James Reid Quotes

The love of my life is gone, and I can't just call her and say I'm sorry and have her come back. She's gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn't spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, 'I'm in love with Celia St. James!' and let them crucify me for it. That's what I should have done. And now that I don't have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly.

Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me.” Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, “Celia St. James.” The room is quiet as Evelyn lets herself hear her own words. And then she smiles, a bright, wide, deeply sincere smile. She starts laughing to herself and then refocuses on me. “I feel like I spent my entire life loving her.

Evelyn, who was the love of your life? You can tell me." Evelyn looks out the window, breaths in deeply, and then says, "Celia. St. James".

Angus reached the young woman to find that she was shaken more by the sudden fire than by the lion, as she had only seen it as it ran back to the mountain. Sliding from the back of the cob, he took the woman’s hand to calm her shaking. Quietly he introduced himself, and hesitantly she told him that her name was Elbeth, and she was the daughter of James Cameron.

I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, 'I'm in love with Celia St. James!' and let them crucify me for it.

James sighed. “Seriously, who thought up silent letters? Why include a letter if it’s silent? Just to fuck with dyslexics?

In many ways Churchill remained a nineteenth-century man, and by no means a common man. He fit the mold of what Henry James called in English Hours “persons for whom the private machinery of ease has been made to work with extraordinary smoothness.

I didn’t like anyone seeing what was mine unless his name was Houston Morrow or Loren James.

Celia St. James is going to ruin everything.

Jessica James, you’re going to have to get used to me wanting to take care of you and fix your troubles.” “I’m not a damsel. I don’t need rescuing.” “I know. You’re capable and stubborn, and I like that about you a whole lot. But maybe you could pretend to be a little less capable from time to time?” “To what end?” “So I get to feel good about rescuing you.

But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James.

That’s when I started to take a liking to Celia St. James.

I was the sort of beautiful that women knew they could never truly emulate. Men knew they would never even get close to a woman like me. Ruby was the elegant, aloof sort of beauty. Ruby was cool. Ruby was chic. But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James.

It's worth all the pain, Now that I found myself back in your arms again.

You have to find a job that makes your heart feel big instead of one that makes it feel small." - James Grant, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

 I’m . . . concerned. You appear to be upset. What’s wrong?” His voice gentled and his eyes searched mine. “What’s happened? And what can I do to help?” I crossed my arms because my stupid heart was fluttering again. He caught me off guard. I was not at all prepared for Cletus Winston’s concern. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to bring y’all muffins. Can’t I bring y’all muffins?” He was scrutinizing me again. “No. Something’s off. Is it Jackson James? Do I need to maim him? Because I will. I could give him leprosy, you know. Armadillos are carriers.” My mouth fell open and a bubble of laughter emerged unchecked. “Cletus Winston, you will do no such thing.” “Sheriff’s deputy or not. Just say the word. It might improve him, actually.” “You are terrible.” I laughed, even though he was terrible, and I felt terrible laughing at such a terrible joke. At least, I hope it’s a joke

I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done.

But still. She can say it. She can say it to me. She can admit it, freely. Now. Here. "Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me." Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, "Celia St. James.

But still. She can say it. She can say it to me. She can admit it, freely. Now. Here. "Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me." Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, "Celia St. James.

And that is this: Evelyn Hugo was bisexual and spent the majority of her life madly in love with fellow actress Celia St. James. She wanted you to know this because she loved Celia in a way that was in turns breathtaking and heartbreaking. She wanted you to know this because loving Celia St. James was perhaps her greatest political act. She wanted you to know this because over the course of her life, she became aware of her responsibility to others in the LGBTQ+ community to be visible, to be seen. But more than anything, she wanted you to know this because it was the very core of herself, the most honest and real thing about her. And at the end of her life, she was finally ready to be real. So I’m going to show you the real Evelyn.

I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, "I'm in love with Celia St. James!" snd let them crucify me for it.

