... or being in love with a stranger, hoping they never love you. It’s not that you prefer the concept or the excitement of the beginning. It’s the fear that a future with someone won’t be as nice as you hoped it would be. I would hate that, Brit. It'd crush me. It's like when you tell a person you like them—it always dips. It gets awkward. The expectation of it. I feel some things are best left at 'Hello.' Like, I write about living in a forest away from everyone, but I can’t tell if that’s the future I want or only enjoy writing about.

For some, measuring porn’s real-world effects boils down to one extreme and ultimately misleading question: “Does it lead to rape?” What is overlooked here is the more subtle question of how porn shapes the culture and the men who use it. No anti-porn feminist I know has suggested that there is one image, or even a few, that could lead a nonrapist to rape; the argument, rather, is that taken together, pornographic images create a world that is at best inhospitable to women, and at worst dangerous to their physical and emotional well-being. In an unfair and inaccurate article that is emblematic of how anti-porn feminist work is misrepresented, Daniel Bernardi claims that Andrea Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon believed that “watching pornography leads men to rape women.”3 Neither Dworkin nor MacKinnon, pioneers in developing a radical feminist critique of pornography, saw porn in such simplistic terms. Rather, both argued that porn has a complicated and multilayered effect on male sexuality, and that rape, rather than simply being caused by porn, is a cultural practice that has been woven into the fabric of a male-dominated society. Pornography, they argued, is one important agent of such a society since it so perfectly encodes woman-hating ideology, but to see it as simplistically and unquestionably leading to rape is to ignore how porn operates within the wider context of a society that is brimming with sexist imagery and ideology.

I don’t think it’s an invisible chromosome, or the inability to get pregnant, or anything else, that makes people so cruel to transgender folks. I think what they hate is difference. What they hate is that the world is complicated in ways they can’t understand. People want the world to be simple. But gender isn’t simple, much as some might want it to be. The fact that it’s complicated—that there’s a whole spectrum of ways of being in the world—is what makes it a blessing. Surely nature—or god, or the universe—is full of miracles and wild invention and things way beyond our understanding, no matter how hard we try. We aren’t here on earth in order to bend over backward to resemble everybody else. We’re here to be ourselves, in all our gnarly brilliance.

Recall that the collapse of complexity that accompanies 5 percent [i.e. intractable] conflicts happens along many dimensions: - A very complication situation becomes very simple. - A focus on concrete details in the conflict shifts to matters of general abstract principle. - Concerns over obtaining accurate information regarding substantive issues transform into concerns over defending one's identity, ideology, and values. - The out-group, which was seen as made up of many different types of individuals, now are all alike. - The in-group, which was seen as made up of many different types of individuals, now are all similar. - Whereas I once held many contradictions within myself in terms of what I valued, thought, and did; now I am always consistent in this conflict. - Whereas I used to feel different things about this conflict - good, bad, and ambivalent; now I feel only an overwhelming sense of enmity and hate. - I've shifted from long-term thinking and planning toward short-term reactions and concerns. - Where I once had many action options available to me, I now have one: attack. This is the bad news about the 5 percent, but it's also the good news. The collapse of complexity occurs on so many levels, all leading to a similar state of 'us versus them' thinking, that reintroducing a sense of complexity and agency can also be achieved in a wide variety of ways. There are therefore many places to find points of leverage to rupture the certainty and oversimplification that rules in these situations. The question is how to find them.

And I *know* I wrote in the above that I hate biographies and reviews that focus on the psychological, surface detail, especially when they pertain to women writers, because I think it’s really about the cult of the personality, which is essentially problematic, and I think simplistically psychologizing which biographies are so wont to do is really problematic, and dangerous, especially when dealing with complicated women who just by being writers at a certain time and age were labelled as nonconformist, or worse, hysterical or ill or crazy, and I think branding these women as femme fatales is all so often done. And I know in a way I’m contributing to this by posting their bad-ass photos, except hopefully I am humanizing them and thinking of them as complicated selves and intellects AND CELEBRATING THEM AS WRITERS as opposed to straight-up objectifying. One particular review long ago in Poetry that really got my goat was when Brian Phillips used Gertrude Stein’s line about Djuna Barnes having nice ankles as an opener in a review of her poetry, and to my mind it was meant to be entirely dismissive, as of course, Stein was being as well. Stein was many important revolutionary things to literature, but a champion of her fellow women writers she was not. They published my letter, but then let the guy write a reply and scurry to the library and actually read Nightwood, one of my all-time, all-times, and Francis Bacon’s too, there’s another anecdote. And it’s burned in my brain his response, which was as dismissive and bourgeois as the review. I don’t remember the exact wordage, but he concluded by summing up that Djuna Barnes was a minor writer. Well, fuck a duck, as Henry Miller would say. And that is how the canon gets made.

I believe that I have not been fair to you and that, as a result, I must have led you around in circles and hurt you deeply. In doing so, however, I have led myself around in circles and hurt myself just as deeply. I say this not as an excuse or a means of self-justification but because it is true. If I have left a wound inside you, it is not just your wound but mine as well. So please try not to hate me. I am a flawed human being - a far more flawed being than you realize. Which is precisely why I do not want you to hate me. Because if you were to do that, I would really go to pieces. I can't do what you can do: I can't slip inside my shell and wait for things to pass. I don't know for a fact that you are really like that, but sometimes you give me that impression. I often envy that in you, which may be why I led you around in circles so much. This may be an over-analytical way of looking at things. Don't you agree? The therapy they perform here is certainly not over-analytical, but when you are under treatment for several months the way I am here, like it or not, you become more or less analytical. "This was caused by that, and that means this, because of which such-and-such." Like that. I can't tell whether this kind of analysis is trying to simplify the world or complicate it. In any case, I myself feel that I am far closer to recovery than I once was, and people here tell me this is true. This is the first time in a long while I have been able to sit down and calmly write a letter. The one I wrote you in July was something I had to squeeze out of me (though, to tell the truth, I don't remember what I wrote - was it terrible?), but this time I am very calm. How wonderful it is to be able to write someone a letter! To feel like conveying your thoughts to a person, to sit at your desk and pick up a pen, to put your thoughts into words like this is truly marvellous. Of course, once I do put them to words, I find I can only express a fraction of what I want to say, but that's all right. I'm happy just to be able to feel I want to write to someone. And so I am writing to you.

