Joan Smalls Quotes

My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrustive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests. And it always does. That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out.

It is the phenomenon somethings called "alienation from self." In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves - there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends. Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was. Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill. Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia. Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognise him. Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor. And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.

My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrusive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their interests. And it always does. That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out.

I was thinking as small children think, as if my thoughts or wishes had the power to reverse the narrative,

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough / without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Sometimes the gulls came nearer, screaming noisily as they quarreled over small fish in the pools, and sometimes they cried mournfully far away along the beach. Then Anna felt like crying too - not actually, but quietly - inside. They made a sad, and beautiful, and long-ago sound that seemed to remind her of something lovely she had once known - and lost, and never found again. But she did not know what it was.

When God fights, it’s of small consequence whether the hand that holds the sword is big or little.

We've got so much in this life that all we know how to do is want more. So we concentrate on the wrong things--things we can see--as being the measure of a person. We think if we win something big or buy something snazzy it'll make us more than we are. Our hearts know that's not true, but the eyes are powerful. It's easier to fix on what we can see than listen to the still, small voice of a whispering heart.

To be a white middle-class child in a small southern town must be on certain levels the most golden way for a child to live in the United States.

And when I say the Fashion Police, of course I’m speaking of the small group of screeching gay guys and fashion “experts” on that E! show led by the reanimated corpse of Joan Rivers.

The Eastern potentate who declared that women were at the bottom of all mischief, should have gone a little further and seen why it is so. It is because women are never lazy. They don’t know what it is to be quiet. They are Semiramides, and Cleopatras, and Joan of Arcs, Queen Elizabeths, and Catharine the Seconds, and they riot in battle, and murder, and clamour, and desperation. If they can’t agitate the universe and play at ball with hemispheres, they’ll make mountains of warfare and vexation out of domestic molehills; and social storms in household teacups. Forbid them to hold forth upon the freedom of nations and the wrongs of mankind, and they’ll quarrel with Mrs Jones about the shape of a mantle or the character of a small maid-servant. To call them the weaker sex is to utter a hideous mockery. They are the stronger sex, the nosier, the more persevering, the most self-assertive sex.

My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrusive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests. And it always does.

She was the right girl at the right time. She had only a small repertory of Child ballads, never trained her pure soprano and annoyed some purists because she was indifferent to the origins of her material and sang everything ‘sad’.

I’ve come to see that personal changes of any sort, big or small, can put our bodies and spirits in a state of shock. Left unprocessed, this shock sets down roots that wrap themselves around our souls and inevitably leave us with the ache.

What's wrong with the world," Nana explained, "is that people stopped listening to their hearts... "Not everybody stopped listening," she continued, "but enough people did to make a difference. We've go so much in this life that all we know how to do is want more. So we concentrate on the wrong things--things we can see--as being the measure of a person. We think if we can win something big or buy something snazzy it'll make us more than we are. Our hearts know that's not true, but the eyes are powerful. It's easier to fix on what we can see than listen to the still, small voice of a whispering heart." Nana turned her eyes on me like a vet looking for fleas: "A heart will say amazing things if it's given half a chance.

Everywhere you go you'll see highs and lows These things are just part of life and its flows It helps to understand that no place has it all So we should cherish our blessings, large or small

Our turn,” Joan whispers. She sparks to life a small sphere of light, maybe the size of a globe, right above the audience’s heads. And then she breathes life into it, slowly expanding it, like she’s blowing up the world’s most brilliant, glimmering balloon. I whisper beside her, “Incredible.” Because despite how dangerous magic can be—how it’s been used to hide murders, cover up robberies, send people spiraling into the throes of addiction—there’s just no denying that it is.

The small group hugged one another quickly. Although nothing was said, they knew this could be the last time they ever saw one another again. Saint-Germain kissed Joan before they parted. “I love you,” he said softly. She nodded, slate-grey eyes shimmering behind tears. “When all this is over, I suggest we go on a second honeymoon,” he said. “I’d like that.” Joan smiled. “Hawaii is always nice at this time of year. And you do know I love it there.” Saint-Germain shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere that has a volcano.” “I love you,” she whispered, and turned away before they could see each other cry.

And once it comes, now that I am wise in its ways, I no longer fight it. I lie down and let it happen. At first every small apprehension is magnified, every anxiety a pounding terror. Then the pain comes, and I concentrate only on that. Right there is the usefulness of migraine, there in that imposed toga, the concentration on the pain. For when the pain recedes, ten or twelve hours later, everything goes with it, all the hidden resentments, all the vain anxieties. The migraine has acted as a circuit breaker, and the fuses have emerged intact. There is a pleasant convalescent euphoria. I open the windows and feel the air, eat gratefully, sleep well. I notice the particular nature of a flower in a glass on the stair landing. I count my blessings.