I grinned at Jessica James’s backside as she walked away because she had a big old brown grease stain on the left side of her skirt where I’d palmed her ass. “Damn, Duane, you got big hands.”Cletus sauntered up next to me, wiping his own hands on a rag. My grin became a frown and I shot my brother a look. “Don’t be looking at Jess’s ass.” I’m not looking at her ass. I remind you sir, she is my calculus teacher.” Cletus lifted his chin toward Jessica’s departing form. “I’m looking at the palm print on her ass.

You’re it, Jessica James. And that’s the truth. Not racing or going fast. Not fixing up old cars. I want to spend my life with you. And maybe that makes me wrong in the head and unhealthy, or old-fashioned, but when I think of my future and what I want, all I see is you.

The entire audience stared at me on-screen as I said, “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents!” But by the time Celia said, “We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” I knew it was all over for me. Everyone was going to walk out of this theater talking about Celia St. James.

Looking at this picture, I am struck by how beautiful my parents were together. James and Angela. I know what it cost them to build a life, to have me. A white woman and a black man in the early ’80s, neither of their families being particularly thrilled with the arrangement. We moved around a lot before my father died, trying to find a neighborhood where my parents felt at ease, at home. My mother didn’t feel welcome in Baldwin Hills. My father didn’t feel comfortable in Brentwood. I was in school before I met another person who looked like me. Her name was Yael. Her father was Dominican, and her mother was from Israel. She liked to play soccer. I liked to play dress-up. We could rarely agree on anything. But I liked that when someone asked her if she was Jewish, she said, “I’m half Jewish.” No one else I knew was half something. For so long, I felt like two halves. And then my father died, and I felt like I was one-half my mother and one-half lost. A half that I feel so torn from, so incomplete without. But looking at this picture now, the three of us together in 1986, me in overalls, my father in a polo, my mother in a denim jacket, we look like we belong together. I don’t look like I am half of one thing and half of another but rather one whole thing, theirs. Loved.

I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done. And now that I don’t have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly.

That I know I use people. I’m fine with the idea of using people. And all of that energy that you spend trying to convince yourself that you’re not using people I spend getting better at it.” “And you’re proud of that?” “I’m proud of where it’s gotten me.” “Are you using me? Now?” “If I was, you’d never know.” “That’s why I’m asking.

Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me.” Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, “Celia St. James.” The room is quiet as Evelyn lets herself hear her own words. And then she smiles, a bright, wide, deeply sincere smile. She starts laughing to herself and then refocuses on me. “I feel like I spent my entire life loving her.

Evelyn looks me in the eye, and I know she needs one more tiny push. “It’s OK, Evelyn. Really.” It’s a big deal. But it is OK. Things are different now from how they were then. Although still not entirely safe, either, I have to admit. But still. She can say it. She can say it to me. She can admit it, freely. Now. Here. “Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me.” Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, “Celia St. James.

Looking at this picture, I am struck by how beautiful my parents were together. James and Angela. I know what it cost them to build a life, to have me. A white woman and a black man in the early ’80s, neither of their families being particularly thrilled with the arrangement. We moved around a lot before my father died, trying to find a neighborhood where my parents felt at ease, at home. My mother didn’t feel welcome in Baldwin Hills. My father didn’t feel comfortable in Brentwood

Sir James Fergusson MP presided over a Highway Protection League meeting at the Westminster Palace Hotel in London in 1905, where delegates were told “the reckless conduct” of some motorists amounted to “tyranny on the highways” which was “shameful.” Motorists were getting away with murder, the meeting heard: “The old legal maxim that if a man fired a gun into a street and killed a person without meaning to do so he was guilty of murder, should be applied to motor drivers who recklessly [rode] down inoffensive people.

The love of my life is gone, and I can’t just call her and say I’m sorry and have her come back. She’s gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done. And now that I don’t have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly. But that’s a luxury. You can do that when you’re rich and famous. You can decide that wealth and renown are worthless when you have them. Back then, I still thought I had all the time I needed to do everything I wanted. That if I just played my cards right, I could have it all.

