J Hope Best Quotes

The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair of us?' Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him.

Courage will now be your best defence against the storm that is at hand-—that and such hope as I bring.

How about we just be Haven and Carmine?” she suggested. “We don’t know the ending, but we can always hope for the best.” “I like that,” he said. “Besides, there’s a reason we don’t know how the story ends.” “Why?” “Because it doesn’t.

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort's was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco's wand: "Avada Kedavra!" "Expelliarmus!" The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead center of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling, spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last.

A beautiful day might bring disaster, while a day that begins trapped inside an ancient toom, might be the best one of your life. If you don´t abandon hope on pleasent days, why do so on those that begin poorly?

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm not sure who the first person was who said that. Probably Shakespeare. Or maybe Sting. But at the moment, it's the sentence that best explains my tragic flaw, my inability to change. I don't think I'm alone in this. The more I get to know other people, the more I realize it's kind of everyone's flaw. Staying exactly the same for as long as possible, standing perfectly still... It feels safer somehow. And if you are suffering, at least the pain is familiar. Because if you took that leap of faith, went outside the box, did something unexpected... Who knows what other pain might be out there, waiting for you. Chances are it could be even worse. So you maintain the status quo. Choose the road already traveled and it doesn't seem that bad. Not as far as flaws go. You're not a drug addict. You're not killing anyone... Except maybe yourself a little. When we finally do change, I don't think it happens like an earthquake or an explosion, where all of a sudden we're like this different person. I think it's smaller than that. The kind of thing most people wouldn't even notice unless they looked at us really close. Which, thank God, they never do. But you notice it. Inside you that change feels like a world of difference. And you hope this is it. This is the person you get to be forever... that you'll never have to change again.

Perhaps the greatest charity comes when we are kind to each other, when we don't judge or categorize someone else, when we simply give each other the benefit of the doubt or remain quiet. Charity is accepting someone's differences, weaknesses, and shortcomings; having patience with someone who has let us down; or resisting the impulse to become offended when someone doesn't handle something the way we might have hoped. Charity is refusing to take advantage of another's weakness and being willing to forgive someone who has hurt us. Charity is expecting the best of each other. None of us need one more person bashing or pointing out where we have failed or fallen short. Most of us are already well aware of the areas in which we are weak. What each of us does need is family, friends, employers, and brothers and sisters who support us, who have the patience to teach us, who believe in us, and who believe we're trying to do the best we can, in spite of our weaknesses. What ever happened to giving each other the benefit of the doubt? What ever happened to hoping that another person would succeed or achieve? What ever happened to rooting for each other?

Perhaps the greatest charity comes when we are kind to each other, when we don’t judge or categorize someone else, when we simply give each other the benefit of the doubt or remain quiet. Charity is accepting someone’s differences, weaknesses, and shortcomings; having patience with someone who has let us down; or resisting the impulse to become offended when someone doesn’t handle something the way we might have hoped. Charity is refusing to take advantage of another’s weakness and being willing to forgive someone who has hurt us. Charity is expecting the best of each other

The club motto was changed in 1972 from “We shall conquer” to “Let’s all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.” Falmouth

Optimism hopes for the best without any guarantee of its arriving and is often no more than whistling in the dark. Christian hope, by contrast, is faith looking ahead to the fulfillment of the promises of God, as when the Anglican burial service inters the corpse 'in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.' Optimism is a wish without warrant; Christian hope is a certainty, guaranteed by God himself. Optimism reflects ignorance as to whether good things will ever actually come. Christian hope expresses knowledge that every day of his life, and every moment beyond it, the believer can say with truth, on the basis of God's own commitment, that the best is yet to come.

Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him.

No. It’s not. Life rarely is. But we deal with it the best we can. And we allow ourselves to hope for the best. Because a life without hope isn’t a life lived at all.

Indeed you did your best...I hope that it may be long before you find yourself in such a tight corner again between two such terrible old men. ~ Gandalf to Pippin

We live in a miserable world, where the best we can honestly hope for is that one empty, meaningless day will follow another without things getting actively worse.

Are you sure that’s a real spell?’ said the girl. ‘Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and its all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all. It was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?’ She said all this very fast. Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn’t learned all the course books by heart either. ‘I’m Ron Weasley,’ Ron muttered. ‘Harry Potter,’ said Harry. ‘Are you really?’ said Hermione. ‘I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.’ ‘Am I?’ said Harry, feeling dazed. ‘Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,’ said Hermione.

Getting rid of dragons is not at all in my line, but I will do my best to think about it. Personally I have no hopes at all, and wish I was safe back at home.

Kaitlyn remebered the things he'd given her, the sun-flooded afternoons, and the cool healing ocean waves, and the music he'd written. He'd given her everything that was best in him, everything he was. She wanted to give him the same thing back. I don't know how you can love me. The words came soflty, as if he were thinking them to himself. You've seen what I am. That's why I do love you, Kaitlyn told him. I hope you'll still love me when you see what I am. "I know what you are, Kait. Everything beautiful and brave and gallant and..." He stopped as if his throat had closed. "Everything that makes me want to be better for you. That makes me sorry I'm such a stupid mess..." You looked like a knight with that shard, Kaitlyn said, moving toward him. "Really?" He laughed shakily. My knight. And I never said thank you. She was almost touching him, now. Looking up into his eyes. What she could feel in him was something she'd only felt before when she gave him her life energy. Childlike, marveling joy. Trust and vulnerability. And such love... Then she was in his arms and they weren't separate beings any longer. Their minds were together, sharing thoughts, sharing happiness beyond thought. Sharing everything. She never even knew whether he kissed her.

Absolute confidence, absolute arrogance: her best shields and most beloved masks. “I hope His Majesty has a decent spread of food for me to eat while I’m being interrogated.” “Watch your mouth or the only thing you’ll be eating is hot coals.” “Do you actually make people do that?” His eyes narrowed. “What kind of person do you take me for?” “You are the Captain of the Guard of the most powerful man in the world. Wyrd knows what horrible things you’ve done to people.” “You must be nervous as hell if you’re resorting to taunting me.

God will never stop helping us to become quality people. I promise you this. He will constantly help us to be our best when we walk in the light of truth, hope, and appreciation. Make yours a quality life, for you are important to the Lord and to us.

And one day I hope you get to love someone like I love you. If you do, and I know you will, you make sure you never let that go. It'll be scary, but it'll be the best thing that's ever happened to you if you let it.

It’s not fair.” “No. It’s not. Life rarely is. But we deal with it the best we can. And we allow ourselves to hope for the best. Because a life without hope isn’t a life lived at all.

Politics is the art of achieving the maximum amount of freedom for individuals that is consistent with the maintenance of social order,

As a doc, though, I've seen what happens when people are under a lot of stress. Doesn't always bring out their best. When people are scared, they get angry. They'll do things they never thought they would. They'll bargain and compromise in order to survive; they'll chase after miracle cures and believe just about anything so long as it gives them hope. When hope fails, then watch out. Some people get brutal. They'll turn on each other; they'll become their own worst enemies.