There's a picture in When the Lights Go Down: A Short Illustrated History of Film of Alec Matto smoking in a chair in a room with a slice of light blaring over his head toward a screen we can't see. 'Alec Matto reviewing dailies for Where Has Julia Gone? (1947) in his private screening room.' Joan had to tell me what dailies are, it's when the director takes sometime in the evening, while smoking, to see all the footage that was filmed that day, maybe just one scene, a man opening a door over and over, a woman pointing out the window, pointing out the window, pointing out the window. That's dailies, and it took seven or eight matches on the roof over the garage for me to go over our breathless dailies that night, the nervous wait with the tickets in my hand, Lottie Carson heading north on those trains, kissing you, kissing you, the strange conversation in A-Post Novelties that had me all nerve-wracky after I talked to Al about it, even though he said he had no opinion. The matches were little he loves me, he loves me not, but then I saw right on the box that I had twenty-four, which would end the game at not, so I just let the small handful sparkle and puff for a bit, each one a thrill, a tiny delicious jolt for each part I remembered, until I burned my finger and went back in still thinking of all we did together.

I hate Hollywood fund-raisers. I am so bored going to a twenty-five million dollar house to hear a mogul say, “Good news, everyone. Tonight we’ve raised almost twelve thousand dollars!” You paid your gay hustler more than that, you cheap thing. Why not spare all of us the canapés, small talk and crème brûlée and just write a damn check?

There were the youngest children, small girls with leis, barefoot. There were watercress sandwiches, champagne, lemonade, peach-colored napkins to match the sorbet that came with the cake, peacocks on the lawn. She kicked off the expensive shoes and unpinned the veil. 'Wasn't that just about perfect,' she said when she called that evening.

I was thinking as small children think, as if my thoughts or wishes had the power to reverse the narrative, change the outcome.

Her father had gifted her this pin as he’d gifted his love: from the moment of her birth, when her hands had been too small to grasp its form.

How small we are in the universe but, even so, how one small voice can make a difference.

THE TRUTH IS BORN IN STRANGE PLACES Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends. Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was. Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill. Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia. Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognise him. Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor. And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.

Self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult in the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with one’s head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

What would I give to be able to discuss anything at all with John? What would I give to be able to say one small thing that made him happy? What would that small thing be? If I had said it in time would it have worked?

My wife and I had called on Miss Stein, and she and the friend who lived with her had been very cordial and friendly and we had loved the big studio with the great paintings. I t was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum except there was a big fireplace and it was warm and comfortable and they gave you good things to eat and tea and natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums, yellow plums or wild raspberries. Miss Stein was very big but not tall and was heavily built like a peasant woman. She had beautiful eyes and a strong German-Jewish face that also could have been Friulano and she reminded me of a northern I talian peasant woman with her clothes, her mobile face and her lovely, thick, alive immigrant hair which she wore put up in the same way she had probably worn it in college. She talked all the time and at first it was about people and places. Her companion had a very pleasant voice, was small, very dark, with her hair cut like Joan of Arc in the Boutet de Monvel illustrations and had a very hooked nose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint when we first met them and she worked on this and saw to the food and drink and talked to my wife. She made one conversation and listened to two and often interrupted the one she was not making. Afterwards she explained to me that she always talked to the wives. The wives, my wife and I felt, were tolerated. But we liked Miss Stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening. The paintings and the cakes and the eau-de-vie were truly wonderful. They seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well-mannered and promising children and I felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married - time would fix that - and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.

In Coffeeville, Miss., at 6 p.m., there was a golden light and a child swinging in it, swinging from a big tree, over a big lawn, back and forth in front of a big airy house. To be a white middle-class child in a small southern town must be on certain levels the most golden way for a child to live in the United States.

Sherlock: They came out of EROC with $33 million dollars in small bills. They loaded their haul into an ambulance, American-made, in the late '90s. They haven't been gone more than an hour. Joan: The driver has a lazy eye, the other two met in basketball camp and one has canine lupus. You see how it feels? Just tell me how you know. Elementary Season 1 Snow Angels

I'll tell you why I keep my scrapbooks. It's in case my real father shows up .I never met him, don't even know his name...I've got this feeling he's out there searching for me. When he bursts through the door and tells me he's spent a fortune on detectives looking all over the world for me, I'm not going to sit there like a dumb cluck when he asks me what I've been doing. I'm going to yank out my eleven scrapbooks filled with my experiences and inner-most thoughts on life lived in three time zones in America. I was a Girl Scout for three months when we lived in Atlanta. I couldn't get those square knots down for anything, but I got the big concept. Be prepared. Addie always told me, "It's more important to get the big concept than to be an expert in the small stuff.

Aging and its evidence remain life’s most predictable events, yet they also remain matters we prefer to leave unmentioned, unexplored: I have watched tears flood the eyes of grown women, loved women, women of talent and accomplishment, for no reason other than that a small child in the room, more often than not an adored niece or nephew, has just described them as “wrinkly,” or asked how old they are.