The love of my life is gone, and I can’t just call her and say I’m sorry and have her come back. She’s gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done

Evelyn looks at me as if I am stupid. “She’s gone now,” Evelyn says. “The love of my life is gone, and I can’t just call her and say I’m sorry and have her come back. She’s gone forever. So yes, Monique, that is something I do regret. I regret every second I didn’t spend with her. I regret every stupid thing I did that caused her an ounce of pain. I should have chased her down the street the day she left me. I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted, ‘I’m in love with Celia St. James!’ and let them crucify me for it. That’s what I should have done. And now that I don’t have her, and I have more money than I could ever use in this lifetime, and my name is cemented in Hollywood history, and I know how hollow it is, I am kicking myself for every single second I chose it over loving her proudly. But that’s a luxury. You can do that when you’re rich and famous. You can decide that wealth and renown are worthless when you have them. Back then, I still thought I had all the time I needed to do everything I wanted. That if I just played my cards right, I could have it all.

O amor da minha vida partiu e não posso simplesmente telefonar-lhe e dizer-lhe que tenho muita pena e fazer com que ela volte. Ela foi-se para sempre. Portanto, sim, Monique, isso é algo de que me arrependo. Lamento cada segundo que não passei com ela. Arrependo-me de cada coisa estúpida que fiz que lhe causou um pingo de dor. Deveria tê-la perseguido pela rua no dia em que ela me deixou. Deveria ter-lhe implorado que ficasse. Deveria ter pedido desculpa e enviado rosas, e deveria ter ido para cima das letras do letreiro de Hollywood e gritar: Estou apaixonada pela Celia St. James! e deixá-los crucificar-me por isso. Isso era o que eu deveria ter feito. E agora que não a tenho e tenho mais dinheiro do que alguma vez poderia gastar nesta vida, e que o meu nome está cimentado na história de Hollywood, e que sei como tudo é oco, martirizo-me por cada segundo que escolhi isso em vez de amá-la com todo o orgulho.

There’s the early marriage that ended in divorce when she was eighteen. Then the studio-setup courtship and tumultuous marriage to Hollywood royalty Don Adler. The rumors that she left him because he beat her. Her comeback in a French New Wave film. The quickie Vegas elopement with singer Mick Riva. Her glamorous marriage to the dapper Rex North, which ended in both of them having affairs. The beautiful love story of her life with Harry Cameron and the birth of their daughter, Connor. Their heartbreaking divorce and her very quick marriage to her old director Max Girard. Her supposed affair with the much younger Congressman Jack Easton, which ended her relationship with Girard. And finally, her marriage to financier Robert Jamison, rumored to have at least been inspired by Evelyn’s desire to spite former costar—and Robert’s sister—Celia St. James. All of her husbands have passed away, leaving Evelyn as the only one with insight into those relationships.

Here we introduce the nation's first great communications monopolist, whose reign provides history's first lesson in the power and peril of concentrated control over the flow of information. Western Union's man was one Rutherford B. Hates, an obscure Ohio politician described by a contemporary journalist as "a third rate nonentity." But the firm and its partner newswire, the Associated Press, wanted Hayes in office, for several reasons. Hayes was a close friend of William Henry Smith, a former politician who was now the key political operator at the Associated Press. More generally, since the Civil War, the Republican Party and the telegraph industry had enjoyed a special relationship, in part because much of what were eventually Western Union's lines were built by the Union Army. So making Hayes president was the goal, but how was the telegram in Reid's hand key to achieving it? The media and communications industries are regularly accused of trying to influence politics, but what went on in the 1870s was of a wholly different order from anything we could imagine today. At the time, Western Union was the exclusive owner of the nationwide telegraph network, and the sizable Associated Press was the unique source for "instant" national or European news. (It's later competitor, the United Press, which would be founded on the U.S. Post Office's new telegraph lines, did not yet exist.) The Associated Press took advantage of its economies of scale to produce millions of lines of copy a year and, apart from local news, its product was the mainstay of many American newspapers. With the common law notion of "common carriage" deemed inapplicable, and the latter day concept of "net neutrality" not yet imagined, Western Union carried Associated Press reports exclusively. Working closely with the Republican Party and avowedly Republican papers like The New York Times (the ideal of an unbiased press would not be established for some time, and the minting of the Time's liberal bona fides would take longer still), they did what they could to throw the election to Hayes. It was easy: the AP ran story after story about what an honest man Hayes was, what a good governor he had been, or just whatever he happened to be doing that day. It omitted any scandals related to Hayes, and it declined to run positive stories about his rivals (James Blaine in the primary, Samuel Tilden in the general). But beyond routine favoritism, late that Election Day Western Union offered the Hayes campaign a secret weapon that would come to light only much later. Hayes, far from being the front-runner, had gained the Republican nomination only on the seventh ballot. But as the polls closed his persistence appeared a waste of time, for Tilden, the Democrat, held a clear advantage in the popular vote (by a margin of over 250,000) and seemed headed for victory according to most early returns; by some accounts Hayes privately conceded defeat. But late that night, Reid, the New York Times editor, alerted the Republican Party that the Democrats, despite extensive intimidation of Republican supporters, remained unsure of their victory in the South. The GOP sent some telegrams of its own to the Republican governors in the South with special instructions for manipulating state electoral commissions. As a result the Hayes campaign abruptly claimed victory, resulting in an electoral dispute that would make Bush v. Gore seem a garden party. After a few brutal months, the Democrats relented, allowing Hayes the presidency — in exchange, most historians believe, for the removal of federal troops from the South, effectively ending Reconstruction. The full history of the 1876 election is complex, and the power of th