DEX’S FAIL-PROOF ALCHEMY TIPS! (EVEN FOR YOU, SOPHIE!) TRUST THE DIZZNEE METHOD. WE’RE THE BEST! WHAP MEANS “WASH HANDS AND PRESENT.” (DO NOT “WHIP” THE ELIXIR INSTEAD! I KNOW YOU KNOW THIS, BUT IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD REMINDER.) ONLY PRACTICE ALCHEMY IN A FIREPROOF LOCATION. (WE, UH, BOTH KNOW WHY THIS ONE’S SO IMPORTANT.…) ALWAYS POUR IN AMARALLITINE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE—AND USE A TIMER TO ENSURE YOU’RE ADDING IT AT THE EXACT SECOND THE ELIXIR IS READY FOR IT. DON’T GET ANY RUCKLEBERRY JUICE ON YOUR SKIN—IT’LL MAKE YOU SMELL LIKE STINKY FEET. AND YOUR SKIN WILL GET ALL WEIRD AND WRINKLY LIKE FORKLE. YEAH, A LOT OF THE INGREDIENTS FOR ELIXIRS ARE SUPER DISGUSTING. IT’S PROBABLY BETTER IF YOU DON’T THINK ABOUT IT. (AND PLUG YOUR NOSE! ) REMEMBER: LADY GALVIN HATES EVERYBODY—IT’S NOT JUST YOU. (ALTHOUGH MAYBE TRY NOT TO DESTROY HER CAPE AGAIN?) ALKAHEST IS THE UNIVERSAL SOLVENT AND CAN ONLY BE STORED IN A BUBBLE OF ITSELF. (WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT TOUCH IT.) IF YOU BOTTLE QUINTESSENCE (ACCIDENTALLY OR ON PURPOSE), DO NOT BRING THE BOTTLE TO FOXFIRE. IF YOU SUDDENLY REMEMBER ANY COMPLICATED FORMULAS, DON’T TRY MAKING THEM. THE BLACK SWAN WAY OVERESTIMATED YOUR ALCHEMY SKILLS!

That miserable son of a bitch!” he bit out between clenched teeth. “After eleven years he’s going to have it his way. And all because I couldn’t keep my hands off her.” The vicar could scarcely conceal his joyous relief. “There are worse things than having to marry a wonderful young woman who also had the excellent judgment to fall in love with you,” he pointed out. Ian almost, but not quite, smiled at that. The impulse passed in an instant, however, as reality crushed down on him, infuriating and complicated. “Whatever she felt for me, it was a long time ago. All she wants now is independence.” The vicar’s brows shot up, and he chuckled with surprise. “Independence? Really? What an odd notion for a female. I’m sure you’ll be able to disabuse her of such fanciful ideas.” “Don’t count on it.” “Independence is vastly overrated. Give it to her and she’ll hate it,” he suggested. Ian scarcely heard him; the fury at having to capitulate to his grandfather was building inside him again with terrible force. “Damn him!” he said in a murderous underbreath. “I’d have let him rot in hell, and his title with him.” Duncan’s smile didn’t fade as he said with asperity, “It’s possible that it’s fear of ‘rotting in hell,’ as you so picturesquely phrased it, that has made him so desperate to affirm you now as his heir.

(a) A writer always wears glasses and never combs his hair. Half the time he feels angry about everything and the other half depressed. He spends most of his life in bars, arguing with other dishevelled, bespectacled writers. He says very ‘deep’ things. He always has amazing ideas for the plot of his next novel, and hates the one he has just published. (b) A writer has a duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation; convinced, as he is, that he has been born into an age of mediocrity, he believes that being understood would mean losing his chance of ever being considered a genius. A writer revises and rewrites each sentence many times. The vocabulary of the average man is made up of 3,000 words; a real writer never uses any of these, because there are another 189,000 in the dictionary, and he is not the average man. (c) Only other writers can understand what a writer is trying to say. Even so, he secretly hates all other writers, because they are always jockeying for the same vacancies left by the history of literature over the centuries. And so the writer and his peers compete for the prize of ‘most complicated book’: the one who wins will be the one who has succeeded in being the most difficult to read. (d) A writer understands about things with alarming names, like semiotics, epistemology, neoconcretism. When he wants to shock someone, he says things like: ‘Einstein is a fool’, or ‘Tolstoy was the clown of the bourgeoisie.’ Everyone is scandalized, but they nevertheless go and tell other people that the theory of relativity is bunk, and that Tolstoy was a defender of the Russian aristocracy. (e) When trying to seduce a woman, a writer says: ‘I’m a writer’, and scribbles a poem on a napkin. It always works. (f) Given his vast culture, a writer can always get work as a literary critic. In that role, he can show his generosity by writing about his friends’ books. Half of any such reviews are made up of quotations from foreign authors and the other half of analyses of sentences, always using expressions such as ‘the epistemological cut’, or ‘an integrated bi-dimensional vision of life’. Anyone reading the review will say: ‘What a cultivated person’, but he won’t buy the book because he’ll be afraid he might not know how to continue reading when the epistemological cut appears. (g) When invited to say what he is reading at the moment, a writer always mentions a book no one has ever heard of. (h) There is only one book that arouses the unanimous admiration of the writer and his peers: Ulysses by James Joyce. No writer will ever speak ill of this book, but when someone asks him what it’s about, he can’t quite explain, making one doubt that he has actually read it.

Do you know how men like Webb end up?"I thought: 'And men like my father.' "In the river," I answered flippantly. "A time comes when they are no longer attractive or in good form. They can't drink any more, and they still hanker after women, only then they have to pay and make compromises in order to escape from their loneliness: they have become just figures of fun. They grow sentimental and hard to please. I have seen many who have gone the same way." "Poor Webb!" I said. I was impressed. So that was the fate in store for my father? Or at least the fate from which Anne was saving him. "You never thought of that, did you?" said Anne, with a little smile of commiseration. "You don't think much about the future, do you? That is the privilege of youth." "Please don't throw my youth at me like that! I use it neither as an excuse, nor as a privilege. I just don't attach any importance to it." "To what do you attach importance? To your peace of mind? Your independence?" I dreaded conversations of this sort, especially with Anne. "To nothing at all," I said. "You know I hardly ever think." "You and your father irritate me at times: 'You haven't given it a thought . . . you're not worth much . . . you don't know.' Are you satisfied to be like that?" "I'm not satisfied with myself. I don't like myself, and I don't try to. At moments you force me to complicate my life, and I almost hate you for it.