American soldiers were dying in frigid Korea. One of our greatest generals told us that the president and his team were not trying to win. And some strident voices were saying that that was because they didn't want to win,

Arthur," she said, "there are some things quite beyond your powers." "Yes, I know," he said steadily. "But if no one ever tries to strive against them no one will ever succeed. We must simply do our best, you know. And hope.

[J]ust the sight of this book, even though it was of no authority, made me wonder how it happened that so many different men – and learned men among them – have been and are so inclined to express both in speaking and in their treatises and writings so many wicked insults about women and their behaviour. Not only one or two ... but, more generally, from the treatises of all philosophers and poets and from all the orators – it would take too long to mention their names – it seems that they all speak from one and the same mouth. Thinking deeply about these matters, I began to examine my character and conduct as a natural woman and, similarly, I considered other women whose company I frequently kept, princesses, great ladies, women of the middle and lower classes, who had graciously told me of their most private and intimate thoughts, hoping that I could judge impartially and in good conscience whether the testimony of so many notable men could be true. To the best of my knowledge, no matter how long I confronted or dissected the problem, I could not see or realise how their claims could be true when compared to the natural behaviour and character of women.

keep your spirits up, hope for the best, and with a tremendous slice of luck you may come out one day and see the Long Marshes lying below you,

I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” ―F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

We have to trust them. And then we have to do the scariest thing of all: step back and hope for the best.

Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.” “I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant —” “Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for —” “It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger —” “I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy. “Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry.

All these women. And Trina. Trina,” she repeated, with considerable passion as she gripped his shirt. “And gooey dessert and body things and chick-vids. All night. Slumber party. Do you know what that means?” “I’ve had many dreams of them. Will there be pillow fights?” She spun him around so his back hit the door. “Don’t. Leave. Me.” “Darling.” He kissed her brow. “I must. I must.” “No. You can bring Vegas here. Because . . . you’re you. You can do that. We’ll have Vegas here, and that’ll be good. I’ll buy you a lap dance.” “That’s so sweet. But I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow, and lay a cool cloth on your fevered brow.” “Tomorrow?” She actually went light-headed. “You’re not coming back tonight?” “You wouldn’t be in this state now if you paid attention. I’m taking a shuttle full of men to Las Vegas late this afternoon. There will be ribaldry, and a possible need to post bond. I’ve made arrangements. I’ll bring back this same shuttle full of men—hopefully—tomorrow afternoon.” “Let me come with you.” “Let me see your penis.” “Oh, God! Can’t I just use yours?” “At any other time. Now pull yourself together, and remember that when all this is over, you’ll very likely arrest a killer who’s also a dirty cop. It’s like a twofer.” “That doesn’t make me feel better.” “Best I have.

and line of cases. Justice Byron R. "Whizzer" White, a JFK appointee, dissented, calling Doe an act of "raw judicial power," as it took these decisions from the states and enshrined their determination in the Supreme Court's reasoning.

His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things did not come into that valley. I wish I had time to tell you even a few of the tales or one or two of the songs that they heard in that house. All of them, the ponies as well, grew refreshed and strong in a few days there. Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their tempers and their hopes. Their bags were filled with food and provisions light to carry but strong to bring them over the mountain passes. Their plans were improved with the best advice. So the time came to midsummer eve, and they were to go on again with the early sun on midsummer morning.

Sometimes my mind gets the best of me and fixates on how many shitloads are in a fuckton, but these are the kind of things my therapist sighs quietly at when I mention and looks down at her hands like she’s lost all hope of being useful to society, so I’ve never gotten a solid answer to that.

I’m an old man, now. I’ve been alone since my 17th birthday. I’d wanted to marry, have a bunch of kids, and maybe be a grandpa. The big family around the Thanksgiving table, laughing and pouring wine and cracking jokes and harmlessly teasing the missus—I wanted that. I wanted to do something good with my life—something right. I didn’t want what happened to Danny, my best childhood friend, to be the only mark I’d ever make in this world. But I thought it best not to fancy such hopes and dreams: a family, love. I’d been cursed by my best friend, and I thought it right not to inflict that curse on anyone who’d be foolish enough to love me.

Stop that." Mortified, she reached out to slam the door shut. "Somebody could come in." "Then stop squirming," he suggested, and gently peeled back the bandage. He nodded in approval. "You did a decent job." Even as she hissed at him, he lowered his head and touched his lips to the cut. "All better," he said with a grin just as the door opened. Peabody gaped, flushed, then stammered out, "Excuse me." "Just leaving," Roarke said, patting the bandage back in place while Eve ground her teeth. "How did you come through this morning's excitement, Peabody?" "Okay, it was... well, actually." She cleared her throat and shot him a hopeful glance. "I got this little nick right here." She rubbed her finger at her jawline, heart fluttering pleasantly when he smiled at her. "So you do." He stepped to her, angled his head, and touched his lips to the tiny cut. "Take care of yourself." "Man, man, oh man," was the best she could manage when he'd left. "He's got such a great mouth. How do you stop yourself from just biting it?" "Wipe the drool off your chin, for Christ's sake. And sit down. We've got a report to write for the commander." "I almost got blown up and got kissed by Roarke all in the same morning. I'm writing it on my calendar." "Settle down." "Yes, sir." She took out her log and got to work. But with a smile on her face.

Still we shall have to try,' said Frodo. 'It's no worse than I expected. I never hoped to get across. I can't see any hope of it now. But I've still got to do the best I can.

Don’t trust your head, Samwise, it is not the best part of you. The trouble with you is that you never really had any hope.

I hope you’re ready, Taylor Marsten, because I’m going to be the best fucking boyfriend you’ve ever had.

Life rarely is. But we deal with it the best we can. And we allow ourselves to hope for the best. Because a life without hope isn’t a life lived at all.

And we allow ourselves to hope for the best. Because a life without hope isn't a life lived at all.

It's not fair" "No, it's not. Life rarely is. But we deal with it the best we can, and we allow ourselves to hope for the best. Because life without hope isn't a life lived at all".

It’s not fair.” “No. It’s not. Life rarely is. But we deal with it the best we can. And we allow ourselves to hope for the best. Because a life without hope isn’t a life lived at all.

Roark reached for the 'link again, cursed himself for a fool, then turned away from it. He wasn’t going to keep calling her, her friends, her haunts, hoping for a scrap. Bugger that. She’d be home when she came home. Or she wouldn’t. Christ Jesus, where was she? Why the hell was she putting him through this? He’d done nothing to earn it. God knew he’d done plenty along the way to earn her wrath, but not this time. Not this way. Still, that look on her face that morning had etched itself in his head, on his heart, into his guts. He couldn’t burn it out. He’d seen that look once or twice before, but not on his account. He’d seen it when they’d gone to that fucking room in Dallas where she’d once suffered beyond reason. He’d seen it when she tore out of a nightmare. Didn’t she know he’d cut off his own hand before he’d put that look on her face? She bloody well should know it. Should know him. This was her own doing, and she’d best get her stubborn ass home right quick so they could have this out as they were supposed to have things out. She could kick something. Punch something. Punch him if that would put an end to it. A good rage, that’s what was needed here, he told himself, then they’d be done with this nonsense once and for all. Where the fucking hell was she? He considered his own rage righteous, deserved—and struggled not to acknowledge it hid a sick panic that she didn’t mean to come back to him. She’d damn well come back, he thought furiously. If she thought she could do otherwise, he had a bulletin for her. He’d hunt her down, by Christ, he would, and he’d drag her back where she belonged. Goddamn it all, he needed her back where she belonged. He paced the parlor like a cat in a cage, praying as he rarely prayed, for the remote in his pocket to beep, signaling the gates had opened. And she was coming home.