To pray in the midst of the mundane is simply and strongly to assert that this dull and tiring day is holy and its simple labors are the stuff of God's saving presence for me now. To pray simply because it is prayer time is no small act of immersion in the God who is willing to wait for us to be conscious, to be ready, to be willing to become new in life. Prayer, Benedictine spirituality demonstrates, is not a matter of mood. To pray only when we feel like it is more to seek consolation than to risk conversion. To pray only when it suits us is to want God on our terms. To pray only when it is convenient is to make the God-life a very low priority in a list of better opportunities. To pray only when it feels good is to court total emptiness when we most need to be filled. The hard fact is that nobody finds time for prayer. The time must be taken. There will always be something more pressing to do, something more important to be about than the apparently fruitless, empty act of prayer. But when that attitude takes over, we have begun the last trip down a very short road because, without prayer, the energy for the rest of life runs down. The fuel runs out. We become our own worst enemies: we call ourselves too tired and too busy to pray when, in reality, we are too tired and too busy not to pray. Eventually, the burdens of the day wear us down and we no longer remember why we decided to do what we're doing: work for this project, marry this woman, have these children, minister in this place. And if I cannot remember why I decided to do this, I cannot figure out how I can go on with it. I am tired and the vision just gets dimmer and dimmer.

Would Joan be disturbed by this cheap spectacle, this tinsel show, with its small king and his butterfly dukelets? - she who had spoken face to face with the princes of heaven, the familiars of God, and seen their retinue of angels stretching back into the remoteness of the sky, myriads upon myriads, like a measureless fan of light, a glory like the glory of the sun streaming from each of those innumerable heads, the massed radiance filling the deeps of space with a blinding splendor? I thought not.

One night, while studying Joseph Campbell’s Masks of God series, I read for the first time that the Garden of Eden story was the retelling of a much earlier motif in which the woman, the tree, the serpent, and the garden formed an emblematic expression of the highest spiritual quest. I was absolutely stunned, as though an explosion had gone off within me. At that moment, I realized I was not wrong, as a small child, to yearn to become Eve―not the biblical Eve, but the one who is simultaneously the tree as axis mundi connecting earth and sky, the serpent of death and regeneration, and the garden as the matrix of all life. I asked myself: What ground am I standing on? The answer came in a flash: that my feet had been cut off and I was planted with my bloody stumps on the desiccated ground of the Punitive Father. At that moment, I knew I had to find the Sacred Ground under my own feet, and to recover this ancient female lineage within myself. - excerpt from Foremothers of the Women's Spirituality Movement: Elders and Visionaries, edited by Miriam Robbins Dexter and Vicki Noble

I've never been able to understand how anyone could stand measuring out half a cup of this and four ounces of that. If a woman has the time to do that she's not busy enough—and that may be why she's overweight! It's a lot easier just to buy the foods that are fairly low in calories and to cultivate a taste for them. And have a little of each kind of essential food during the course f a day. The operative word in that bit of advice is 'little.' Raw nibbles, bouillon, and dill pickles always stop the hunger pangs until the next small meal is served.

...it reveals the legacy of an environmental catastrophe, its human tolls and triumphs, its corporate greed and indifference, its governmental lapses and neglect. In its historic sweep, it stands as a cautionary tale -- timeless and time-bound -- in a country divided by class and religion, buffeted by corporate misconduct, and dismantling its environmental protection laws. This is the story of a dying coal town ensnared in the Reagan Revolution's afterbirth, of a small community rent by one of the mining industry's worst disasters, and of the irreplaceable bond of home.

Strike missed the absence of an overriding objective, in pursuit of which he could shelve his sadness; missed the imperative to dismiss pain and distress in the service of something greater, which had sustained him in the military. None of his old coping strategies were admissible in Joan’s kitchen, beside the flowered casserole dishes and her old oven gloves. Dark humor and stoicism would be considered unfeeling by the kindly neighbors who wanted him to share and show his pain. Craving diversionary action, Strike was instead expected to provide small talk and homely acts of consideration.

The best thing is when a customer comes back and praises the book you recommended. I can’t get enough of that. Boy: I saved my lawn-mowing money to buy this book. Me: I had no idea that kids still did this. Boy: Kids still pull up the couch cushions too. For change. See? He held up a baggie of coins and small bills. Me: I’ll be hornswoggled. Teen Girl: Are you still open? Oh, thank god. I ran here. I promised myself. Me: Promised yourself what? Teen Girl: This book. It is my birthday and this is my present to myself. She holds up Joan Didion’s biography. For the rest of the week I enjoy this moment.

The notion that women belong at home while men went out to work emerged in the nineteenth century, from the beginning it was the key way that elitist distinguished themselves from the working class. A man's ability to support his family signaled his status. Having a stay-at-home mom became something the working class aspired to. In the second half of the twentieth century, the U.S. attained the breadwinner-housewife ideal for two brief generations. By the twenty-first century, a new generation had lost the ability to sustain the ideal they had seen their parents and grandparents achieve. Small wonder many felt bereft.