Gina flopped back on her cot, arm up over her eyes. “Oh, my God, Molly, what am I going to do? The fact that he came here tonight at all is . . . He’s clearly interested, but that’s probably just because he thinks I’m a total perv.” “Whoa,” Molly said. “Wait. You lost me there.” Gina sat up, a mix of earnestness, horror, and amusement on her pretty face. “I didn’t tell you this, but after I first spoke to Lucy’s sister—we were in the shower tent so no one would see us—I let her leave first and then I waited, like, a minute, thinking we shouldn’t be seen leaving the tent together. And before I go, he came in.” He. “Leslie Pollard?” Molly clarified. Gina nodded. “I freaked out when I saw him coming, and it’s stupid, I know, but I hid. And I should have just waited until I heard the shower go on, but God, maybe he wouldn’t have pulled the curtain, because he obviously thought he was in there alone . . .” Molly started to laugh. “Oh my.” “Yeah,” Gina said. “Oh my. So I decide to run for it, only he’s not in one of the changing booths, he’s over by the bench, you know?” Molly nodded. The bench in the main part of the room. “In only his underwear,” Gina finished, with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, my God.” “Really? Molly asked. Apparently Jones was taking his change of identity very seriously. He hated wearing underwear of any kind, but obviously he thought it wouldn’t be in character for Leslie Pollard to go commando. “Boxers or briefs?” Gina gave her a look, but she was starting to laugh now, too, thank goodness. “Briefs. Very brief briefs.” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, my God, Molly, he was . . . I think he showers at noon because he knows no one else will be in there, so he can, you know, have an intimate visit with Mr. Hand.” Oh, dear. “And now I know, and he knows I know, and he also probably thinks I lurk in the men’s shower,” Gina continued. “And the fact that he actually came to tea tonight, instead of hiding from me, in his tent, forever, means . . . something awful, don’t you think? Did I mention he has, like, an incredible body?” Molly shook her head. Oh dear. “No.” “Yes,” Gina said just a little too grimly, considering the topic. “Who would’ve guessed that underneath those awful shirts he’s a total god? And maybe that’s what’s freaking out the most.” “You mean because . . . you’re attracted to him?” Molly asked. “No!” Gina said. “God! Because I’m not. I felt nothing. I’m standing there and he’s . . . You know how I said he reminds me of Hugh Grant?” Molly nodded, too relieved to speak. “Well, I got the wrong Hugh. This guy is built like Hugh Jackman. And beneath the hats and sunblock and glasses, he’s actually got cheekbones and a jaw line, too. I’m talking total hottie. And, yes, I can definitely appreciate that on one level, but . . .” She glanced over at the desk, at her digital camera. She’d gotten it out of her trunk earlier today. Which, Molly had learned, meant that she’d spent more time this afternoon looking at her saved pictures. Which included at least a few of Max. Molly’s relief over not having to deal with the complications of Gina having a crush on Leslie felt a whole lot less good. She wished someone would just go ahead and steal Gina’s camera already. Maybe that would help her move on.

I am curious about your change of heart.' ... For a long moment, Nicasia didn't speak. She picked at a fishcake. Cardan raised his eyebrows. 'Ah, you didn't make the choice to leave him, did you?' 'It's more complicated than that,' she told him. 'And it affects you as well.' 'Does it?' he inquired. 'You must listen! Locke's taken one of the mortal girls as his lover,' Nicasia said, obviously attempting to keep her voice from shaking. Cardan was silent, his thoughts thrown in to confusion. One of the mortal girls. 'You can't expect me to pity you,' he said finally, voice tight. 'No,' she said slowly. 'I expect you to laugh in my face and tell me that it's no more than I deserve.' She looked out toward Hollow Hall, miserable. 'But I think Locke means to humiliate you as much as he does me in doing this.. How does it look, after all, to steal your lover and then tire of her so quickly?' He didn't care how it made him look. He didn't care in the least. 'Which one?' Cardan asked. 'Which mortal girl?' 'Does it matter?' Nicasia was clearly exasperated. 'Either. Both.' It shouldn't matter. The human girls were insignificant, nothing. In fact, he ought to feel delighted that Nicasia had such swift cause to regret what she'd done. And if he felt even angrier than he had before, well then, he had no cause. 'At least you will have the pleasure of seeing what the Grand General does when Locke inevitably mishandles the situation.' 'That's not enough,' she said. 'What then?' 'Punish them.' She took his hands, her expression fierce. 'Punish all three of them. Convince Valerian he'd like tormenting the mortals. Force Locke to play along. Make them all suffer.' 'You should have led with that,' Cardan told her, getting to his feet. 'That I would have agreed to just for fun.

We live in a time I did not think I would see in my lifetime, a time when freedom—and in particular freedom of expression, without which the world of books could not exist—is everywhere under attack from reactionary, authoritarian, populist, demagogic, narcissistic, careless voices; when places of education and libraries are subject to hostility and censorship; and when extremist religion and bigoted ideologies have begun to intrude in areas of life in which they do not belong. And there are also progressive voices being raised in favor of a new kind of bien-pensant censorship, one which appears virtuous, and which many people have begun to see as a virtue. So freedom is under pressure from the left as well as the right, the young as well as the old. This is something new, and made more complicated by our new tool of communication, the Internet, on which well-designed pages of malevolent lies sit side by side with the truth, and it is difficult for many people to tell which is which; and our social media, where the idea of freedom is every day abused to permit, very often, a kind of online mob rule, which the billionaire owners of these platforms seem increasingly willing to encourage—and to profit by. What do we do about free speech when it is so widely abused? We should still do, with renewed vigor, what we have always needed to do: to answer bad speech with better speech, to counter false narratives with better narratives, to answer hate with love, and to believe that the truth can still succeed even in an age of lies. We must defend it fiercely and define it as broadly as possible, so, yes, we should of course defend speech that offends us; otherwise we are not defending free expression at all. Let a thousand and one voices speak in a thousand and one different ways. To quote Cavafy, “the barbarians are coming today,” and what I do know is that the answer to philistinism is art, the answer to barbarianism is civilization, and in any war it may be that artists of all sorts—filmmakers, actors, singers, and, yes, those who practice the ancient art of the book—can still, together, turn the barbarians away from the gates.