And to my father: You never got the chance to see these words, to know about this book in all its detail. Truthfully, I don’t know if you would’ve liked it, and I don’t know if you would’ve liked me, but we’ll never really know, will we? You only told me that you wanted me to be the next J. K. Rowling. And while I’m not sure I’d want that, I hope this is close enough.

Seriously, sometimes I have to pinch myself. Whatever I did in this life to deserve you I have no idea. But I’m hoping God doesn’t realize the mistake anytime soon. You really are the best.

Eisenhower has been much criticized for his failure publicly to endorse the Court's decision. But he felt that doing so would set an undesirable precedent. If a president endorsed decisions he agreed with, might he feel compelled to oppose decisions he did not agree with? And what would that do to the rule of law? "The Supreme Court has spoken and I am sworn to uphold ... the constitutional processes.... I will obey."3

We are a very selfish species. We might say we do things for one reason or another, but when push comes to shove, we do what we do for one specific reason —to put ourselves ahead. When a relationship falls apart and one person says it's for the best,, they're really just looking out for their own best interest. I began to protest, but he just continued on. "When you offer someone your space in line at the coffee shop, it's not out of the goodness of your heart. It's because you were hoping that person would notice you, or you wanted to be closer to the person behind them. Nothing we ever do is selfless. We love ourselves first.

Do either of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. . . 

Oh, but Barack Obama was no mere man. He was a paragon of intelligence and civilized society. A savior to the world’s depressed. A lightbringer. A genius thinking thoughts the common man could never hope to comprehend. And his words—his beautiful words read from crystal panes—reached down to our souls and told us all would be well. With the simple act of casting a ballot for Barack Obama, we could make the world an immeasurably better place—a world of peace, of love, of understanding, of unicorns, of rainbows, of expanded entitlements. This was his promise. And now, having had him as president for more than two years, we can say without reservation that he has delivered all his promises and more and is the best president this country—or any country—has ever had or could even imagine to have.

Personal happiness is an end game; it is not an immediate necessity. A person whom attains lasting happiness will necessarily endure many hardships. People earn happiness by courageously braving the storms of life, instead of merely existing. A person must steep oneself in the type of experiences that girds one when times on the streets are the meanest. I will garner a comforting sense of self-satisfaction from taking the longer and more difficult road to personal happiness. I can never again work exclusively for money. I shall seek truth wherever it exists, muster the courage to plunge along headfirst without fear, maintain personal dreams when all hope seems lost, and adamantly refuse to be mollified or satisfied with anything less than my very best work. I will dedicate personal efforts to mining my substratum while maintaining a diligent stewardship of a cherished central individuality.

Normally, when the petitions from the citizens reached the Public-1 Section, for twenty petitions to get a decision, it used to take seven days, but after the implementation of e-governance it took only five hours to clear forty petitions. I hope one can see such systems in many more state and central government offices.

The sequel [to The Silmarillion and The Hobbit], The Lord of the Rings, much the largest, and I hope also in proportion the best, of the entire cycle, concludes the whole business – an attempt is made to include in it, and wind up, all the elements and motives of what has preceded: elves, dwarves, the Kings of Men, heroic ‘Homeric’ horsemen, orcs and demons, the terrors of the Ring-servants and Necromancy, and the vast horror of the Dark Throne, even in style it is to include the colloquialism and vulgarity of Hobbits, poetry and the highest style of prose. We are to see the overthrow of the last incarnation of Evil, the unmaking of the Ring, the final departure of the Elves, and the return in majesty of the true King, to take over the Dominion of Men, inheriting all that can be transmitted of Elfdom in his high marriage with Arwen daughter of Elrond, as well as the lineal royalty of Númenor. But as the earliest Tales are seen through Elvish eyes, as it were, this last great Tale, coming down from myth and legend to the earth, is seen mainly though the eyes of Hobbits: it thus becomes in fact anthropocentric. But through Hobbits, not Men so-called, because the last Tale is to exemplify most clearly a recurrent theme: the place in ‘world politics’ of the unforeseen and unforeseeable acts of will, and deeds of virtue of the apparently small, ungreat, forgotten in the places of the Wise and Great (good as well as evil). A moral of the whole (after the primary symbolism of the Ring, as the will to mere power, seeking to make itself objective by physical force and mechanism, and so also inevitably by lies) is the obvious one that without the high and noble the simple and vulgar is utterly mean; and without the simple and ordinary the noble and heroic is meaningless.

That’s not even the best part!” “There’s a ‘best part’?” the Crown Prince said, face caught between a wince and a smile. Chaol glared at her before speaking. “There’s no hope of escaping from Endovier. Your father made sure that each of Endovier’s sentries could shoot a squirrel from two hundred paces away. To attempt to flee is suicide.” “But you’re alive,” the prince said to her. Celaena’s smile faded as the memory struck her. “Yes.” “What happened?” Dorian asked. Her eyes turned cold and hard. “I snapped.” “That’s all you have to offer as an explanation for what you did?” Captain Westfall demanded. “She killed her overseer and twenty-three sentries before they caught her. She was a finger’s tip from the wall before the guards knocked her unconscious.” “So?” Dorian said. Celaena seethed. “So? Do you know how far the wall is from the mines?” He gave her a blank look. She closed her eyes and sighed dramatically. “From my shaft, it was three hundred sixty-three feet. I had someone measure.” “So?” Dorian repeated. “Captain Westfall, how far do slaves make it from the mines when they try to escape?” “Three feet,” he muttered. “Endovier sentries usually shoot a man down before he’s moved three feet.

we think that we have spiritual life in ourselves—that we are worthy of God’s acceptance, or that we can be good enough to earn God’s approval if we just try a little harder, or that God knows we are doing our best and will accept our good intentions—we reject God’s testimony about the indispensability of Jesus and call Him a liar. The testimony is that we are hopelessly wicked, spiritually dead, and without hope apart from God’s intervention.

Did you just say you got away from the Snatchers with a spare wand?” “What?” said Ron, who had been watching Hermione examining the locket. “Oh--oh yeah.” He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack and pulled a short, dark wand out of its pocket. “Here. I figured it’s always handy to have a backup.” “You were right,” said Harry, holding out his hand. “Mine’s broken.” “You’re kidding?” Ron said, but at that moment Hermione got to her feet, and he looked apprehensive again. Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag, then climbed back into her bed and settled down without another word. Ron passed Harry the new wand. “About the best you could hope for, I think,” murmured Harry. “Yeah,” said Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?” “I still haven’t ruled it out,” came Hermione’s muffled voice from beneath her blankets, but Harry saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.