The very language we use when we think about self-pity betrays the deep abhorrence in which we hold it: self-pity is feeling sorry for yourself, self-pity is thumb-sucking, self-pity is boo hoo poor me, self-pity is the condition in which those feeling sorry for themselves indulge, or even wallow. Self-pity remains both the most common and the most universally reviled of our character defects, its pestilential destructiveness accepted as given. “Our worst enemy,” Helen Keller called it. I never saw a wild thing / sorry for itself, D. H. Lawrence wrote, in a much-quoted four-line homily that turns out on examination to be free of any but tendentious meaning. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough / without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Everyone in the Village, every grown-up—or rather, every middle-aged person—seemed to do crosswords: my parents, their friends, Joan, Gordon Macleod. Everyone apart from Susan. They did either The Times or The Telegraph; though Joan had those books of hers to fall back on while waiting for the next newspaper. I regarded this traditional British activity with some snootiness. I was keen in those days to find hidden motives—preferably involving hypocrisy—behind the obvious ones. Clearly, this supposedly harmless pastime was about more than solving cryptic clues and filling in the answers. My analysis identified the following elements: 1) the desire to reduce the chaos of the universe to a small, comprehensible grid of black-and-white squares; 2) the underlying belief that everything in life could, in the end, be solved; 3) the confirmation that existence was essentially a ludic activity; and 4) the hope that this activity would keep at bay the existential pain of our brief sublunary transit from birth to death. That seemed to cover it!

SHE HAD WATCHED THEM in supermarkets and she knew the signs. At seven o'clock on a Saturday evening they would be standing in the checkout line reading the horoscope in Harper's Bazaar and in their carts would be a single lamb chop and maybe two cans of cat food and the Sunday morning paper, the early edition with the comics wrapped outside. They would be very pretty some of the time, their skirts the right length and their sunglasses the right tint and maybe only a little vulnerable tightness around the mouth, but there they were, one lamb chop and some cat food and the morning paper. To avoid giving off the signs, Maria shopped always for a household, gallons of grapefruit juice, quarts of green chile salsa, dried lentils and alphabet noodles, rigatoni and canned yams, twenty-pound boxes of laundry detergent. She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping cart. The house in Beverly Hills overflowed with sugar, corn-muffin mix, frozen roasts and Spanish onions. Maria ate cottage cheese.

Marlboro Man and I walked together to our vehicles--symbolically parked side by side in the hotel lot under a cluster of redbud trees. Sleepiness had definitely set in; my head fell on his shoulder as we walked. His ample arms gripped my waist reassuringly. And the second we reached my silver Camry, the temperature began to rise. “I can’t wait till tomorrow,” he said, backing me against the door of my car, his lips moving toward my neck. Every nerve receptor in my body simultaneously fired as his strong hands gripped the small of my back; my hands pulled him closer and closer. We kissed and kissed some more in the hotel parking lot, flirting dangerously with taking it a step--or five--further. Out-of-control prairie fires were breaking out inside my body; even my knees felt hot. I couldn’t believe this man, this Adonis who held me so completely and passionately in his arms, was actually mine. That in a mere twenty-four hours, I’d have him all to myself. It’s too good to be true, I thought as my right leg wrapped around his left and my fingers squeezed his chiseled bicep. It was as if I’d been locked inside a chocolate shop that also sold delicious chardonnay and french fries…and played Gone With the Wind and Joan Crawford movies all day long--and had been told “Have fun.” He was going to be my own private playground for the rest of my life. I almost felt guilty, like I was taking something away from the world. It was so dark outside, I forgot where I was. I had no sense of geography or time or space, not even when he took my face in his hands and touched his forehead to mine, closing his eyes, as if to savor the powerful moment. “I love you,” he whispered as I died right there on the spot. It wasn’t convenient, my dying the night before my wedding. I didn’t know how my mom was going to explain it to the florist. But she’d have to; I was totally done for. I’d had half a glass of wine all evening but felt completely inebriated. When I finally arrived home, I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I was intoxicated--drunk on a cowboy. A cowboy who, in less than twenty-four hours, would become my husband.

You see, if introverts made the rules you'd live in a perfect world. You'd have your own private office at work. Holiday parties would be short and small. Neighbors would always call before dropping by. Family events would be optional, all-day office meetings would be illegal, and team-building events would be punishable by death.

They carry one brand of most everything, not twenty, making it simple to choose. Nothing is complicated or fancy here, just practical and friendly. This is a place to linger, a microcosm of a small town; in fact, the general store is the town, that and several churches on nearby corners. I’m thinking, as I sit here and drink in the scene, how little it takes to get by, how simple life really can be, how pleasant to think only of necessities, eliminating the luxuries. Just now I recognize that this is everything I want—this is home. The Cape is where I belong, where I must stay.

And this is not Fosse. Yes, he made it: but it turns on one of those stupid frauds that American show biz can’t get enough of, that “You haven’t lived until you’ve played the Palace,” that “You’ll never make the big time because you’re small-time in your heart,” that MGM dream of a culture made entirely of show biz, for which Mickey and Judy filmed manuals for do-it-yourself stardom while, behind a prop tree, little Jackie Cooper was fucking Joan Crawford. It’s naïve—a condition that has nothing to do with Bob Fosse. Yet, came Fosse’s third act, there was “Mr. Bojangles,” again from Dancin’, and another risibly sentimental number. Fosse wasn’t a romantic; Fosse was a satirist. Fosse was enjoyable, of course, and a thrilling showcase for the dancers. But it was an incorrect piece, not dishonest but concentrating on rather a lot of irrelevant material.

My only advantage as a reporter is that I am so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrusive, and so neurotically inarticulate that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests. And it always does. That is one last thing to remember: writers are always selling somebody out.