It’s so funny you should say this, because if you were one of my students, you’d be wearing your pain like a badge of honor. This generation doesn’t hide anything from anyone. My class talks a lot about their traumas. And how their traumas inform their games. They, honest to God, think their traumas are the most interesting thing about them. I sound like I’m making fun, and I am a little, but I don’t mean to be. They’re so different from us, really. Their standards are higher; they call bullshit on so much of the sexism and racism that I, at least, just lived with. But that’s also made them kind of, well, humorless. I hate people who talk about generational differences like it’s an actual thing, and here I am, doing it. It doesn’t make sense. How alike were you to anyone we grew up with, you know?” “If their traumas are the most interesting things about them, how do they get over any of it?” Sam asked. “I don’t think they do. Or maybe they don’t have to, I don’t know.” Sadie paused. “Since I’ve been teaching, I keep thinking about how lucky we were,” she said. “We were lucky to be born when we were.” “How so?” “Well, if we’d been born a little bit earlier, we wouldn’t have been able to make our games so easily. Access to computers would have been harder. We would have been part of the generation who was putting floppy disks in Ziploc bags and driving the games to stores. And if we’d been born a little bit later, there would have been even greater access to the internet and certain tools, but honestly, the games got so much more complicated; the industry got so professional. We couldn’t have done as much as we did on our own. We could never have made a game that we could sell to a company like Opus on the resources we had. We wouldn’t have made Ichigo Japanese, because we would have worried about the fact that we weren’t Japanese. And I think, because of the internet, we would have been overwhelmed by how many people were trying to do the exact same things we were. We had so much freedom—creatively, technically. No one was watching us, and we weren’t even watching ourselves. What we had was our impossibly high standards, and your completely theoretical conviction that we could make a great game.

I don’t know how it will be in the years to come. There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. Some of these forces seem evil to us, perhaps not in themselves but because their tendency is to eliminate other things we hold good. It is true that two men can lift a bigger stone than one man. A group can build automobiles quicker and better than one man, and bread from a huge factory is cheaper and more uniform. When our food and clothing and housing all are born in the complication of mass production, mass method is bound to get into our thinking and to eliminate all other thinking. In our time mass or collective production has entered our economics, our politics, and even our religion, so that some nations have substituted the idea collective for the idea God. This in my time is the danger. There is great tension in the world, tension toward a breaking point, and men are unhappy and confused. At such a time it seems natural and good to me to ask myself these questions. What do I believe in? What must I fight for and what must I fight against? Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and spirit of a man. Nothing was ever created by two men. There are no good collaborations, whether in music, in art, in poetry, in mathematics, in philosophy. Once the miracle of creation has taken place, the group can build and extend it, but the group never invents anything. The preciousness lies in the lonely mind of a man. And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerblows of conditioning, the free, roving mind is being pursued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken. And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost.

It doesn’t feel right. Not now.” “But you’re the same, Jemma. You haven’t changed. This is what you want, remember?” “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I have changed. And”--I shake my head--“I don’t even know what I want anymore.” He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but closes it just as quickly. A muscle in his haw flexes as he eyes me sharply, his brow furrowed. “I thought you were stronger than this,” he says at last. “Braver.” I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “When I get home, I’m going to e-mail you these video files. I don’t know anything about making films, but if you need any help, well…” He shrugs. “You know my number.” With that, he turns and walks away. I leap to the ground. “Ryder, wait!” He stops and turns to face me. “Yeah?” “I…about Patrick. And then…you and me. I feel awful about it. Things were so crazy during the storm, like it wasn’t real life or something.” I take a deep, gulping breath, my cheeks burning now. “I don’t want you think that I’m, you know, some kind of--” “Just stop right there.” He holds out one hand. “I don’t think anything like that, okay? It was…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Shit, Jemma. I’m not going to lie to you. It was nice. I’m glad I kissed you. I’m pretty sure I’ve been wanting to for…well, a long time now.” “You did a pretty good job hiding it, that’s for sure.” “It’s just that…well, I’ve had to listen to seventeen years’ worth of how you’re the perfect girl for me. And goddamn, Jem. My mom already controls enough in my life. What food I eat. What clothes I wear. Hell, even my underwear. You wouldn’t believe the fight she put up a few years back when I wanted to switch to boxer briefs instead of regular boxers.” I swallow hard, remembering the sight of him wearing the underwear in question. Yeah, I’m glad he won that particular battle. “Anyway, if my parents want it for me, it must be wrong. So I convinced myself that you were wrong for me. You had to be.” His gaze sweeps across my face, and I swear I feel it linger on my lips. “No matter what I felt every single time I looked at you.” Oh my God. I did the exact same thing--thinking he had to be wrong for me just because Mama insisted we were a perfect match. Now I don’t know what to think. What to feel. What’s real and what’s a trying-to-prove-something fabrication. But Ryder…he gets it. He’s lived it too. I let out a sigh. “Can you imagine how different things would be if our families hated each other? If they were feuding like the First Methodists and the Cavalry Baptists?” “I bet it’d be a whole lot less complicated, to tell you the truth. Heck, we probably would’ve already run off together or something by now.” “Probably so,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.

I’m not sure of what all you’ve done,” I said to my friend. “And I know some people hate you. But I think you’re pretty good at relationships.” My friend looked at me confused. He laughed a little, then sighed, then teared up. “It’s true you’re bad at relationships,” I said, “but it’s also true you are good at them. They’re both true, old friend.” I reminded him of all the people who love him and all the people he’s loved. I told him I thought it was unfair for a man to be judged by a moment, by a season. We are all more complicated than that.