The thing is,” said J. Karacehennem, whose last name was Turkish for Black Hell, “that we’ve spent like, what, two or three hundred years wrestling with existentialism, which really is just a way of asking, Why are we on this planet? Why are people here? Why do we lead our pointless lives? All the best philosophical and novelistic minds have tried to answer these questions and all the best philosophical and novelistic minds have failed to produce a working answer. Facebook is amazing because finally we understand why we have hometowns and why we get into relationships and why we eat our stupid dinners and why we have names and why we own idiotic cars and why we try to impress our friends. Why are we here, why do we do all of these things? At last we can offer a solution. We are on Earth to make Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg richer. There is an actual, measurable point to our striving. I guess what I’m saying, really, is that there’s always hope.

Chase took a long breath. “There’s no way around saying this, other than just coming straight out with it. I’ve been an idiot—an ass. Time and time again, I’ve done the wrong thing by you.” Her mouth dropped open. “And this whole time I’d been trying to do the right thing by not being with you. I didn’t want to betray Mitch by hooking up with his little sister. I didn’t want to somehow mess up our friendship either, because you have been such a huge part of my life.” He took a deep breath. “And I never wanted to be like my father—to treat you like he treated my mom. And it was stupid—I get that now. Chad was right. Father never loved our mother, but it’s different for me—it’s different for us. It always has been.” The whole time he spoke, he never looked away from her. She opened her mouth to say something but he rushed ahead. “But all I’ve managed to do is screw things up. That night in the club…I wasn’t drunk.” Madison shifted uncomfortably. “I know.” “It was a lame excuse, and I’m sorry. That night—I should’ve told you how I really felt. And every night thereafter,” he said, taking a step forward. “I should’ve told you how I felt the night in that damn cabin, too.” Her heart swelled as hope grew in a tangle of emotions she could never unravel. All of this seemed surreal. Tears rushed her eyes as she reached behind her, grasping the edges of her desk. “And how do you feel?” Chase’s smile revealed those deep dimples she loved, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. “Aw hell, Maddie, I’m not good at this kind of stuff. You…you are my world. You’ve always been my world, ever since I can remember.” At Bridget’s soft inhale, Madison placed a trembling hand over her mouth. Stepping forward, he placed a hand over hers, gently pulling it away from her mouth. “It’s the truth. You are my everything. I love you. I have for longer than I realized. Please tell me my boneheadedness hasn’t screwed things up beyond repair for us.

Our hope does not rest in our love for Jesus, but in his love for us. Our love at the best is variable in its moods. To-day it glows with warmth and joy, and we say we could die for Christ; to-morrow, in some depression, we question whether we really love him at all, our feeling responds so feebly to his name. A peace that depends on our loving Christ is as variable as our own consciousness. But when it is Christ's love for us that is our dependence, our peace is undisturbed by any earthly changes.

two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction. “News?” asked the taller of the two. “The best,” replied Severus Snape. The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they marched. “Thought I might be late,” said Yaxley, his blunt features sliding in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. “It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be good?” Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron gates barring the men’s way. Neither

You're my first love. I knew that when you would always smile when you saw me, and it was like staring into the sun. You're my heart. You are my soul. I love Mom. She taught me kindness. I love Dad. He taught me how to be a good wolf. I love Joe. He taught me that strength comes from within. But you were my greatest teacher. Because with you I understood life. What it meant to love someone so blindingly and without reservation. To have a purpose. To have hope. I have been a big brother fro most of my life, and it's the best thing I could ever be. Without you, I would be nothing.

Ned and Mariel arrived at the stadium early, so he had time to relax amid the best artificial environment ever invented, and take in the aura. He knew people who felt that way about places like theaters and church, but to him, those settings were compromised by time and certainty. A play was never going to remove its most prominent actor halfway through act 1 due to ineffectiveness; a preacher would never crush the hopes of his flock and send them home disappointed a couple of Sundays a month. That’s why Ned loved baseball. It might break your heart, but you believed in it anyway. In a life of certainty, he cherished this elective relationship with peril.

Connor had become a doctor just two days ago—along with all of his friends. They were hand-selected at just three years old to undergo intensive medical training as part of a controversial experiment, called Kid Docs. In the past few years, the Kid Docs program had produced some of the best doctors in the entire country, if not the world. They had some of the lowest complication rates and the highest success rates, and they had developed innovative new procedures that saved lives that were previously unsalvageable. Connor hoped that he would be among the best doctors in the world someday. But right now, he was focused on only a single thing: saving this one man’s life.

We need so desperately to believe in a forever love--so much so that there’s an entire genre of entertainment dedicated to young lovers who persist against all odds, medical or fantastical or otherwise--that when it doesn’t happen, we fall a little bit to pieces. The spell is broken. Evil wins. Because that’s a true representation of reality, that loss of hope, that perversion of purity. That’s what we’re all living with anyway and seeing it represented in our entertainment reinforces what we already know to be true: there is no perfect love or life or quest or character. We’re all just fumbling along, trying to make the best of whatever it is we can find, whatever small comforts we can take, whatever compromise seems the least devastating.

Of the Poet’s Youth" When the man behind the counter said, “You pay by the orifice,” what could we do but purchase them all? Ah, Sandy, vou were clearly the deluxe doll, modish and pert in your plastic nurse whites, official hostess to our halcyon days, where you bobbed in the doorway of our dishabille apartment, a block downwind from the stockyards. Holding court on the corroded balcony, K. and I passed hash brownies, collecting change for the building’s monthly pool to predict which balcony would fall off next. That’s when K. was fucking M. and M. was fucking J., and even B. and I threw down once on the glass-speckled lawn, adrift in the headlights of his El Camino. Those were immortal times, Sandy! Coke wasn’t addictive yet, condoms prevented herpes and men were only a form of practice for the Russian novel we foolishly hoped our lives would become. Now it’s a Friday night, sixteen years from there. Don’t the best characters know better than to live too long? My estranged husband house-sits for a spoiled cockatoo while saving to buy his own place. My lover’s gone back to his gin and the farm-team fiancée he keeps in New York. What else to do but read Frank O’Hara to my tired three-year-old? When I put him to bed, he mutters “more sorry” as he turns into sleep. Tonight, I find you in a box I once marked “The Past.” Well, therapy’s good for some things, Sandy, but who’d want to forgive a girl like that? Frank says Destroy yourself if you don’t know! Deflated, you’re simply the smile that surrounds a hole. I don’t know anything.

Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.’ She sat down. Ron looked taken aback. ‘Er – all right.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.’ He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep. ‘Are you sure that’s a real spell?’ said the girl. ‘Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?’ She said all this very fast. Harry looked at Ron and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn’t learnt all the set books off by heart either.