In just such self-doubts do small towns lose their character.

by This Organic Life, a compelling book by Joan Dye Gussow that tells how, and more important why, she aspired

The fastest way to drive living beings mad, then as today, is to confine them to a small, stimulus-less place and deprive them of any interaction with their species. We’ve taken the idea one more step. We can see one another. Hear one another. But we cannot reach one another, which creates a heightened longing impossible to name.

My affliction was mostly the commonplace that my life was beautiful and small, that I was loved and no bombs fell around me, and in the presence of this luck I “meditated on my desolation,”5 as John Lahr wrote of Didion, not in flattery. There was plenty of pioneering optimism in the desert, and after the market crash there were square acres of land for $10,000, but most days what I felt in the air was a certain dry inertia that comes from surviving too many days of worry that your life might be slipping away, and who knows why we ever do not do what it is we should have done.

And once it comes, now that I am wise in its ways, I no longer fight it. I lie down and let it happen. At first every small apprehension is magnified, every anxiety a pounding terror. Then the pain comes, and I concentrate only on that. Right there is the usefulness of migraine, there in that imposed yoga, the concentration on the pain. For when the pain recedes, ten or twelve hours later, everything goes with it, all the hidden resentments, all the vain anxieties. The migraine has acted as a circuit breaker, and the fuses have emerged intact. There is a pleasant convalescent euphoria. I open the windows and feel the air, eat gratefully, sleep well. I notice the particular nature of a flower in a glass on the stair landing. I count my blessings.

An adult spectator has greater command over his facial expressions, and it is perhaps for that very reason that fictitiously, that is, without a real cause or real action, he even more intensely lives through the entire gamut of noble and heroic feelings presented by the drama, or gives free rein in his imagination to the base and even criminal inclinations of his nature, the feelings he experiences being real, though his complicity in the crimes committed on the stage is fictitious. What interested me most in this argumentation was the element of “fictitiousness.” Thus art (so far in the form of theatre) enables man through co-experience fictitiously to perform heroic actions, fictitiously to experience great emotions, fictitiously to feel himself a hero like Franz Moor, to rid himself of base instincts with the assistance of Karl Moor, to regard himself as a sage like Faust, to feel inspired by God like Joan of Arc, to be an ardent lover like Romeo, to be a patriot like Count de Rizoor, to see his doubts dissipated by Kareno, Brand, Rosmer or Hamlet. More. The best thing about it was that these fictitious actions brought the spectator real satisfaction. Thus after seeing Verhaeren's Les aubes he feels he is a hero. After seeing Calderon's El principe constante he feels he is a martyr. After seeing Schiller's Kabale und Liebe he is overwhelmed by righteousness and self-pity. “But this is horrible!” I shuddered as I was crossing Trubnaya Square (or was it Sretenskiye Gates?). What infernal mechanics governed this sacred art whose votary I had become? That was mere than a lie! That was more than deceit! That was downright dangerous. Horribly, unspeakably dangerous. Only think: why strive for reality, if for a small sum of money you can satisfy yourself in your imagination without moving from your comfortable theatre seat?

Sighing, she wished Pallas were here right now. Then she’d have someone friendly to talk to. Shoving the pink scroll aside, Athena pulled out a ball of yellow yarn. Knitting relaxed her, and it would help disguise the fact that she was a loser with no friends. The soft click, click of her needles was a comforting sound. When lunch period was nearly over, she remembered the cookie. Finding it under the pink scroll, she tore off the wrapper and bit into it. Instantly, a small, dramatic voice announced, “You’ll be famous.” “What?” Athena looked around, her eyes wide. No one was near. “Who said that?” she asked. But no one answered. She took another bite.

They quarreled, they fought. Joan drew her dirk and cut herself loose from him—name, vow, spirit, and body, but not her heart, because it was never his. She bestowed a tiny nick upon his throat, the very place where she had once kissed him in the night, when she dreamt of the east. The small wound swiftly drained him, and Fingal felt his life ebb away. When he fell, he took her with him, forcing his own dagger into her chest, to pierce the heart he could never earn. They cursed each other and their clans, and they died entwined, stained in each other’s blood, in the place where the east meets the west. The spirits felt the rift as the clan line was drawn, and the earth drank mortals’ blood, strife, and violent end. Peace became distant dream, and that is why the Breccans continue to raid and steal, hungry to have what is not theirs, and why the Tamerlaines continue to defend themselves, cutting throats and piercing hearts with blades.

It has long been clear that women who leave violent partners are at risk of death or serious injury. What hasn't sufficiently been recognised until now is that abusers who can no longer hurt members of their own families, might, in a small number of cases pose a lethal threat to total strangers. Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel, Rachid Redouane and Darren Osborne had all been thrown out by their partners in the weeks or months before they committed a terrorist attack

By the end of the afternoon, this small group of women in a parlor had set up the first benevolent organization in the United States to be managed by women, the Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children....While many applauded the women's work, others were outraged. Shockingly, scandalously, these women were calling meetings, negotiating with government officials, incorporating their group so they could legally own property and engage in fund-raising, and going around the city without a male escort. One Episcopal clergyman publicly denounced them for laying aside 'delicacy and decorum, which can never be violated without the more corrupting effects on themselves and public morals.

