James Walker Quotes

I think that’s what Toni Morrison and Alice Walker understand, the secret language of women. That it’s not a secret at all; men just don’t know how to listen.

Here in the last minutes, the very end of the world, someone's tightening a screw thinner than an eyelash, someone with slim wrists is straightening flowers...

Maybe you're getting into the rhythm of sailing life," says James. He looks out at the waves that are rolling in to lap against the dock. "You know, the tides going in and then out, the wind blowing east and then west, the high of a perfect day out on the water, the low of a thunderstorm or a wind that won't go your way.

Gabrielle turned to the others. “You heard her. Out. When Janet takes down the mean old witch, we can come back and dance on her entrails.” I needed to have a serious talk with Gabrielle.

There were more of them out there. More walkers. And I was being asked to step up and be... what? Some kind of Captain Heroism who would lead the boys in the Red, White, and Blue to victory? What was I getting myself into? This wasn't task force duty, this wasn't even SWAT-team level. I'd never even smelled anything this big before and now I was expected to train and lead a black ops team? How frigging insane was this? Why were they asking me? I'm just a cop. Where are the guys who actually do this for a living? How come none of them were here? Where's James Bond and Jack Bauer? Why me, of all people?

My heart is broken It is full of lettuce and celery ~ from "GACELA OF YOUNG LOVE SINGING", SINGERS AND WINNERS by Lyndon Walker.

the

Gabrielle and I in jeans and leather jackets,

H&M sent a notification to my phone that said two tops for the price of one, and believe me, that was not the case.

Don’t even think about it.” James’s voice was stony. “I would never, could never, turn you. Don’t go all Bella and Edward on me—it’s not like that, not at all.

I shrank back in my seat, feeling a sadness and regret for all those gay folks who paved the way for my generation.

No, I just don’t want to be an inconvenience,” I said. “I have this aversion to inconveniencing people, where I’d prefer to do literally anything other than that.

This is romance. Not like Rose who let Jack drown when there was room on the door. That’s not romance. That’s second-degree homicide. This is romance.” Julian smiled.

I better keep going with these. This here box contains a soccer field for a fish tank so your goldfish can play soccer. Quality, life-changing stuff.

No. Unfortunately my standards exceed the availability pool. It’s been that way for a while now.

The Walker towered over him like a half-built skyscraper with a bad attitude. Its bulbous silver head was home to so many weapons that Nick couldn't even count them. He couldn't even name half of them.

the real ‘twelve days of Christmas’ is a period in Christian theology that marks the span between the birth of Christ and the coming of the three wise men. It begins on Christmas Day and runs to January 6th.

When her husband recovered, it was to shout abusively at her…. Later, when she reflected on it throughout the tedious courtroom proceedings, she realized this was the moment she had irrevocably determined to divorce her husband.

Nurse Rebecca Walker held the wounded Union soldier by both shoulders, pressing with all her weight to keep him from jerking off the table. The man stared up at her with wild terror, biting down hard on a dirty cloth. Doctor Thomas Johnston stood at the lower

There was, however, a fundamental difference - namely, that Maggie Louise, at least at that point in her life, had the ability to be satisfied, which, while different from being happy, is essential in finding contentment. In this regard, there may be two kinds of people, or perhaps, more accurately, two extremes, and if so, Agee and Maggie Louise represented them.

Margaret [Arlo] was once asked how she felt about her life over the past fifty years. The look in her eyes revealed that she understood the true question: How is it that you continued over fifty years to be as poor as you were at the beginning? ... 'I'm rich-poor,' she said. 'You see, I got my son. I got my Bible. That's all I need. I don't treasure nothin' on earth.

Maggie Louise sat in a hardback chair, holding her baby brother, Squinchy, and her eyes fell upon Agee. There was something about the eyes of Maggie Louise that caught him the first time they met. They were 'temperature less, keen, serene, and wise and pure gray eyes,' Agee said, and they seemed to look everywhere and see into things. To look into the eyes of Maggie Louise was 'scary as hell, and even more mysterious than frightening,' said Agee. She knew she'd like him and he her.