I remember sitting out on our rooftop patio, looking southward, and realizing that Celia, Harry, John, and I weren’t alone. It seems silly to say now, but I was so . . . self-involved, so singularly focused, that I rarely took time to think of the people out there like myself.

It is a most remarkable disguise,” he said, keeping his tone low and careful. The odd creature opened the notebook, pencil poised to write. “In what way, Your Grace?” Unflappable. Those bright green eyes met his unflinchingly. Audacious. The mouth smiled as if in challenge. Or was it a taunt? Daring. Those brows arched in a challenge. Foolish. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, surprising James. “Why are you dressed as a gentleman?” “Why do you stand so close when you must know it is socially scandalous?” Southby asked, eyes gleaming with decided mystery and cunning. That look of calculation had James staring at Southby intently. “No denial?” Those lips quirked. “Have you considered I might be an extraordinarily attractive gentleman?” “You have a very complicated neckcloth knotted at your throat.

Call me James.” A soft breath rushed out of her. “I cannot—” “I grow tired of this incessant ‘Your Grace’ business.” “Very well,” she said a trifle pertly. His gaze sharpened. “What is this?” “What?” “Your cheeks are rather flushed and your eyes suspiciously bright.” He leaned slowly, deliberately, almost leisurely toward her, and her heart kicked a furious rhythm. The duke ran his nose across her cheeks. “It is quite fascinating how your scent changes. Earlier you smelled like the forest itself, now you smell like caramel and lavender.” “You should really learn to keep your nose to yourself,

What are you thinking now, James?” “That I want my Wildflower to touch me and that perhaps I wish to touch her as well. Skin to skin, without any gloves on our hands.

Touching reaffirms safety and security. That you were deprived for so long was incredibly painful, James. You no longer believe in many things…and it is quite normal that you would only allow those whom you perhaps…trust with that privilege. I understand why you have dismissed Monsieur Gillespie and I want you to know the rage you possibly felt, the disgust…is also normal, because he violated your boundaries.

James pulled his mouth from hers, breathing raggedly. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing a bit fractured. James dragged her into his lungs, dipping and sensually running his nose over the curve of her neck and down… Jules squeaked, her shock visceral when he went down to her navel and lower still to her quim. He pressed his nose to the space between her legs and inhaled. A fiery blush covered her entire body. “James!” “You are wet, Wildflower. And your scent…fuck!

You are not addled. You are lonely, perhaps feeling a hollowness that you do not understand. That empty feeling inside was born from being alone for so long without human touch or interaction…and because you had to use your will to conquer your fear of death and loss, you have exiled yourself from feeling. The more you share with me and your family the less alone you will feel, James. The more you allow touch…life will once again feel normal. I am here at Longbourn park to help you realize this, but I am here tonight in this tree cottage because I want to be with you.