But what could be said of this seemingly frivolous act, a small paper gift that makes the girl happy, which then makes her father happy, which then spurs a, perhaps, normally stoic dad to express how much he cares about the daughter in ways that she can't yet comprehend.

The woman picked up a broom and began sweeping the sand into small piles, then edging the piles back to the fence. New sand blew in as she swept.

Shift to belly breathing as often as you can, repeating “Letting go of small mind” on the inbreath and “I am one with Big Mind” on the outbreath.

Control of breath is the cornerstone for health and for letting go of our small mind and entering the Big Mind of God.

Knowledge does not update itself, we must keep our minds active.

Centering prayer is a form of meditation that is a conscious letting go of small mind and its continuous self-centered fantasies.

A frenzy of consolidation, much of it subsequently undone, followed. Of course, scale matters in the auto industry. But a deeper understanding of the cost drivers is critical. Honda, for example, is a relatively small car company. This might lead you to conclude that Honda would have a cost disadvantage. But Honda is the world’s largest producer of motorcycles, and overall it is a huge producer of engines. Since engines account for 10 percent of the cost of a car and Honda can share the cost of engine development across its product lines, this scope advantage offsets its overall lack of scale.

Both industrial customers and consumers tend to be more price sensitive when what they’re buying is Undifferentiated Expensive relative to their other costs or income Inconsequential to their own performance A counterexample that includes all three of these conditions is the price insensitivity of makers of major motion pictures when they buy or rent production equipment. A movie camera, for example, is a highly differentiated piece of equipment. Its price is small relative to the other costs of production, but the performance of the equipment has a big impact on the success of the movie. Here quality trumps price.

Product scope. Is motor oil used in cars part of the same industry as motor oil used in trucks and stationary engines? The oil itself is similar. But automotive oil is marketed through consumer advertising, sold to fragmented customers through powerful channels, and produced locally to offset the high logistics costs of small packaging. Truck and power generation lubricants face a different industry structure—different customers and selling channels, different supply chains, and so on. From a strategy perspective, these are distinct industries.

In industry after industry, Porter notes that economies of scale are exhausted at a relatively small share of industry sales. There is no systematic evidence that indicates that industry leaders are the most profitable or successful firms.

It was deep into the summer, some months after the night when I needed to be alone so that he could come back, before I recognized that through the winter and spring there had been occasions on which I was incapable of thinking rationally. I was thinking as small children thing, as if my thoughts or wishes had the power to reveres the narrative, change the outcome. In my case this disordered thinking had been covert, noticed I think by no one else, hidden even from me, but it had also been, in retrospect, both urgent and constant.

When I can’t get to the sea water or to a tennis court, or out for a long, brisk walk, I work on stretch exercises at home. One that I do many times a day as I move around my apartment involves standing for a moment with my back again a wall. I dig my heels into the floor, stand straight, and place the palm of my hand between the small of my back and the wall. Keeping my chin level, I pull the crown of my head toward the ceiling. At the same time I push the small of my back toward the wall until there’s no longer room for my hand.

Whenever I have to pick something off the floor I bend down, keeping my legs straight. Dutifully touching your toes fifty times every day is a crashing bore. But there are almost as many times when something has to be picked up anyhow — or a lower drawer has to be opened — so I automatically do it in a manner that keeps me fit. I try to make a graceful gesture out of reaching for things on high shelves, too. I don’t make it easier by dragging out a little step stool. While I’m on the phone I take a small bottle — a Pepsi bottle, of course — and roll it back and forth under my instep. I touch first the heel to the floor, then the toe, ten times for each foot. [...] These exercises strengthen the foot, stretch the calf muscles, and result in lovely feet and legs. When I’m standing — scraping carrots, or just waiting somewhere — I dig my heels into the ground, draw myself up to my best posture, and pull my stomach muscles in hard. [...] When I’m dictating to my secretary I may raise my elbows level with my shoulders and press the heels of my hands hard against each other. (The whole idea behind isometrics is to make the muscles work against each other.) This exercise, lasting for just six to ten seconds, is wonderful for the inside of the upper arms — the place that can go flabby almost overnight and make it impossible to wear sleeveless dresses. For the backs of the upper arms, do the same exercise with the hands raised just above the level of the forehead.

Lie on your back with arms straight out at your sides and very slowly, with knees straight, raise your legs high and hold them in the air. Take a deep breath and very slowly lower them again. Then with your legs still against the floor, draw the small of your back into the floor until you can feel that your back is one straight line. Hold for a count of ten. Then begin the leg-rising exercise again. Work up to ten times. As your stomach muscles become firmer add this routine: Anchor your feet under the bed or a heavy armchair and raise and lower your body slowly, keeping your knees rigid and your back very straight.