Hawk shrugged. “The vessel of ascension has always been those that were the most comely. If there was a reason, it has been lost in time. Now it is a matter of tradition.” He answered so matter-of-factly that it sounded almost normal. There was much more to it than just looks, but I couldn’t grasp it. “It sounds complicated.” I had to admit. He nodded, and I tried not to get lost in the way his bangs moved and covered his eyes. “What is your system based on? Money? Financial security? The professor at your academy didn’t get around to explaining that yet.” “Um… we vote. I mean… well….” And I hated the words as I said them. “It’s based on popularity.” I saw Hawk choke slightly on his water as he reacted to my explanation. “Popularity? I don’t understand, you mean popular based on the most qualified, yes?” I shook my head and tried not to think of the Governator. “No, just popular.” He rolled his eyes as he finished his drink. “And our way is shallow.” “He took that one, too, I believe,” Ruber said as I tried not to complain out loud. "Distant Rumblings" by John Goode

With these uneasy thoughts urging me onward, I hurried toward home, praying I would make it in time for dinner and thereby avoid having to answer to my mother. That was the only way my day could get worse. I was forced to adjust that conclusion, however, when I spotted Saadi loitering nearby. The moment he laid eyes on me, I knew he’d been waiting for me, and I groaned. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? “Shaselle!” he called, coming toward me. I gritted my teeth, knowing I could not escape. The traffic on the thoroughfare had thinned, as was generally the case at this time of day, no longer providing the cover I needed to dart past him. He came abreast of me, but I didn’t slow or acknowledge him. “I’m glad I caught you,” he said, and in my peripheral vision, I could see him smoothing that damn bronze hair forward, an impossible task, for as always it kinked upward at the midpoint of his hairline. “Can’t say the same.” “I didn’t take you to my sister.” He sounded like this small mercy should be eliciting gratitude from me. “I realize that.” Saadi exhaled, baffled and exasperated. “How can you be angry with me?” I halted and stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not! You’re the Cokyrian soldier who arrested me when I broke the law. Our relationship ends there. It would be a waste of my time to be angry with you.” “That’s it?” he said, eyebrows rising, and I was sure I detected disappointment. “I thought…I don’t know. I thought you were angry with me before, for not having mentioned I’m Rava’s brother. Weren’t you?” “No,” I lied. I still didn’t understand why it upset me to know that this annoying tag-along was related to the woman I hated with such intensity that my insides burned. But there was no reason to complicate things by letting him know the truth. “Well, I saved you today, didn’t I? Just like I saved you before. You walked out of the Bastion free, without a scratch, and if any Cokyrian but me had caught you with that dagger, you might be drawn and quartered by now.” “You didn’t save me from that butcher,” I said irritably. “But you’re right. About today, I mean.” I could sense his satisfaction, which irritated me all the more. “So accept my thanks, but stay away from me. We’re not friends, you know.” I was nearing my neighborhood and didn’t want anyone to see me with him. He stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “We’re not friends yet. But you’ve thought about it. And you just thanked me.” “Are you delusional?” “No. You just said thank you to the faceless Cokyrian soldier who arrested you.” “Don’t you ever stop?” I demanded, trying in vain to move around him. “I haven’t even started.” “What does that mean?

They make laws that no one wants, then make money disagreeing with each other what the damned law means, and the more they disagree the more money they make, but still they go on making laws, and they make them ever more complicated so that they can get paid for arguing ever more intricately with one another! I grant you they’re clever buggers, but God, how I hate lawyers.

you are a woman, forget about it. With all the cultural advancements, middle-class and professional women of this era have gained the freedom to have their own lives and careers without the need for marriage. Having a husband and kids isn’t a prerequisite to having a well-rounded, fulfilling adult life anymore. To be clear, I’m not saying that filling that traditional housewife role over being a professional is a bad thing to do today, and I know that the decisions women make about work are complicated. Also, I’m not saying that women who do choose careers hate their kids, etc. Am I clear here? I’M NOT SHITTING ON ANYONE’S LIFE CHOICE (unless the choice is to smoke crack and treat your kids like the Mo’Nique character treats Precious in the movie Precious). But what’s important is that more women than ever are able to make that choice for themselves. Even

I’m gay.” “And I hate country music. But I still listen to Johnny Cash.

Buchanan tried to whip the devil out of me. “Find your tongue, lad!” Forgive this regression, but the man hated English. He may have hated everything by then, including me, but he was uncommon prickly when it came to English. You could tell by the way he bullied it. “The bastarde English,” the old man roared. “The verie whoore of a tongue.” We did our best to mimic him note for note, gesture for gesture. He hated that, too. The verie whoore. Old Greek before Breakfast Latin by Noon himself. The point is, what English I had was beaten or twisted into me. We were orphaned and crowned before we could speak or take our first step. No father. No mother. Too many uncles. Hounds for baying. Buchanan was the most religious of my keepers, and the unkindest of spirits among them. We have been told the young queen of Scots was once his student, and that he loved her. Just before giving her over to wreckage, methinks. Pious frauds. Their wicked Jesus. Then occasion smil’d. We were thirteen. The affection of Esme Stuart was one thing, lavished, as it was, so liberally upon us, but the music of his voice was another. We empowered our cousin, gave him name, station, a new sense of gravity, height, and reach, all the toys of privilege. We were told he spoke our mother’s French, the way it flutters about your neck like a small bird. But it was his English that moved us. For the first time, there was kindness in it, charity, heat and light. We didn’t know language could do such things, that could charm with such violence, make such a disturbance in us. Our cousin was our excess, our vice, our great transgression according to some, treason according to others. They came one night and stole him from us, that is, from me. They tore me out of his arms, called me wanton. Better that bairns should weepe, they said. Barking curs. We never saw our cousin again and were never the same after. But the charm was wound up. If we say we can taste words, we are not trying to be clever. And we are an insatiable king. Try now, if you can, to understand the nature of our thoughts touching the translation, its want of a poet. We will consult with Sir Francis. He is closer to the man, some say, than a brother. English is mistress between them. There, Bacon says, is empire. There, a great Britain. Where it is dull, where the glow . . . gleam . . . where the gleam of Majestie is absent or mute . . . When occasion smiles again, we will send for the man, Shakespere. Majestie has left its print on his art. After that hideous Scottish play, his best, darkest, and most complicated characters are . . . us. Lear. Antony. Othello. Fools all. All. The English language must be the best that is in us . . . We are but names, titles, antiquities, forgotten speeches, an accident of blood and historical memory. Aye . . . but this marvelously unexceptional little man. No more of this. By the unfortunate title of this history we must, it seems, prepare ourselves for a tragedy. Some will escape. Some will not. For bully Ben can never suffer a true rival. He killed an actor once for botching his lines. Actors. Southampton waits in our chambers. We will let him. First, to our thoughts. Only then to our Lord of Southampton.