Do you truly believe there will be a time that James…that he will return to the lad we all knew and love?” Jules folded her hands behind her back. “No.” The countess snapped her regard to Jules, her eyes widening. “I beg your pardon?” “Harsh experiences have shaped your nephew, my lady. How can he be the same? Are you the same lady as you were ten years ago? I doubt it. Perhaps the family can learn to accept the changes presented and love him still for it,” she said gently.

James,” she gasped softly, her green eyes widening. “You are standing too close.” He stepped back. “Follow me, Southby.” James turned around and walked toward the main house. She walked beside him, holding her curiosity in check. Once inside the house, he went down the hallway to the library. He opened the door, stepped back, and allowed her to precede him inside. He closed the door with a snick, and she faced him. “What is it that you…oh!” He snagged his hand around her waist and drew her against his body. He didn’t need to tell her of the need pummeling him. His Wildflower seemed to understand because she flowed against his body, wrapping her arms around his nape. Their mouths came together in a burning kiss. James became lost in her taste, scent, and the sounds of startled pleasure she made, as if with each kiss she uncovered something wonderful.

Wences took notice as the big names showed their faces: Twitter’s chief executive, Dick Costolo; LinkedIn’s founder Reid Hoffman; Rupert Murdoch’s son, James; and perhaps the most recognizable venture capitalist in Silicon Valley, Marc Andreessen, an enormous man with a shiny bald head.

Pretending Tina Patterson was Jessica James was like pretending tofu was steak.

I made a list of what needed to be picked up from the grocery store for dinner. Making lists helped. Cletus had taught me to do that. Not many people knew, but Cletus had a terrible temper. As a kid his tantrums were legendary, and as a teenager his rage made him blind. He kept it all locked up now by making mental lists whenever he felt the urge to pummel someone. Of course, he also hatched maniacal plans of revenge against anyone who crossed him. Beau and I often considered giving Cletus a hairless cat as a present, so his James Bond supervillain image would be complete.

I know you’ve probably been too busy to think about my problem, but I’d appreciate your advice,” she said, stirring the tea. “Which problem would that be?” I assumed she meant Jackson James, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. That guy . . . what a little shit. The more I thought about him approaching Jennifer while she was on a date with Billy, the more I wanted to step up my armadillo infestation plans. Or maybe just beat the tar out of him. Granted, her date with Billy had been fake, but Jackson was ignorant of that fact. Consequently, he was a shit.

Simon Baron-Cohen, The Science of Evil; Judith Beck, Cognitive Behavior Therapy; Louis Cozolino, The Making of a Therapist; Kevin Dutton, The Wisdom of Psychopaths; James Fallon, The Psychopath Inside; Peter and Ginger Ross Breggin, Talking Back to Prozac; Robert D. Hare, Without Conscience; Kent Kiehl, The Psychopath Whisperer; Jane McGregor and Tim McGregor, The Sociopath at the Breakfast Table; J. Reid Meloy, The Psychopathic Mind; Dinah Miller, Annette Hanson, and Steven Roy Daviss, Shrink Rap; Daniel Smith, Monkey Mind; Scott Stossel, My Age of Anxiety; Martha Stout, The Sociopath Next Door; M. E. Thomas, Confessions of a Sociopath; and Robert Whitaker, Mad in America.

I am sad,’ said the Bishop of Orkney to Lord James Stewart as the tables were gently drawn and the floor cleared and the candied ginger passed from place to place. ‘I am sad because we live, you and I, on two sides of one river. And whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hart we both covet.’ ‘There is a remedy,’ said the Queen’s half-brother. ‘Is there? I doubt it,’ said Reid of Orkney. ‘There might have been, in the past. But this hart is ten years too young, I fear, for his destiny.

ghastly, high-pitched whining sound. This happened whenever it idled. The group of five jumped—obviously startled—and glared at me. Soon their glares morphed into wrinkled squints of befuddlement, their eyes moving over my appearance from my perch. It took them a few minutes, but they recognized me. Everyone in Green Valley, Tennessee knew who I was. Nevertheless, I imagined they were not expecting to see Jessica James, the twenty-two-year-old daughter of Sheriff Jeffrey James and sister of Sheriff’s Deputy Jackson James, dressed in a long, white beard sitting behind the wheel of an ancient Ford Super Duty F-350 XL. In my defense, it wasn’t my monster truck. It was my mother’s. I was currently between automobiles, and she’d just upgraded to a newer, bigger, more intimidating model. Something she could