The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair of us?” “‘Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,’” said Lupin calmly. Kingsley turned his wand on Harry, but Lupin said, “It’s him, I’ve checked!” “All right, all right!” said Kingsley, stowing his wand back beneath his cloak. “But somebody betrayed us! They knew, they knew it was tonight!” “So it seems,” replied Lupin, “but apparently they did not realize that there would be seven Harrys.” “Small comfort!” snarled Kingsley. “Who else is back?” “Only Harry, Hagrid, George, and me.” Hermione stifled a little moan behind her hand. “What happened to you?” Lupin asked Kingsley. “Followed by five, injured two, might’ve killed one,” Kingsley reeled off, “and we saw You-Know-Who as well, he joined the chase halfway through but vanished pretty quickly. Remus, he can —” “Fly,” supplied Harry. “I saw him too, he came after Hagrid and me.” “So that’s why he left, to follow you!” said Kingsley. “I couldn’t understand why he’d vanished. But what made him change targets?

In the weeks ahead, Oppenheimer, Acheson and Lilienthal did their best to keep the Acheson-Lilienthal plan alive, lobbying the bureaucracy and the media. In response, Baruch complained to Acheson that he was “embarrassed” that he was being undercut. Hoping that he could still influence Baruch, Acheson agreed to bring everyone together at Blair House on Pennsylvania Avenue on Friday afternoon, May 17, 1946. But as Acheson worked to contain the atomic genie, others were working to contain, if not destroy, Oppenheimer. That same week, J. Edgar Hoover was urging his agents to step up their surveillance of Oppenheimer. Though he hadn’t a shred of evidence, Hoover now floated the possibility that Oppenheimer intended to defect to the Soviet Union. Having decided that Oppenheimer was a Soviet sympathizer, the FBI director reasoned that “he would be far more valuable there as an advisor in the construction of atomic plants than he would be as a casual informant in the United States.” He instructed his agents to “follow Oppenheimer’s activities and contacts closely. . . .

The subtitle of this book is Spirituality and Strategies. In Reconciliation, I had proposed that reconciliation is more a spirituality than a strategy. It seemed to me that reconciliation had to be a way of living, had to relate to the profound spiritual issues that reconciliation raises and requires. To think of it only as strategy is to succumb to a kind of technical rationality that will succeed at best partially. Yet strategies cannot be dispensed with. Concrete experiences of struggling to achieve some measure of reconciliation require decisions, and those decisions must have some grounding. I still believe that reconciliation requires a certain spiritual orientation if it is to be successful. The challenge of reconciliation today is such that it requires an interreligious effort. Religious difference is sometimes the cause of social conflict; in all instances, religious people must find ways to work together to achieve reconciliation. What this book hopes to offer is the spirituality that will sustain Christians in their efforts to collaborate with others in that process.

Evie.” She glanced at Sebastian. Whatever she saw in his face caused her to walk around the bed to him. “Yes,” she said with a concerned frown. “Dearest, this is going to help you—” “No.” It would kill him. It was difficult enough already to fight the fever and the pain. If he was further weakened by a long bloodletting he wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer. Frantically Sebastian tugged at his tautly stretched arm, but the binding held fast and the chair didn’t even wobble. Bloody hell. He stared up at his wife wretchedly, battling a wave of light-headedness. “No,” he rasped. “Don’t…let him…” “Darling,” Evie whispered, bending over to kiss his shaking mouth. Her eyes were suddenly shiny with unshed tears. “This may be your best chance—your only chance—” “I’ll die. Evie…” Rising fear caused blackness to streak across his vision, but he forced his eyes to stay open. Her face became a blur. “I’ll die,” he whispered again. “Lady St. Vincent,” came Dr. Hammond’s steady, kind voice, “your husband’s anxiety is quite understandable. However, his judgment is impaired by illness. At this time, you are the one who is best able to make decisions for his benefit. I would not recommend this procedure if I did not believe in its efficacy. You must allow me to proceed. I doubt Lord St. Vincent will even remember this conversation.” Sebastian closed his eyes and let out a groan of despair. If only Hammond were some obvious lunatic with a maniacal laugh…someone Evie would instinctively mistrust. But Hammond was a respectable man, with all the conviction of someone who believed he was doing the right thing. The executioner, it seemed, could come in many guises. Evie was his only hope, his only champion. Sebastian would never have believed it would come to this…his life depending on the decision of an unworldly young woman who would probably allow herself to be persuaded by the Hammond’s authority. There was no one else for Sebastian to appeal to. He felt her gentle fingers at the side of his fevered face, and he stared up at her pleadingly, unable to form a word. Oh God, Evie, don’t let him— “All right,” Evie said softly, staring at him. Sebastian’s heart stopped as he thought she was speaking to the doctor…giving permission to bleed him. But she moved to the chair and deftly untied Sebastian’s wrist, and began to massage the reddened skin with her fingertips. She stammered a little as she spoke. “Dr. H-Hammond…Lord St. Vincent does not w-want the procedure. I must defer to his wishes.” To Sebastian’s eternal humiliation, his breath caught in a shallow sob of relief. “My lady,” Hammond countered with grave anxiety, “I beg you to reconsider. Your deference to the wishes of a man who is out of his head with fever may prove to be the death of him. Let me help him. You must trust my judgment, as I have infinitely more experience in such matters.” Evie sat carefully on the side of the bed and rested Sebastian’s hand in her lap. “I do respect your j-j—” She stopped and shook her head impatiently at the sound of her own stammer. “My husband has the right to make the decision for himself.” Sebastian curled his fingers into the folds of her skirts. The stammer was a clear sign of her inner anxiety, but she would not yield. She would stand by him. He sighed unsteadily and relaxed, feeling as if his tarnished soul had been delivered into her keeping.

Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.' 'Did Cassian tell you that?' He'd gone to Feyre, rather than here? 'No, but I can guess as much. He didn't want to keep anything from you.' 'My issue isn't with Cassian.' Nesta levelled her stare at Amren. 'I trusted you to have my back.' 'I stopped having your back the moment you decided to use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.' Nesta snarled, but Feyre stepped between them, hands raised. 'This conversation ends now. Nesta, go back to the House. Amren, you...' She hesitated, as if considering the wisdom of ordering Amren around. Feyre finished carefully, 'You stay here.' Nesta let out a low laugh. 'You are her High Lady. You don't need to cater to her. Not when she now has less power than any of you.' Feyre's eyes blazed. 'Amren is my friend, and has been a member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.' 'Is it respect that she offers you?' Nesta spat. 'It is respect that your mate offers you?' Feyre went still. Amren warned, 'Don't you say one more fucking word, Nesta Archeron.' Feyre asked, 'What do you mean?' And Nesta didn't care. Couldn't think around the roaring. 'Have any of them told you, their respected High lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?' Amren barked, 'Shut your mouth!' But her order was confirmation enough. Face paling, Feyre whispered again, 'What do you mean?' 'The wings,' Nesta seethed. 'The boy's Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labour, and it will kill you both.' Silence rippled through the room, the world. Feyre breathed, 'Madja just said that the labour would be risky. But the Bone Carver... The son he showed me didn't have wings.' Her voice broke. 'Did he only show me what I wanted to see.' 'I don't know,' Nesta said. 'But I do know that your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.' She turned to Amren. 'Did you all vote on that, too? Did you talk about her, judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your vote, Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?' Before Amren could reply, Nesta turned back to her sister. 'Didn't you question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a moody bastard for weeks? Because he knows you will die. He knows, and yet he still didn't tell you.' Feyre began shaking. 'If I die...' Her gaze drifted to one of her tattooed arms. She lifted her head, eyes bright with tears as she asked Amren, 'You... all of you knew this?' Amren threw a withering glare in Nesta's direction, but said, 'We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as any physical threat.' 'Rhys knew?' Tears spilled down Feyre's cheeks, smearing the paint splattered there. 'About the threat to our lives?' She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand cradling her abdomen. And Nesta knew then that she had not once in her life been loved by her mother as much as Feyre already loved the boy growing within her. It broke something in Nesta- broke that rage, that roaring- seeing those tears begin to fall, the fear crumpling Feyre's paint-smeared face. She had gone too far. She... Oh, gods. Amren said, 'I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.' Nesta couldn't bear it- the pain and fear and love on Feyre's face as she caressed her stomach. Amren growled at Nesta, 'I hope you're content now.' Nesta didn't respond. Didn't know what to say or do with herself. She simply turned on her heel and ran from the apartment.