Where, I wonder, should I have been over the long years across the world without the spasmodic, always unexpected, and totally reliable friendship of companions like Donald Wise, and Ralph Izzard, and Patrick O'Donovan, and David Holden, and Louis Heren, and Sam White, and Richard Scott, and René MacColl, and Stanley Uys, and Ted Levite, and David Walker, and Tim Baistow, and Stanley Burch, and a score more of their kind, at any moment liable to appear through the swing-doors of anywhere between Tuscaloosa and Tonkin and reduce chaos to the healing anodyne of a glass and the shared misfortunes of existence. (On journalism in "Point of Departure" page 80)

As painful as it was, reading about sexual violence toward Black women and girls helped me with necessary creative depictions. My book could not have been written without Harriet Jacobs’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye as well as Beloved, and Alice Walker’s The Color Purple—this last book is so special to me because Ms. Walker is a native of Eatonton, Georgia, the home of my maternal ancestors. (My mother was one of Ms. Walker’s teachers.) My mother—Trellie James Jeffers—published an early germinal essay about colorism in the Black community, “The Black Black Woman and the Black Middle Class,” which allowed me to witness (vicariously) intra-racist sexism in African American communities. Another essay by her, “From the Old Slave Shack: Memoirs of a Teacher,” offers historical background about Mama’s experiences attending segregated schools in Eatonton, Georgia, in the 1930s and 1940s, before attending Spelman College in 1951.

Documentaries     All My Loved Ones, directed by Matej Minac, 1999.     As If It Were Yesterday, directed by Myriam Abramowicz and Esther Hoffenberg, 1980.     The Flat, directed by Arnon Goldfinger, 2012.     Four Seasons Lodge, directed by Andrew Jacobs, 2008.     Generation War (Our Mothers, Our Fathers in the original German), directed by Philipp Kadelbach, 2013.     Hidden Children, directed by John Walker, 1994.     Hitler’s Children, directed by Chanoch Ze’evi, 2011.     Image Before My Eyes, directed by Josh Waletzky, 1981.     Imaginary Witness, directed by Daniel Anker, 2004.     Inheritance, directed by James Moll, 2006.     A Life Apart: Hasidism in America, directed by Menachem Daum and Oren Rudavsky, 1997.     The Nazi Officer’s Wife, directed by Liz Garbus, 2003.     Torn, directed by Ronit Krown Kertsner, 2011.     Triumph of the Will, directed by Leni Riefenstahl, 1935. Features     Defiance, directed by Edward Zwick, 2008.     In Darkness, directed by Agnieszka Holland, 2011.     Inside Hana’s Suitcase, directed by Larry Weinstein, 2002.     The Pianist, directed by Roman Polanski, 2002.     Sarah’s Key, directed by Gilles Paquet-Brenner, 2010.     Schindler’s List, directed by Steven Spielberg, 1993.     A Year of the Quiet Sun, directed by Krzysztof Zanussi, 1984.

I remember standing against the bar in Budapest’s airport with a couple of workmates, some chaps from McLaren too, waiting for our homeward flight to be called after the ’92 race weekend. The chap behind the counter was doing the exact same thing: halving and squeezing oranges. Funny how these things spark memories. It was an exceedingly hot afternoon that day, and I remember seeing James Hunt walk through the door with Murray Walker. We were waiting for the same flight, a charter to London; I think pretty much the whole of the paddock’s British contingent was on it. Murray looked perfectly normal . . . like Murray really . . . open-necked shirt, briefcase, what have you; but James was wearing nothing but a pair of red shorts. He carried a ticket, a passport and a packet of cigarettes. That was it. There wasn’t even a pair of flip-flops to spoil the perfect minimalist look. The thing that really made the event stick in my mind, though, was that James was absolutely at ease with himself, perfectly comfortable. This was real for him, no stunt or affectation designed to impress or shock, this was genuine: James Hunt, former world champion driver, current commentator for the BBC; work done for the day . . . going home. Take me, leave me; do what you bloody well want, just don’t give me a hard time about your own petty hang-ups. He became a hero of mine that day. Sadly, his heart gave out the following summer and that was that. He was only forty-five. Mind you, he’d certainly packed a lot of living into those years.

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ― Lao Tzu

If they could not prove adultery or extreme cruelty, Nina's attorneys had an alternate strategy available. Rhode Island was unique in allowing divorce based upon other, more ambiguous grounds, as well...[as] an omnibus clause in the state's legal code authorized divorce based upon..."gross misbehavior and wickedness in either of the parties repugnant to and inconsistent with the marriage contract"...the relative vagueness of the terms "gross misbehavior and wickedness" left room for interpretation by Rhode Island judges. Therefore, it was crucial NIna's attorneys prove she had legitimate standing to file for divorce in Rhode Island.