A popular misconception is that decision analysis is unemotional, dehumanizing, and obsessive because it uses numbers and arithmetic in order to guide important life decisions. Isn’t this turning over important human decisions “to a machine,” sometimes literally a computer — which now picks our quarterbacks, our chief executive officers, and even our lovers? Aren’t the “mathematicizers” of life, who admittedly have done well in the basic sciences, moving into a context where such uses of numbers are irrelevant and irreverent? Don’t we suffer enough from the tyranny of numbers when our opportunities in life are controlled by numerical scores on aptitude tests and numbers entered on rating forms by interviewers and supervisors? In short, isn’t the human spirit better expressed by intuitive choices than by analytic number crunching? Our answer to all these concerns is an unqualified “no.” There is absolutely nothing in the von Neumann and Morgenstern theory — or in this book — that requires the adoption of “inhumanly” stable or easily accessed values. In fact, the whole idea of utility is that it provides a measure of what is truly personally important to individuals reaching decisions. As presented here, the aim of analyzing expected utility is to help us achieve what is really important to us. As James March (1978) points out, one goal in life may be to discover what our values are. That goal might require action that is playful, or even arbitrary. Does such action violate the dictates of either rationality or expected utility theory? No. Upon examination, an individual valuing such an approach will be found to have a utility associated with the existential experimentation that follows from it. All that the decision analyst does is help to make this value explicit so that the individual can understand it and incorporate it into action in a noncontradictory manner.

loving celia st. james was perhaps her greatest political act

Experts have been revered—and well paid—for years for their “It is my opinion that ... ” judgments. As James March has stated, however, such reverence may serve a purely social function. People and organizations have to make decisions, often between alternatives that are almost equally good or bad. What better way to justify such decisions than to consult an expert, and the more money he or she charges, the better. “We paid for the best possible medical advice,” can be a palliative for a fatal operation (or a losing legal defense), just as throwing the I Ching can relieve someone from regretting a bad marriage or a bad career choice. An expert who constructs a linear model is not as impressive as one who gives advice in a “burst” of intuition derived from “years of experience.” (One highly paid business expert we know constructs linear models in secret.) So we value the global judgment of experts independently of its validity. But there is also a situational reason for doubting the inferiority of global, intuitive judgment. It has to do with the biased availability of feedback. When we construct a linear model in a prediction situation, we know exactly how poorly it predicts. In contrast, our feedback about our own intuitive judgments is flawed. Not only do we selectively remember our successes, we often have no knowledge of our failures—and any knowledge we do have may serve to “explain” them (away). Who knows what happens to rejected graduate school applicants? Professors have access only to accepted ones, and if the professors are doing a good job, the accepted ones will likewise do well—reinforcing the impression of the professors’ good judgment. What happens to people misdiagnosed as “psychotic”? If they are lucky, they will disappear from the sight of the authorities diagnosing them; if not, they are likely to be placed in an environment where they may soon become psychotic. Finally, therapy patients who commit suicide were too sick to begin with—as is easily supported by an ex post perusal of their files.

Jackson James is taco night.

Evelyn, who was your great love? You can tell me.” Evelyn looks out the window, breathes in deeply, and then says, “Celia St. James.” The room is quiet as Evelyn lets herself hear her own words. And then she smiles, a bright, wide, deeply sincere smile. She starts laughing to herself and then refocuses on me. “I feel like I spent my entire life loving her.

And for the next two years he read more or less continuously the writings of the Scottish philosophers of common sense, Adam Smith, Thomas Brown, James Mackintosh, Thomas Reid, and especially Dugald Stewart. One of Emerson’s students later remembered that the way to please the young schoolmaster was to praise Dugald Stewart. Scottish Common Sense philosophy was the prevailing mode of thought at Emerson’s Harvard. It

I should have begged her to stay. I should have apologized and sent roses and stood on top of the Hollywood sign and shouted 'I'm in love with Celia St James!' and let them crucify me for it

Why would I want to live as a woman? A lady must see the man she loves as the great vast sky while she remains a speck on the fields below.” Jules opened her mouth to say more, but her voice caught in her throat, and she could not utter a single word. The only thing she felt was the harsh beat of her heart. It is so damn silly that I want you to be my sky, James. As if he knew what she thought, he said, “You would be the stars within any sky, Wildflower. Nothing less.