A LITTLE BIT before Adeline made her unforgivable mistake, a billionaire named Sheryl Sandberg wrote a book called Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead. Sheryl Sandberg didn’t have much eumelanin in the basale stratum of her epidermis. In her book, Sheryl Sandberg proposed that women who weren’t billionaires could stop being treated like crap by men in the workplace if only they smiled more and worked harder and acted more like the men who treated them like crap. Billionaires were always giving advice to people who weren’t billionaires about how to become billionaires. It was almost always intolerable bullshit. SANDBERG BECAME A BILLIONAIRE by working for a company named Facebook. Facebook made its money through an Internet web and mobile platform which advertised cellphones, feminine hygiene products and breakfast cereals. This web and mobile platform was also a place where hundreds of millions of people offered up too much information about their personal lives. Facebook was invented by Mark Zuckerberg, who didn’t have much eumelanin in the basale stratum of his epidermis. What is your gender? asked Facebook. What is your relationship status? asked Facebook. What is your current city? asked Facebook. What is your name? asked Facebook. What are your favorite movies? asked Facebook. What is your favorite music? asked Facebook. What are your favorite books? asked Facebook. ADELINE’S FRIEND, the writer J. Karacehennem, whose last name was Turkish for Black Hell, had read an essay called “Generation Why?” by Zadie Smith, a British writer with a lot of eumelanin in the basale stratum of her epidermis. Zadie Smith’s essay pointed out that the questions Facebook asked of its users appeared to have been written by a 12-year-old. But these questions weren’t written by a 12-year-old. They were written by Mark Zuckerberg. Mark Zuckerberg was a billionaire. Mark Zuckerberg was such a billionaire that he was the boss of other billionaires. He was Sheryl Sandberg’s boss. J. Karacehennem thought that he knew something about Facebook that Zadie Smith, in her decency, hadn’t imagined. “The thing is,” said J. Karacehennem, whose last name was Turkish for Black Hell, “that we’ve spent like, what, two or three hundred years wrestling with existentialism, which really is just a way of asking, Why are we on this planet? Why are people here? Why do we lead our pointless lives? All the best philosophical and novelistic minds have tried to answer these questions and all the best philosophical and novelistic minds have failed to produce a working answer. Facebook is amazing because finally we understand why we have hometowns and why we get into relationships and why we eat our stupid dinners and why we have names and why we own idiotic cars and why we try to impress our friends. Why are we here, why do we do all of these things? At last we can offer a solution. We are on Earth to make Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg richer. There is an actual, measurable point to our striving. I guess what I’m saying, really, is that there’s always hope.

In the days that followed, Callum saw little of Mari. He forced himself to stay distant. Ignoring her came at a cost, but he did his best to respect her wishes. He had told her his feelings and she had rebuffed him. There was nothing to do but to wait. He hoped that she would change her mind, but days passed with no progress.

There is nothing like raising a child in a home filled with love and respect...to watch them blossom as an adult, filled with hopes and dreams and good intentions. Dedicated to our son, my coauthor, J.R. Matheson. We wish you all the best Justin! Love you.

Birsha, this is in your best interest!” I conveyed. “Go away Meddler, I have no business with you,” was the reply. “Should we break it down?” Michael asked preparing for mayhem. “No, he will not listen, this is on his head.” Gabriel assured. We left the city gates kicking the dust off our sandals. “Perhaps we shall have better reception from Bera?” I said but I had very little hope. As bad as the streets of Gomorrah were, the lakeside city was far worse.

The one thing a human-focused response to a major climate danger would not do is try to save ourselves by pursuing solar, wind, and biofuels. These are the worst-performing sources of energy we have, and if we were truly in desperate straits, we would go with something that works; we wouldn’t force everyone to use the worst and hope for the best.

Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

Prayer is the peculiarity of all real Christians now. They pray, for they tell God their wants, their feelings, their desires, and their fears; and they mean what they say. The nominal Christian may repeat prayers, and good prayers too, but he goes no further. Prayer is the turning point in a man’s soul. Our ministry is unprofitable, and our labor is vain, until you are brought to your knees. Until then, we have no hope for you. Prayer is one great secret of spiritual prosperity. When there is much private communion with God, your soul will grow like the grass after rain. When there is little, all will be at a standstill, and you will barely keep your soul alive. Show me a growing Christian, a going-forward Christian, a strong Christian, and a flourishing Christian, and I am sure he is one that speaks often with his Lord. He asks much, and he has much. He tells Jesus everything, so he always knows how to act. Prayer is the mightiest engine God has placed in our hands. It is the best weapon to use in every difficulty and the surest remedy in every trouble. Prayer is the key that unlocks the treasury of promises and the hand that draws forth grace and help in time of need. It is the silver trumpet that God commands us to sound in our time of need, and it is the cry He has promised always to attend to, even as a loving mother attends to the voice of her child. Prayer is the simplest means that man can use in coming to God. It is within reach of all – the sick, the aged, the infirm, the paralytic, the blind, the poor, and the unlearned. All can pray. It avails you nothing to plead lack of memory, lack of learning, lack of books, or lack of scholarship in this matter. As long as you have a tongue to tell your soul’s state, you may and ought to pray. Those words, ye have not, because ye ask not (James 4:2), will be a fearful condemnation to many in the day of judgment.

We have come to the end of our parade of cryptids. I hope you enjoyed every monstrous float. And I hope that you find some value in the idea that cryptids have significance beyond whether or not they physically exist: that they are symbols of hope that our planet is capable of unlimited surprises; that they can rally a spiraling town by bestowing both an identity and an economy; that they help preserve stories from history that would otherwise be lost. Seen this way, cryptids are more important culturally than scientifically. But the best thing about cryptids, for me, is that they’re just a lot of fun.