As a hedge against possible failure to prove adultery, this alleged “that for a period of time from 1901 and continuing thereafter he [had] kept up and continued an undue, improper, indecorous and licentious association and intimacy with a woman, named Mabel Cochrane, many years his junior, and of questionable character and immoral habits.”[i] Furthermore, Nina accused James of “bestowing upon and receiving marked and improper attention” beginning in the fall of 1901, “indulging in undue and improper familiarity and intimacy” with Mabel Cochrane.

Leaving James was not something Nina had thought possible, but if she could do so and still keep her children, it might be better for them, as well as for her.

It's Friday night in Winston Salem: Vernon Glenn tells it like it is about the city's wealthy establishment and its invisible underbelly. In this tongue-in-cheek morality tale, the wages of sin are lightened by Edward F. V. Tyrell, Esq., who slyly maneuvers between both worlds. Glenn's vividly painted characters reflect James Lee Burke's murky demimonde, Walker Percy's detached Southern aristocracy, and Michael Malone's wry humor.

Near our old apartment in Auburn, there is a trail of trees called the George Bengtson Historic Tree Trail, named after a white research forester and plant physiologist at the University of Auburn, Alabama. A great man, I’m sure. These trees are grafted from scions of heritage trees. Among the trees planted: Lewis & Clark Osage Orange. Trail of Tears Water Oak. General Jackson Black Walnut. General Robert E. Lee Sweetgum. Southern Baldcypress. Johnny Appleseed Apple Tree. Mark Twain Bur Oak. Lewis & Clark Cottonwood. Helen Keller Southern Magnolia. Amelia Earhart Sugar Maple. Chief Logan American Elm. Lincoln’s Tomb White Oak. John F. Kennedy Crabapple. John James Audubon Japanese Magnolia. No trees are named for Muskogee, the First People who died in the millions during epidemics, displacement, and land raids. Under the buildings and homes and replanted forests are remnants of Muskogee earthwork mounds, temples, and trenches, a complex network of pre-American cities. There is a single scion named for a northern Indian Iroquois, Chief Logan, another for the Trail of Tears, the only nod to the suffering of Indigenous people. There is no mention of Sacajawea, never mind that Lewis and Clark would’ve been lost in the American wilderness without her. George Washington Carver Green Ash is the only scion named after the Black inventor and scientist. No Black or Native women or femmes are named. No mention of a single civil rights leader, which Alabama birthed aplenty: Coretta Scott King, Rosa Parks, Angela Y. Davis. Imagine a Zora Neale Hurston Sweetgum or a Margaret Walker Poplar.

Think of learning to dance like learning to walk. You know when you're a toddler and you fall down? No one is like, 'You know, this walking thing isn't for you. Maybe you should just keep crawling because you're not a walker.' We shouldn't treat learning to dance any differently. We've all gotta go through awkward to get to cool.

The getting of treasures by a lying tongue is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death. —Proverbs 21:6, King James Version

The degree to which age was an issue in 1980 was illustrated by a pro-Bush scenario sketched out by James B. “Scotty” Reston of The New York Times: “George Bush’s hope is that Messrs. Reagan and Connally will knock each other out because they’re too old and that the party will have to turn in a convention deadlock to younger men.

No one lives on Hobe's Hill today. Only a few abandoned shacks remain. The land has greatly changed. When Walker Evans took his pictures, it was a grand, open place, full of cotton. Now forest has reclaimed the land. There is still some field, planted in soybeans, and this provides some sense of how things once were. These soybeans, as well as those down by the main highway, were planted by Joe Bridges and his son Huey. Amid the soybeans, the ground is stony, and the water-starved beans grow with more courage than success. This same dust was breathed by Fred Ricketts as he plowed behind the seat rump of a mule fifty years ago. He and his children stared at this ground as they chopped weeds and, later, hunched over the long rows to pick. They knew this same sun, this silence, the awful loneliness of this red plateau. The heat dulls the senses. Even sulfur butterflies, those neurotic field strutters, are slothful. The whole South seems under a hot Augustan pause--all the highways blurry beneath the burden of hear, be they four-lane marchers, two-lane winders, single-track dirt poems. From this hill, it's hard to imagine life going on in this hear anywhere across the six hundred miles of the South, in any of those terrible little towns...

(Proverbs 4:20-22 New King James Version) 20 “My son, give attention to my words; Incline your ear to my sayings. 21 Do not let them depart from your eyes; Keep them in the midst of your heart; 22 For they are life to those who find them, And health to all their flesh.