I will lay the world at your feet,” he vowed. “I only want the piece you stand upon, James.” “You’ll stand with me?” “Always.

He maintained later that he stopped seeing Fenton because he lost his insurance when he dropped out of graduate school, implying that if she’d kept seeing him, he wouldn’t have committed the Century 16 murders.

Blaming the shootings on the doctors or lack of money doesn’t wash, of course. It’s a ridiculous rationalization, or just crazy. Holmes admits that Drs. Fenton and Feinstein offered to see him regardless of insurance and that he had plenty of money and additional support from his parents. Bob and Arlene had told him clearly that money was no problem when it came to getting psychiatric help.

To those who don’t understand why Fenton or Feinstein didn’t simply put Holmes into a hospital whether he wanted to go or not: it just doesn’t work that way. Protection from unjustified confinement is a very important civil right in the United States.

My opinions about Holmes’s legal sanity were similar to Dr. Metzner’s: as of July 20, 2012, Holmes did not suffer from a mental disease or defect that prevented him from forming a culpable mental state. Regardless of any mental disorder or psychiatric symptoms he may have had at those relevant times, he knew that his shootings and killings would be, and were, illegal and socially wrong. He knew that others, including law enforcement officers and his psychiatrists, would try to stop him if they were aware of what he was planning to do. He knew the consequences to others, and to himself, of his actions, and he knowingly intended to carry them out in spite of their illegality and those likely consequences. He also understood the moral—as contrasted with legal—wrongfulness of his shootings and killings.

Thus far, I recognized 90 percent of those present. But I wouldn't say I was exactly friends with these people. In short, I wouldn't invite a single one of them—except Jethro, of course, maybe the sheriff and Janet James, perhaps the tuxedoed waiter—to my birthday.

Look at them—not the waitstaff, Sheriff James and Jackson.

The testing instruments Dr. Gray and Dr. Manguso used also had elements to uncover different kinds of malingering, lack of interest in answering, and random answers. “Malingering” is a more complicated concept than simply trying to look sick when one is actually well. Some people try to “fake bad,” to appear sicker or more mentally ill than they are. Others, including some criminal defendants who don’t like the idea of being called crazy, try to “fake good”—that is, to look normal.

I did not find, and don’t believe today, that Holmes met accepted psychiatric criteria for a diagnosis of schizophrenia or its even more serious cousin, schizoaffective disorder, at the time of the shootings.

You want someone to look at you like how Jenn looks at me,” I repeated, considering the words and all the information I had on Jackson James. He wasn’t a philanderer, but he was an indiscriminate baker.

Não é conveniente", Harry continuou, "que num mundo onde os homens ditam as regras a coisa mais desprezada seja a que representa a maior ameaça? Imagine se todas as mulheres solteiras do planeta exigissem uma coisa em troca de seus corpos. Vocês seriam as donas do mundo. Um exército de pessoas comuns. Só homens como eu teriam alguma chance contra vocês. E isso é a última coisa que esses cretinos querem: um mundo comandado por gente como eu e você." Eu dei risada, com os olhos ainda inchados e cansados de tanto chorar. "Então eu sou vagabunda ou não?" "Quem pode te julgar?", ele disse. "Todo mundo acaba se vendendo por uma coisa ou por outra. Pelo menos em Hollywood. Existe um motivo para ela ser Celia Saint James, compreende? Ela desempenha esse papel de boa moça há anos. Nós já não temos essa pureza. Mas eu gosto de você como é. Gosto do fato de você ser impura, competitiva, dura na queda. Gosto de Evelyn Hugo que vê o mundo do jeito que o mundo é, e parte para a briga para conseguir o que quer. Então pode pôr o rótulo que quiser nisso, só não mude certo? Isso, sim, seria uma tragédia.