Acclaim for the past works of Charles Martin “Beautiful writing . . . offers hope and redemption without too-neat resolution.” —Publishers Weekly regarding Maggie “. . . charming characters and twists that keep the pages turning.” —Southern Living, regarding When Crickets Cry Southern Living Book-of-the-Month selection, April 2006 “How is Charles Martin able to take mere words and breathe such vibrant life into them? Each character is drawn with an artist’s attention to detail, beauty and purpose. Readers won’t want the story to end because that means leaving these lovable people who have become so much more than just a name in a book.” —inthelibraryreviews.net regarding When Crickets Cry “[The Dead Don’t Dance is] an absorbing read for fans of faith-based fiction . . . [with] delightfully quirky characters . . . [who] are ingeniously imaginative creations.” —Publishers Weekly “[In When Crickets Cry,] Martin has created highly developed characters, lifelike dialogue, and a well-crafted story.” —Christian Book Previews.com “Martin spins an engaging story about healing and the triumph of love . . . Filled with delightful local color.” —Publishers Weekly regarding Wrapped in Rain “[O]ne of the best books I’ve been asked to review, and certainly the best one this year!” — bestfiction.tripod.com regarding When Crickets Cry “Charles Martin has proven himself a master craftsman. Double the story-telling ability of Nicholas Sparks, throw in hints of Michael Crichton and Don J. Snyder, and you have Charles Martin.

Chapter 1 “Oh yes I see,” she muttered in her best detective voice. She leaned her hands on the windowsill and stared out the window. It was an ordinary day in her ordinary neighborhood. She had been staring out of her window for quite some time, just hoping to spot something suspicious. She wanted to have an adventure

I also believe that God’s love for each of us supersedes even the best explanations. . .

Has a festival of atrocity films ever been held? Every year at the Oscars ceremony, some might say. It seemed likely in the late 60s, but the new puritans of our day would greet such a suggestion with a shudder. A pity - given the unlimited opportunities which the media landscape now offers to the wayward imagination, I feel we should immerse ourselves in the most destructive element, ourselves, and swim. I take it that the final destination of the 20th century, and the best we can hope for in the circumstances, is the attainment of a moral and just psychopathology.

When I speak of a man "growing in grace," I mean simply this--that1 his sense of sin is becoming deeper, his faith stronger, his hope brighter, his love more extensive, his spiritual-mindedness more marked. He feels more of the power of godliness in his own heart. He manifests more of it in his life. He is going on from strength to strength, from faith to faith, and from grace to grace. I leave it to others to describe such a man's condition by any words they please. For myself I think the truest and best account of him is this--he is "growing in grace.

Do you believe in evil? Can someone be born bad? Nature versus nurture. And if so, can they change? Or is the best they can ever hope for to deny their nature, hide the darkness inside, try and fit in, act just like anyone else?

When you get to my age, you understand there are more unanswered and in life than not. The best you can hope for is a resolution you can live with.

We think that idols are bad things, but that is almost never the case. The greater the good, the more likely we are to expect that it can satisfy our deepest needs and hopes. Anything can serve as a counterfeit god, especially the very best things in life.

Rebecca Gleeson (an everyday schoolgirl on her way to school on the Monday morning eight o’clock train.) The Kingdom of Nought is a time tale legacy: accompanying her on the train Rebecca’s arch nemeses Rona Chadwick, the school bully. Rebecca a fan of poetry and fairy tales. “Tales of kindness and friendship.” She would say to herself. Rebecca was a reader of wonderful books that have a cult following. Unknown to Rebecca far away at the start of the universe dark and evil forces start to unbalance the natural order of day and night, good and evil. Weird things begin to happen as both Rebecca and Rona are transported back in time to The Kingdom of Nought to reinstate the benevolent balance within the kingdom. The adventure for the schoolgirls starts out strange and gets stranger, in the best way possible. Their meeting with the witch Sycorax is as creepy and evocative as you’d hope. The story combines mathematical realism with fantasy, blurring the edges in a way that high-lights that place where stories and real life convene, where magic contains truth. As you open the book and turn the pages you enter a strange place out-side time with amazing creatures and spectacular landscapes. An extremely addictive story that will take you to a magical place with a most unusual conclusion.

You don't get to ask questions,' I said, and he looked up at me, exhaustion and pain lining his face, my blood shining on his lips. Part of me hated the words, for acting like this while he was wounded, but I didn't care. 'You only get to answer them. And nothing more.' Wariness flooded his eyes, but he nodded, biting off another mouthful of the weed and chewing. I stared down at him, the half-Illyrian warrior who was my soul-bonded partner. 'How long have you know that I'm your mate?' Rhys stilled. The entire world stilled. He swallowed. 'Feyre.' 'How long have you know that I'm your mate.' 'You... You ensnared the Suriel?' How he'd pieced it together, I didn't give a shit. 'I said you don't get to ask questions.' I thought something like panic might have flashed over his features. He chewed again on the plant- as if it instantly helped, as if he knew that he wanted to be at his full strength to face this, face me. Colour was already blooming on his cheeks, perhaps from whatever healing was in my blood. 'I suspected for a while,' Rhys said, swallowing once more. 'I knew for certain when Amarantha was killing you. And when we stood on the balcony Under the Mountain- right after we were freed, I felt it snap into place between us. I think when you were Made, it... it heightened the smell of the bond. I looked at you then and the strength of it hit me like a blow.' He'd gone wide-eyed, had stumbled back as if shocked- terrified. And had vanished. That had been over half a year ago. My blood pounded in my ears. 'When were you going to tell me?' 'Feyre.' 'When were you going to tell me?' 'I don't know. I wanted to yesterday. Or whenever you'd noticed that it wasn't just a bargain between us. I hoped you might realise when I took you to bed, and-' 'Do the others know?' 'Amren and Mor do. Azriel and Cassian suspect.' My face burned. They knew- they- 'Why didn't you tell me?' 'You were in love with him; you were going to marry him. And then you... you were enduring everything and it didn't feel right to tell you.' 'I deserved to know.' 'The other night you told me you wanted a distraction, you wanted fun. Not a mating bond. And not to someone like me- a mess.' So the words I'd spat after the Court of Nightmares had haunted him. 'You promised- you promised no secrets, no games. You promised.' Something in my chest was caving in on itself. Some part of me I'd thought long gone. 'I know I did,' Rhys said, the glow returning to his face. 'You think I didn't want to tell you? You think I liked hearing you wanted me only for amusement and release? You think it didn't drive me out of my mind so completely that those bastards shot me out of the sky because I was too busy wondering if I should just tell you, or wait- or maybe take whatever pieces that you offered me and be happy with it? Or that maybe I should let you go so you don't have a lifetime of assassins and High Lords hunting you down for being with me?' 'I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear you explain how you assumed that you knew best, that I couldn't handle it-' 'I didn't do that-' 'I don't want to hear you tell me that you decided I was to be kept in the dark while you friends knew, while you all decided what was right for me-' 'Feyre-' 'Take me back to the Illyrian camp. Now.' He was panting in great, rattling gulps. 'Please.' But I stormed to him and grabbed his hand. 'Take me back now.' And I saw the pain and sorrow in his eyes. Saw it and didn't care, not as that thing in my chest was twisting and breaking. Not as my heart- my heart- ached, so viciously that I realised it'd somehow been repaired in these past few months. Repaired by him. And now it hurt. Rhys saw all that and more on my face, and I saw nothing but agony in his as he rallied his strength, and, grunting in pain, winnowed us into the Illyrian camp.