MS. WALKER,” YUKI said to her lovely looking witness, “do you know the defendant, Dr. Candace Martin?” “I’ve never met her. But of course I know who she is.” “Did you know her husband, Dennis Martin?” “Yes. I was seeing Dennis for a couple of years. Until about a month before his death.” Yuki tucked her hair behind her ears and said to Walker, “By ‘seeing’ Dennis Martin, do you mean you were having a sexual relationship

among my fellow sniper candidates. Even the instructors, who were supposed to be neutral third parties, had a bit of a love-hate relationship with me. It didn’t help that on my last stalk I got within a hundred yards of the observation post before firing my two shots and reading the card. One of the instructors had a walker—the living kind, mind you, not one of the undead—running around in circles, insistently telling him ‘sniper at your feet’ and getting negatives until he was fuming, spitting mad. The poor guy almost fell off his stool when I stood up.

Nina could scarcely believe a house could be as quiet as the one on Washington Street. Although there were moments when she missed her children, her main response to living apart from her husband was relief…[H]er current solitude was not just a respite, it was a time to contemplate her future options. Nina marveled that she had choices to consider.

Walker Evans said it was ‘a pet subject’ of his — how writers like James Joyce and Henry James were ‘unconscious photographers’.

James Agee and Walker Evans had collaborated on Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, and it had opened a window for me into the life of the sharecropper. “Dixie” was like a musical version of that book.

sometimes it is best to let sleeping dogs lie.

The horns blew, and Jesus came floating out of the damned sky like Magneto to save us all! How did you repay him? You shot him in the fucking face and he hit the ground! He hit that shit harder than Paul Walker driving through a Christmas tree farm! So, yes! Congratulations! You’re the Antichrist and your father was a psychic!

On September 29, the day after the James attack in Birmingham, the screen showed the arrival in Oxford of former Major General Edwin Walker, who, disciplined for insubordination, had resigned from the U.S. Army in flaming public protest against what he called the Kennedy Administration’s “collaboration and collusion with the international Communist conspiracy.” Walker already had gone on the radio to rally volunteers, confessing that he had been “on the wrong side” when he carried out Eisenhower’s orders to integrate Little Rock’s Central High School five years earlier. “Barnett yes, Castro no!” he declared. “Bring your flags, your tents and your skillets! It is time! Now or never!” Other cameras showed trucks and cars already cruising the streets of Oxford. Intelligence reports picked up Klan Klaverns mobilizing from as far away as Florida. Barnett’s desk was stacked with telegrams offering services to the defense of Mississippi.

Jerry Jeff Walker

If honesty is an aspect of humility (which I believe it is), and God gives grace to the humble (which I believe He does) (James 4:6), perhaps Walker’s honesty with his struggles was a big part of what would set him up to receive great grace in the days to come.

Don’t get cocky, Walker. It’s unbecoming of you.” Little do you know just how cocky I can be, woman. And I can’t wait to show you.

Sometimes you can look too deep and find all that's left are Dead Windows

He believed—and the judgement of most modern historians, such as Benjamin Quarles, Gary Nash, Sylvia Frey, Ellen Gibson Wilson and James Walker concurs—that at least thirty thousand had escaped from Virginia plantations in attempts to reach the British lines.

Abolitionists declared their first major victory in 1772 with the Somerset case, which was popularly interpreted as outlawing slavery in England. In ruling on the case, Lord Mansfield consulted with the great legal theorist William Blackstone, whose four‐volume Commentaries on the Laws of England (1765) was required reading for students of law in England and America and “ranked second only to the Bible as a literary and intellectual influence on the history of American institutions.” Blackstone's understanding of slavery was richly ambiguous. On the one hand, he argued that only a positive law sanctioning slavery could override the natural law of freedom. On the other hand, he suggested that in certain circumstances natural law could trump positive law. Although Lord Mansfield based his decision in the Somerset case primarily on the precedent of villeinage, arguing that slaves could not be treated worse than villeins and thus could not forcibly be removed from England, Blackstone nevertheless contributed to its antislavery interpretation. British lawyers defending the slave James Somerset relied on Blackstone to argue that slavery was contrary to natural law; and Lord Mansfield acknowledged this while ruling in their favor. Somewhat inadvertently, Lord Mansfield established a precedent for Blackstone's theory that slavery could be sanctioned only by positive law. According to the legal scholar Robert Cover, the Somerset decision “gave institutional recognition to antislavery morality.” It influenced the gradual abolition of America's northern states, including Vermont's Constitution of 1777 (the first constitution in history to outlaw slavery), and the Quock Walker case of 1783, which effectively ended slavery in Massachusetts. Blackstone's Commentaries, coupled with the Somerset decision, would contribute to the antislavery platforms and ideologies of the Liberty, Free‐Soil, and Republican parties.