How do you go from ruthless capitalist matchmaking pimp one moment to considerate gentleman the next?" "Im a complicated man." He joined her at the credenza. "I thought I'd stay in case you needed more snacks." "I'll allow it," she said magnanimously. "But I'll do the talking. You can just scowl and look frightening and intense. It shouldn't be hard since it seems to be your normal state of being." Sam snorted. "And here I thought I was doing you a favor..." "Would you like some tea?" "If it's not chai." "No one hates chai. What kind of desi are you?" She filled a cup with boiling water and motioned for him to select a tea bag. "The bad kind." His lips quirked at the corners. He'd smiled more since meeting Layla than he had in the last two years. "I should have guessed." She raised an admonishing eyebrow. "You have bad boy written all over you." He selected the Black Dragon tea simply because the name appealed to his senses. Anything that had to do with highly intelligent, powerful, fire-breathing creatures couldn't be bad.

So was Hera. Up on Mount Olympus, the queen of the gods seethed because of Hercules’s successes. She couldn’t allow him a happy ending. She decided to make his life as terrible, tragic, and complicated as possible, so that someday Percy Jackson would have a really hard time writing about it. I hate Hera.

Drew winced. “My back hurts. What did you do to me in your front yard? One minute I was standing, then I was flat on my back in the grass.” “I swept the leg,” she said matter-of-factly. “But why?” “Why not? It’s the fastest way to get someone to the ground.” “But we were standing on your lawn.” “Exactly. We were on nice, soft grass. I would have wrestled you sooner, but it’s not safe on the pavement.” “Do you always wrestle with guys?” “Just the ones I like.” She tapped him on the nose. “Boop.” He tapped her right back. “Boop.” She asked, “Now that I’ve taught you to watch out for the leg sweep, what else can I do for you? Breakfast in bed? Pack you a bagged lunch for work today?” He checked the time on her alarm clock. “It’s Saturday, which is a light day, but I do have a few patients after lunch.” “What do you mean it’s a light day? You’re not fully booked? You must not be a very good dentist. Maybe I should get a second opinion on that cap you glued into my mouth all willy-nilly.” He dropped his jaw in mock outrage. “Not a very good dentist? Those are fighting words, you bad girl.” She raised her eyebrows. “Want to take this back out to the front lawn?” “I think we gave your neighbors enough of a show last night.” “True,” she said. “Plus, we already got grass stains all over one change of clothes.” He wrinkled his nose. “Grass stains.” He groaned. He leaned back, resting his head on Megan’s second pillow, where Muffins normally slept. The sea-foam-green linens were a perfect complement to his skin tone. His brown eyes were a rich chocolate with bright flecks and an inner ring that was nearly green. The sheets had been purchased to complement Muffins, with his orange fur and entirely green eyes, but they looked even better around Dr. Drew Morgan. Drew asked, “What are you thinking about?” He reached up to run his fingers through her tangled morning hair. She normally hated that, but it felt good when Drew did it. “I’m thinking that you look really good in my sheets. You look good in sea-foam green.” “Thanks.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to see how you look in my bed.” “You think you’re going to get me into your bed?” “Sure. I know how it’s done. You just sweep the leg.” “I shouldn’t have told you all my secrets.” Muffins returned and situated himself between them for a bath. Drew propped himself up on one elbow and petted the cat. “So what do I have to do to get you to my place in the first place?” “Reverse psychology works well on me. You could tell me to never come over. You could ban me from your house.” He chuckled. “Whatever you do, don’t show up naked under a trench coat.” “What makes you think I’d show up naked in a trench coat?” “You’re a wild girl. Exactly what I need right now.” “You need me? Are we talking about, like, a medical type of emergency?” “You tell me.” He scooped up Muffins, placed him on the chair next to the bed, and pulled Megan close to him.

Mr. Phone took a swim when I was dropping the kids off at the pool.” “What?” Megan held up a bag of rice containing her damp phone. “Mr. Phone went for a dive and a backstroke in Mr. Toilet. Don’t worry, I’d already flushed when it happened.” “Not again,” Tina said, exasperated. “Why does that always happen to you?” “I blame Mr. Toilet. He has a gravitational pull that cannot be explained by modern science. We should get a team of researchers into the house to conduct tests.” Megan plopped the bag of rice and phone on the counter. “What were you calling me about?” Tina did an excited dance. “Your dentist came by looking for you.” “You met him? You met my Drew?” “Oh, Meenie, he’s so cute. Why didn’t you tell me he was so cute?” “I’m not shallow like you.” Tina said, “He’s a good one, Meenie. I think he might be the one.” “Don’t be gross. You know I hate stuff like that. If you and Luca start saying you’re soul mates, I’m going to throw up every time.” “Aren’t you going to ask what we talked about?” “He’d better not be buying me flowers from my own store. It’s cute when Luca does it, but he’s Luca. That sort of behavior from a man as dignified as Dr. Drew Morgan will not stand with me.” “Don’t worry. I told him not to ever buy you flowers or chocolates or any of that romantic stuff.” Megan frowned. “None of it?” “And I didn’t say anything embarrassing to him about our past.” Tina chewed her lower lip in that telltale way she did when she knew she’d done something Megan wouldn’t like.

Cards on the table, girls? Karl has served a sentence at Exeter prison for assault; Antony for theft. Karl was merely sticking up for a friend, you understand, and – hand on heart – would do the same again. His friend was being picked on in a bar and he hates bullying. Me, I am struggling with the paradox – bullying versus assault, and do we really lock people up for minor altercations? – but the girls seem fascinated, and in their sweet and liberal naivety are saying that loyalty is a good thing and they had a bloke from prison who came into their school once and told them how he had completely turned his life around after serving time over drugs. Covered in tattoos, he was. Covered. ‘Wow. Jail. So what was that really like?’ It is at this point I consider my role. Privately I am picturing Anna’s mother toasting her bottom by her Aga, worrying with her husband if their little girl will be all right, and he is telling her not to fuss so. They are growing up fast. Sensible girls. They will be fine, love. And I am thinking that they are not fine at all. For Karl is now thinking that the safest thing for the girls would be to have someone who knows London well chaperoning them during their visit. Karl and Antony are going to stay with friends in Vauxhall and fancy a big night to celebrate their release. How about they meet the girls after the theatre and try the club together? This is when I decide that I need to phone the girls’ parents. They have named their hamlet. Anna lives on a farm. It’s not rocket science. I can phone the post office or local pub; how many farms can there be? But now Anna isn’t sure at all. No. They should probably have an early night so they can hit the shops tomorrow morning. They have this plan, see, to go to Liberty’s first thing because Sarah is determined to try on something by Stella McCartney and get a picture on her phone. Good girl, I am thinking. Sensible girl. Spare me the intervention, Anna. But there is a complication, for Sarah seems suddenly to have taken a shine to Antony. There is a second trip to the buffet and they swap seats on their return – Anna now sitting with Karl and Sarah with Antony, who is telling her about his regrets at stuffing up his life. He only turned to crime out of desperation, he says, because he couldn’t get a job. Couldn’t support his son. Son? It sweeps over me, then. The shadow from the thatched canopy of my chocolate-box life –