If you like wearing slim skirts, there’s nothing uglier than having two additional bulges just below where the hips naturally curve. And of course if you have them you can’t possibly wear pants. The first three exercises, all done from the same starting position, are good for the buttocks as well as the outside of the thighs. They should be done as often as possible, on both sides, and as long as possible for the quickest results. 1. Lie on your side with one arm stretched out under your head. Bring the knee of the upper leg slowly up to your chest, and slowly back into position again. Do this a few times (to dreamy music) and then roll over and do it with the other leg. 2. In the same position on your side, raise the upper leg and move it forward and back as far as you comfortably can. Roll over and do this with the other leg. 3. Raise the top leg and raise the bottom leg up to meet it. Slowly lower the bottom leg, and then the top one. 4. For the inside of the thighs, lie on your back with your knees up, feet flat on the floor, and a small rubber ball between your knees. Squeeze the ball, and hold it with all the muscle pressure you can. 5. Kneel, with your knees apart, and try to bring the knees together. But don’t let them move. Pull until you feel the tug on the inside thigh muscles and hold it as long as you comfortably can – or a little longer. 6. Now sit on the floor, and press the soles of your feet together. Press your knees down, to either side, as far as you can. Keep pressing till it hurts. 7. The simple old ballet warm-up of kicking will wake up the thigh muscles all around. Put one hand on a sturdy chair or railing and, HOLDING YOURSELF ABSOLUTELY ERECT and keeping both legs straight, kick forward as high as you can, several times. Then kick out to the side, making sure your body is straight as a ramrod. Then kick straight back. Do the same thing with the other leg. You may not get very high kicks the first day or two, but you’ll be surprised at the way you can gain an inch in altitude each time until you’re making a pretty good showing.

When I'm filming, I get up at 5 A.M. and have a piece of fruit and a cup of tea. At 6:30, I eat an egg and bacon or sausage. […] I eat a light lunch. Sometimes a small minute steak with two small cherry tomatoes. Sometimes chicken—boiled, not broiled. I've always found roasted or barbecued chicken incredibly dry. My chicken is boiled with carrots, celery, onions, kosher salt and pepper, and bay leaf, and it's always moist and delicious. Sometimes I'll have some more bacon late in the afternoon. […] I eat for energy, and that means plenty of protein.

Then, when I was nice and safe and warm, I dissolved into tears. Suddenly the fear returned. I found myself trembling in front of the fire, with the woman’s arms around me, cradling me as though I were a baby. I wanted to stay forever safe and warm in her small arms that didn’t go half way around me. I also wanted to run away, and break into sobs, and do I hardly knew what.

The narrative is made up of many such understandings, tacit agreements, small and large, to overlook the observable in the interests of obtaining a dramatic story line.

The List: Good Strategy, Bad Strategy by Richard Rumelt Why: Especially because it will show you how to identify bad strategy The Five Dysnfunctions of a Team by Patrick Lencioni Why: Learn most recognised tendencies of dysfunctional teams (in a storified format) Storyworthy by Matthew Dicks Why: Why storytelling matters in everything we do and how to tell a solid story Never Split the Difference by Christopher Voss Why: Learn the fundamentals of having a competitive edge in any discussion Understanding Michael Porter by Joan Magretta Why: The absolute fundamentals of organisational success - big or small Crossing the Chasm by Geoffrey Moore Why: If you are curious about what it takes to continue growing and scaling a technology company throughout its lifecycle 7 Powers by Hamilton Helmer Why: You can read it once every year. You can pick any failed venture/product and do a post-mortem of why it failed through the lens of this book (learning the value of building and sustaining moats) Build by Tony Fadell Why: This book can be a great friend as you navigate every fork/decision in your career Super Thinking by Gabriel Weinberg and Lauren McCann Why: You can pick your pet mental models from this book and apply in any situation in your life; the pet mental models can keep evolving as you evolve

She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping cart.

Gratitude is a natural outcome of mindfulness. It is also a way to become mindful. We often shut out natural beauty by becoming mindlessly absorbed in the chatter and worry of small mind with its endless self-absorbed attachments to past and future.

She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping card.

When it comes to Love, live the moment. It will make all the difference.

Risk, the willingness to accept an unknown future with open hands and happy heart, is the key to adventures of the soul. Risk stretches us to discover the rest of ourselves - our creativity, our self-sufficiency, our courage. Without risk we live in a small world of small dreams and lost possibilities.

Might I have a very small country for my birthday?

Birdfoot’s Grampa The old man must have stopped our car two dozen times to climb out and gather into his hands the small toads blinded by our lights and leaping, live drops of rain. ******** The rain was falling a mist about his white hair and I kept saying you can’t save them all accept it, get back in we’ve got places to go. But the leathery hands full of wet brown life knee deep in the summer roadside grass he just smiled and said they have places to go too.