Think of William James, one floor down, back in Philosophy, who once compared any attempt to study human consciousness to turning on a lamp in order to better examine the dark.

actually

face

A walking stick is no real use except to a lame man. The walker does not push himself along with it. He does not, when he sets out from home, expect to meet any one whom he wants to hit.

The individual most responsible for the triumph of the documentary style was probably Roy Stryker of the government’s Farm Security Administration (FSA), who sent a platoon of famous photographers out to record the lives of impoverished farmers and thus “introduce America to Americans.” Stryker was the son of a Kansas Populist, and, according to a recent study of his work, “agrarian populism” was the “first basic assumption” of the distinctive FSA style. Other agencies pursued the same aesthetic goal from different directions. Federal workers transcribed folklore, interviewed surviving ex-slaves, and recorded the music of the common man. Federally employed artists painted murals illustrating local legends and the daily work of ordinary people on the walls of public buildings. Unknowns contributed to this work, and great artists did too—Thomas Hart Benton, for example, painted a mural that was actually titled A Social History of the State of Missouri in the capitol building in Jefferson City.16 There was a mania for documentary books, photos of ordinary people in their homes and workplaces that were collected and narrated by some renowned prose stylist. James Agee wrote the most enduring of these, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, in cooperation with photographer Walker Evans, but there were many others. The novelist Erskine Caldwell and the photographer Margaret Bourke-White published You Have Seen Their Faces in 1937, while Richard Wright, fresh from the success of his novel Native Son, published Twelve Million Black Voices in 1941, with depictions of African American life chosen from the populist photographic output of the FSA.

Winter unwraps a parcel of stones For old and sick and sad, and homeless walkers

it reminded me of my mom. She wasn’t a bad person at all, and I don’t think she ever meant to be mean. Difficult yes, but not mean. She just wanted attention and love. But she never seemed to get what she needed, or it wasn’t enough, and so the drinking and then the drugs kind of numbed that, I guess. But she hated herself for it. That was the worst part—the guilt. She felt so bad about what she was doing to both of us that she needed to numb more. It was a vicious cycle, like you said.” “It’s a terrible place to be.” James looked out at the water. “Sometimes I think people who have problems like that are operating at a higher frequency than the rest of us. It definitely has its perils.” “What do you mean?” “People like your mom feel things more sharply. Life is hard when you’re like that—there are lots of pointy edges to run into. If you don’t have a thick skin, even little bumps can hurt like hell. I think that’s why people use. They’re trying to protect themselves from the pain.

His smile produced a dimple. A fucking dimple. Okay then. Hang up my lilac boots and cover me in carnations. It’s all over for me. Then, because I wasn’t dead enough, the fucker took off his glasses. He just took

them off and slid them onto his desk like he took out a machete and cut me in half. That’s how dead I was. He mowed me down in my fucking seat.

How are you at keeping secrets?” I sat forward, eyes wide, excited. “Absolutely terrible. Do not tell me anything.

It didn’t mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean, that

this sexy-AF grown-ass man doesn’t want to rearrange my intestines . .

You can read them in here.” His tone was his boss voice, deeper and final. My inner twink-who-wants-a-daddy sat up and took notice.

There was room on that floating door for Jack.” “Oh my god, I know, right?

It’s been four days, four long and awful days since you left. I didn’t know a human heart could feel like this. How does it continue to beat when it’s so broken? How does everyone keep living when it all feels so lost to me? I’m trying to keep my chin up like you said. To make my own life like you said.

Though it’s likely he knew I was nervous because I might have talked about the adobo at my favourite Filipino restaurant for ten minutes straight, with a very honourable mention to the dumplings from the corner noodle bar.

from the rest of my body. 404 Error. Erection Not Found.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it’s all cute now. Just wait a year when you’d rather stab yourself in the ear with an ice pick than have a conversation with me.

internal-me was banging on the side of my gaydar because there seemed to have been a glitch. Surely not.

but H&M sent a notification to my phone that said two tops for the price of one, and believe me, that was not the case.