I’ve been thinking about it. All these years, I’ve spent wallowing in self-pity and despair after my dad died. Yet, I have nothing to show for it. “I hated myself more and more with each day. I never did anything productive or constructive with my time. I let it all waste away. My dad didn’t want me to become a dreamer. But I don’t think he would’ve wanted me to waste all those years doing nothing either. “I know it seems very complicated when it comes to our relationship but I do feel that on some level, he did love me. And when he died, I became so lost. He’s told me what to do for so long that I didn’t know how to live without him ordering me around all the time. I felt like a caged animal that was finally free but too afraid to step outside. “But I have someone that most people don’t. I have you, Charlie. Every day, for years, you’d come to check on me. Rain or shine. And even though I didn’t let you in, I was rude, or I was mean to you, you came every day…because you made me a promise.” Bernie started sobbing. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you, Charlie. You are the best person I know. Because of you, I can rise and get out of bed to face another day. You saved my life.

Thing is, it might get out eventually. It’s kind of funny in a way—” “Funny?” “Think about it—two strangers are sitting alone in a bar, feeling sorry for themselves, and not only do they get together and find a lot of comfort in each other, they start a family. And not just a baby, but twins. Then they end up in the same small town. No one would believe it. I know it wasn’t planned, but I’m not sorry about the outcome.” She looked angry. At least indignant. “Well, I’m sorry!” “No, you’re not. You hate the complications, but there are twins coming and I’m going to be around to help you with that. One’s a boy. I hope the other one’s a girl. These might be the only kids I get, and I hope I get one of each.” He grinned stupidly and knew it. “You

I just spoke to Jessica again.” “What do you mean, again?” Win sighed impatiently. He hated explanations. “If they are planning to jump you tonight, it is logical to assume it will be by her loft.” “Right.” “Ergo, I called her ten minutes ago. I told her to keep an eye out for anything unusual.” “And?” “An unmarked white van parked across the street,” Win answered. “No one got out.” “So it appears they are going to strike,” Myron said. “Yes,” Win said. “Should I preempt it?” “How?” “I could disable the car following you.” “No,” Myron said. “Let them make their move and see where it leads.” “Pardon?” “Just back me up. If they grab me, I may be able to get to the boss.” Win made a noise. “What?” Myron asked. “You complicate the simple,” Win said. “Would it not be easier to simply take out the two in the car? We could then make them tell us about their boss.” “It’s that ‘make them’ part I have trouble with.” “But of course,” Win countered. “A thousand pardons for my lack of ethics. Clearly it is far wiser to risk your own life than to make a worthless goon feel momentary discomfort.” Win

This cub wants a video game, and I hate to say it, but this game is so complicated it's easier not to play it! And here is one that's even worse-- cubs simply do not need it-- a virtual pet that up and bites if you fail to feed it. And worst of all, this cub wants this innovative cutie, a miniature canine named Little Doggie Dooty, with an item purchased extra that's positively super, a high-tech battery-operated electronic pooper-scooper.

I’m ready to go.” She smiled at St. Just. “Nice to see you, Vicar, and these”—she held out a package of buns—“are for you.” “My thanks.” He took the package then bowed over her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her bare knuckles. St. Just silently ground his teeth at that shameless display and even let Bothwell hand Emmie up into the gig. As St. Just took the reins, the Kissing Vicar patted Emmie’s hand where it rested in her lap. Except it was more of a stroking pat, St. Just noted, a caress, the filthy bugger. “You’re quiet,” Emmie remarked, lifting her face to the sun. The relief in her expression suggested she hadn’t been interested in lingering in Bothwell’s company. “Is Bothwell pestering you, Emmie?” She glanced over at him, a furtive, assessing glance that he unfortunately caught and comprehended too well: It isn’t bothering if the lady welcomes it. “He is a friend,” she said, lapsing into silence when St. Just said nothing more. He reached over with one hand and gently peeled Emmie’s index finger from her teeth. “No biting your nails. Whatever it is, you have only to ask, and I will help.” “Is it possible to love someone and hate them at the same time?” “It is. I love my father, in a complicated, resentful, admiring sort of way, but when he gets to tormenting my brothers, which he used to do brilliantly, I would rather Bonaparte himself had sired me than that scheming, selfish old man.” Emmie grimaced and looked like she wanted desperately to bite her nail. “That is quite an indictment, especially coming from you.” “He’s

I used to get mad at guys who’d made the mistakes my friend has made. Their lives seemed so dark and even evil that I wanted to distance myself from them. I felt that way about those guys until an acquaintance made a similar mistake and was shunned, and right about the time we all forgot about him the news broke about his suicide. Who was I to judge? When my friend Bob called to encourage me because of the relational mistakes I’d made, he didn’t call to condemn. There was plenty of that in my life. But Bob called to be a crack of light in a dark room, something to crawl toward. So I told my friend something like Bob told me. “I’m not sure of what all you’ve done,” I said to my friend. “And I know some people hate you. But I think you’re pretty good at relationships.” My friend looked at me confused. He laughed a little, then sighed, then teared up. “It’s true you’re bad at relationships,” I said, “but it’s also true you are good at them. They’re both true, old friend.” I reminded him of all the people who love him and all the people he’s loved. I told him I thought it was unfair for a man to be judged by a moment, by a season. We are all more complicated than that.