Good. Good,” He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and rocks back on his heels. “I’m doing alright. Got a divorce last summer.” My mouth opens, then closes. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? “Oh, um, sorry to hear that,” I glance around, hoping for a rescue. “No need, it was for the best,” the smile hasn’t left his face and it’s making me feel all sorts of weird. “Okay, well…” I plaster on my best smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow!” My exit is awkward as fuck, but I’m not in the right head space right now to talk to some guy about his divorce.

Still we shall have to try,’ said Frodo. ‘It’s no worse than I expected. I never hoped to get across. I can’t see any hope of it now. But I’ve still got to do the best I can. At present that is to avoid being captured as long as possible.

I read about inns,” he said. “In Pilgrims’ Tales, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn, where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It’s one of my favorites, although the abbot didn’t much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either.” He scanned the crowd excitedly. “Are there women here?” “No,” Hadrian replied sadly. “Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?

J-Just m-my throat,’ I stuttered, my lips quivering from the cold. ‘Let's get you out of here, then,’ Marcel said. He slid his arms under me and lifted me without effort-like picking up an empty box. His chest was bare and warm; he hunched his shoulders to keep the rain off me. My head lolled over his arm. I stared vacantly back toward the furious water, beating the sand behind him. ‘You got her?’ I heard Sam ask. ‘Yeah, I'll take it from here. Get back to the hospital. I'll join you later. Thanks, Sam.’ My head was still rolling. None of his words sunk in at first. Sam didn't answer. There was no sound, and I wondered if he were already gone. The water licked and writhed up the sand after us as Marcel carried me away like it was angry that I'd escaped. As I stared wearily, a spark of color caught my unfocused eyes-a a small flash of fire was dancing on the black water, far out in the bay. The image made no sense, and I wondered how conscious I was. My head swirled with the memory of the black, churning water of being so lost that I couldn't find up or down. So, lost… but somehow Marcel… ‘How did you find me?’ I rasped. ‘I was searching for you,’ he told me. He was half-jogging through the rain, up the beach toward the road. ‘I followed the tire tracks to your truck, and then I heard you scream…’ He shuddered. ‘Why would you jump, Bell? Didn't you notice that it's turning into a hurricane out here? Couldn't you have waited for me?’ Anger filled his tone as the relief faded. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘It was stupid.’ ‘Yeah, it was really stupid,’ he agreed, drops of rain shaking free of his hair as he nodded. ‘Look, do you mind saving the stupid stuff for when I'm around? I won't be able to concentrate if I think you're jumping off cliffs behind my back.’ ‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘No problem.’ I sounded like a chain-smoker. I tried to clear my throat and then winced; the throat-clearing felt like stabbing a knife down there. ‘What happened today? Did you… find her?’ It was my turn to shudder, though I wasn't so cold here, right next to his ridiculous body heat. Marcel shook his head. He was still more running than walking as he headed up the road to his house. ‘No. She took off into the water-the bloodsuckers have the advantage there. That's why I raced home- I was afraid she was going to double back swimming. You spend so much time on the beach…’ He trailed off, a catch in his throat. ‘Sam came back with you… is everyone else home, too?’ I hoped they weren’t still out searching for her. ‘Yeah. Sort of.’ I tried to read his expression, squinting into the hammering rain. His eyes were tight with worry or pain. The words that hadn't made sense before suddenly did. ‘You said… hospital. Before, to Sam. Is someone hurt? Did she fight you?’ My voice jumped up an octave, sounding strange with the hoarseness. Marcel’s eyes tightened again. ‘It doesn't look so great right now.’ Abruptly, I felt sick with guilt-felt truly horrible about the brainless cliff dive. Nobody needed to be worrying about me right now. What a stupid time to be reckless. ‘What can I do?’ I asked. At that moment the rain stopped. I hadn't realized we were already back at Marcel’s house until he walked through the door. The storm pounded against the roof. ‘You can stay here,’ Marcel said as he dumped me on the short couch. ‘I mean it right here I'll get you some dry clothes.’ I let my eyes adjust to the darkroom while Marcel banged around in his bedroom. The cramped front room seemed so empty without Billy, almost desolate. It was strangely ominous-probably just because I knew where he was. Marcel was back in seconds. He threw a pile of gray cotton at me. ‘These will be huge on you, but it's the best I've got. I'll-a, step outside so you can change.’ ‘Don't go anywhere. I'm too tired to move yet. Just stay with me.

Another study summarized in Scientific American finds that gratitude is the single best predictor of well-being and good relationships, beating out twenty-four other impressive traits such as hope, love, and creativity. As the Benedictine monk David Steindl-Rast says, “Happiness does not lead to gratitude. Gratitude leads to happiness.

I tried to think and hope for the best, but it didn’t change who I was. It didn’t change my core, my desires, my actions, nor my life, for that matter. Did it matter how many nice thoughts I put out into the universe if I remained a self-centered prick? Did it matter how many “selfless” thoughts and deeds I had if the only reason I performed them was to benefit myself, or gain a better future for myself?

I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” (John 11:25–26 NKJV). That same Scripture passage reassures us that Jesus continues to be The Person of Hope The Power of Hope The Prerequisite of Hope The Promise of Hope The Permanence of Hope

While great negotiators can sometimes turn situations where there is a gap between buyer and seller MAOs, in many cases, the price gap is impossible to overcome and the likelihood of a deal is small. For that reason, we typically like to take one of two approaches to these types of negotiations: Go in with a very low offer (typically at or below your target price) in hopes of shocking the seller into realizing that his property is worth much less than he had thought. If he doesn’t walk away and is still willing to negotiate, there is a chance that he is more highly motivated than you had anticipated, and he may reduce his MAO. If we wanted to go this route for the example above, we’d likely pick an opening price bid somewhere in the $140,000 to $150,000 range. Communicate to the seller that you don’t want to insult him with a low price and that you don’t plan to make an offer. The seller will either thank you for your honesty (in which case there was no deal to be made), or the seller will ask you what your price would have been. If the seller is interested in what you would have offered, that’s an indication that he may be more motivated than we suspected, and again, may be willing to move off his MAO. If the seller asks you what your offer would have been, we typically will present the offer exactly as we did in the first example above, but indicate that we might have a bit of flexibility in that price.

I hope you deserve it. To be honest, you sound a wee bit unstable. Are you sure you’re good enough for her? You might have to convince me. After everything she’s been through, she deserves the best.” His voice drops. “And Christ, she’s exquisite. Those eyes. That body. That fire. No wonder you and Dimitri are so desperate to get her back.

I’ve never been good at making plans, Scarlet... even worse at keeping them. I kind of just get up and go and hope for the best.” “Any idea where you might be going?” “Depends.” “On what?” “On how long it takes you to quit beating around the fucking bush and tell me what it is you want,” I say. “Because the rate you’re going, I might not ever make it out of this chair.

A beautiful day might bring disaster, while a day that begins trapped inside an ancient tomb might be the best one of your life. If you don’t abandon hope on pleasant days, why do so on those that begin poorly?