The bookshelves were lined with Joan Didion and Flannery O'Connor, a small, unexpected collection of musicalia, essay collections on Leonard Cohen and Neil Young. There was a framed poster of an exhibit of romantic landscape paintings in Dresden. Intellectuals had their own thing going, that was for sure.

daycare. Totally little kid stuff.” He waved his hand as if to brush away that topic of conversation. And then he craned his neck over Aphrodite’s shoulder to stare hungrily at the cake. “That looks great,” he said. As he’d hoped, Aphrodite dropped a big slice onto one of the small silver plates and handed it to him. He wanted to tell her how pleased he was at all the trouble she’d gone to in planning this party, how much he appreciated and liked her. But he’d never been any good at “mushy” talk. And he especially didn’t want to say all that in front of Eris and the guys. Suddenly, Eris reached toward the plate of cake Ares held. “Thanks. I’d love some,” she said. With lightning-quick reflexes, she snatched his plate away before he could even utter a protest. Typical. She’d often done stuff like that when they were growing up. She tore off a large hunk of the cake and stuffed it into her mouth. He knew better than to try to get his plate back. Though Eris might look kind of scrawny, her appearance was deceptive. He absolutely did not want to provoke her if he could help it. He just hoped that no one else would, either. Aphrodite was looking horrified at Eris’s manners, or lack thereof, as were several of the other students standing

My Dearest Lauren Boyers-Sloan; I have a lot of time to think about your theory on rings. You deserve this and much more. Perhaps the significance of the diamond is that nothing can destroy this precious stone even when it is heated in an oven to a temperature of 1405 degrees Fahrenheit, It will then visually disappear without a trace of ash, after releasing only a small amount of carbon dioxide into a tiny puff of air floating into the atmosphere. Remarkable as it may seem that tiny puff of air will always remain somewhere drifting in the elements.... I now know that nothing can destroy the love I have for you even when I completely disappear from the face of this earth… I do love you still….and always will… Your love will remain in and with me forever… I will never love anyone like I do you… You can keep the gold bands right along with these forever… If you can’t take me back these are yours forever to do whatever you wish with them.… I won’t take them back and they can’t be returned. In the past few years, I certainly haven’t given you the best of me… If I lose you, it will only be because I have been so ill equipped with how to be the best man I could be to you…

It’s strange to realize your parents are separate human beings from you, when you have only known them as parents to serve you and your needs and we have judged their every move based upon our own limited relationship with them. To discover that you have only been a small part of their existence and that everything they do or have done doesn’t revolve around you or their spouse is quite a revelation.

A strategic positioning, especially when it has a high degree of focus, is sometimes seen as carving out a “niche.” The implication of that word is that the market opportunity is small. Although this may sometimes be the case, even focused competitors can be very large. In the case of Southwest, what initially looked like a narrow niche has revolutionized the airline industry.

There were certainly multiple factors contributing to these men’s post-moonwalk slump, but the question What do you do after walking on the moon? became a gigantic speed bump. The trouble with moonwalkers and billionaires is when they arrive at the top, their momentum often stops. If they don’t manage to find something to parlay, they turn into the kid on the jungle gym who just hangs from the ring. Not coincidentally, this is the same reason that only one-third of Americans are happy at their jobs. When there’s no forward momentum in our careers, we get depressed, too. As Newton pointed out, an object at rest tends to stay at rest. So how does one avoid billionaire’s depression? Or regular person’s stuck-in-a-dead-end-job, lack-of-momentum-fueled depression? Harvard Business School professor Teresa Amabile took on the question in the mid-2000s in a research study of white-collar employees. She tasked 238 pencil pushers in various industries to keep daily work diaries. The workers answered open-ended questions about how they felt, what events in their days stood out. Amabile and her fellow researchers then dissected the 12,000 resulting entries, searching for patterns in what affects people’s “inner” work lives the most dramatically. The answer, it turned out, is simply progress. A sense of forward motion. Regardless how small. And that’s the interesting part. Amabile found that minor victories at work were nearly as psychologically powerful as major breakthroughs. To motivate stuck employees, as Amabile and her colleague Steven J. Kramer suggest in their book, The Progress Principle, businesses need to help their workers experience lots of tiny wins. (And as we learned from the bored BYU students in chapter 1, breaking up big challenges into tiny ones also speeds up progress.) This is helpful to know when motivating employees. But it also hints at what billionaires and astronauts can do to stave off the depression that follows the high of getting to the top. To get out of the funk, say Joan DiFuria and Stephen Goldbart, cofounders of the Money, Meaning & Choices Institute, depressed successes simply have to start the Olympic rings over. Some use their money to create new businesses. Others parlay sideways and get into philanthropy. And others simply pick up hobbies that take time to master. Even if the subsequent endeavors are smaller than their previous ones, the depression dissipates as they make progress.

It’s not easy at all to run a house—small or, as in my case, large as it was then-give the children all the attention they should have, adjust to day-to-day crises, and be cool, collected, and captivating at six o’clock. Not only must the children and the housekeeping be dealt with and finished, the wife should also emerge at that hour “finished”—in the sense that she has all her beauty treatments behind her and is groomed, fragrant, and looking ready for an evening with her favorite beau.

Murder is a big word in a small town.

When we are mindful, experiencing the world around us freshly with all our senses, we leave the judgements of small mind behind and enter the web of interconnectedness, the Big Mind of God. Happiness, joy, peace and gratitude arise spontaneously from within our hearts.

When William noticed a small blue hole in Joan’s head, he screamed, “No!” He jumped into her lap and chanted, “Joan! Joan! Joan!” Maybe he wanted to be consoled by her. The living expect a lot from dead women.