What was the very FIRST GAME Mario appeared in? a) Super Mario Bros. b) Donkey Kong c) Super Smash Bros. d) Super Mario World. What is the newest Mario game out today? a) New Super Mario Bros. b) Super Mario Galaxy. What does Luigi say when he wins a race on Mario Cart 64? What is Mario’s last name? a) Costanza b) Italiano c) Mario d) Luigi. Who is the LAST person you play in Mario Party 3 (64 version)? a) Millennium Star b) Waluigi c) Daisy d) Bowser. Correct answers: b b Letsa go (let’s go, here we go) c a. Results: 0 out of 5 – did you play any Mario game at all? The game itself isn’t very complicated. Start playing and you’ll definitely get a higher score. Right now, this is bad. These answers make Mario question his own abilities to do something right. 1 out of 5 – you have probably played Mario games, when someone made you. Come on, you can do way better than this. Even Koopas can get a higher score and you’re way smarter than them. Plus, Princess Peach is most certainly not impressed with this score. 2 out of 5 – well, you’re not totally bad, but you’re also far away from an expert. Let’s just assume you hurried to answer as faster as possible and you made a couple of mistakes. You know what they say, everything gets better with practice. 3 out of 5 – you’re in the middle; still a long way to go to become an expert, but you’re not an amateur at the same time. However, Princess Peach doesn’t want someone who’s going to be happy being “in the middle”. What does this tell you? To do your best, achieve a greater score and, of course, to improve your overall game style as well. 4 out of 5 – very good. You are just one step away from being an expert. If you continue like this, you would be able to do a better job than Mario. You know the game quite well and you would gladly go on an adventure in Super Mario style. 5 out of 5 – expert. Congratulations! You love the game, your favorite pastime is playing Super Mario and let’s face it; you’d give Mario run for his money. You know the game “inside and out” and unlike Mario, you’d actually find princess in the right castle. But, don’t let this get into your head. Always strive to do better. Conclusion Thank you again for downloading this book!  I hope you find the third volume of Super Mario joke book as equally entertaining as previous two volumes. In case you haven’t read Super Mario joke book volumes 1 and 2, this is the perfect opportunity to get those books and see what jokes, memes, and other useful and entertaining info you missed out on. Throughout this book, you got to see various jokes, memes, comics, and read about interesting Mario fun facts you didn’t know before. Besides that, the book also included quiz where you had the opportunity to test your knowledge of Mario games. Hopefully, you got the top score and even if you didn’t, you can always retake the test. This joke book is ideal for all people who love Super Mario and it’s impossible to hate this little, chubby guy. With good humor, funny memes, interesting comics, and special Princess Peach section, this book is everything you need whenever you feel sad, bored, or in the mood for a good laugh. I hope this book was able to help you understand the importance of Super Mario as well as to understand

But this sense of duty and virtue involved a complicated calculation about your positive effect on the White House versus its negative effect on you. In April, an email originally copied to more than a dozen people went into far wider circulation when it was forwarded and reforwarded. Purporting to represent the views of Gary Cohn and quite succinctly summarizing the appalled sense in much of the White House, the email read: It’s worse than you can imagine. An idiot surrounded by clowns. Trump won’t read anything—not one-page memos, not the brief policy papers; nothing. He gets up halfway through meetings with world leaders because he is bored. And his staff is no better. Kushner is an entitled baby who knows nothing. Bannon is an arrogant prick who thinks he’s smarter than he is. Trump is less a person than a collection of terrible traits. No one will survive the first year but his family. I hate the work, but feel I need to stay because I’m the only person there with a clue what he’s doing. The reason so few jobs have been filled is that they only accept people who pass ridiculous purity tests, even for midlevel policy-making jobs where the people will never see the light of day. I am in a constant state of shock and horror.

In your care I will be released from my worries” (CIL 11.137). In a few brief sentences, this man’s colorful life, during which he passed from freedom to slavery to freedom and ultimately to prosperity, is memorialized. An aspect of life that these tombstones bring to light is the strong emotions that tied together spouses, family members, and friends. One grave marker records a husband’s grief for his young wife: “To the eternal memory of Blandina Martiola, a most blameless girl, who lived eighteen years, nine months, five days. Pompeius Catussa, a Sequanian citizen and a plasterer, dedicates this monument to his wife, who was incomparable and very kind to him. She lived with him five years, six months, eighteen days without any shadow of a fault. You who read this, go bathe in the baths of Apollo as I used to do with my wife. I wish I still could” (CIL 1.1983). The affection that some parents felt for their children is also reflected in these inscriptions: “Spirits who live in the underworld, lead innocent Magnilla through the groves and the Elysian Fields directly to your places of rest. She was snatched away in her eighth year by cruel fate while she was still enjoying the tender time of childhood. She was beautiful and sensitive, clever, elegant, sweet, and charming beyond her years. This poor child who was deprived of her life so quickly must be mourned with perpetual lament and tears” (CIL 6.21846). Some Romans seemed more concerned with ensuring that their bodies would lie undisturbed after death than with recording their accomplishments while alive. An inscription of this type states: “Gaius Tullius Hesper had this tomb built for himself, as a place where his bones might be laid. If anyone damages them or removes them from here, may he live in great physical pain for a long time, and when he dies, may the gods of the underworld deny entrance to his spirit” (CIL 6.36467). Some tombstones offer comments that perhaps preserve something of their authors’ temperaments. One terse inscription observes: “I was not. I was. I am not. I care not” (CIL 5.2893). Finally, a man who clearly enjoyed life left a tombstone that included the statement: “Baths, wine, and sex ruin our bodies. But what makes life worth living except baths, wine, and sex?” (CIL 6.15258). Perhaps one of the greatest values of these tombstones is the manner in which they record the actual feelings of individuals, and demonstrate the universality across time, cultures, and geography of basic emotions such as love, hate, jealousy, and pride. They also preserve one of the most complicated yet subtle characteristics of human beings—our enjoyment of humor. Many of the messages were plainly drafted to amuse and entertain the reader, and the fact that some of them can still do so after 2,000 years is one of the best testimonials to the humanity shared by the people of the ancient and the modern worlds.

I'm not thrilled with being objectified, but I've made a lot of money letting t happen, so many feelings are complicated. Mine too. I'm not certain I'd feel entirely comfortable eating in a place where it feels like the staff is part of the menu, but sexy pirates?...I wouldn't hate it either.

Proper customization does not come by further complicating an already complex system. No, proper customization comes about through combining multiple simple pieces. Invariably, if something is so complex that it requires the addition of multiple “preferences” or customization choices, it is probably too complex to use, too complex to be saved. I don’t customize my pen; I do customize how I use it. I don’t customize my furniture; I do customize through my choice of which piece to buy in the first place, where I put it, when I use it, and how.

Clifford, I was just saying how there aren't good words for family, for step-half-siblings? How complex family is," Liliana said in her fragile voice. "That's true," Clifford said. "Complicated. Messy. Endless fun." He smiled slightly and looked around the room with an expression I liked-as if the world was enormously absurd, and he sort of enjoyed it and hated it at the same time.