Judge Taylor Quotes

Liraz may have captured Ziri's soul like a butterfly in a bottle, but that was only a formality. It was already hers. And, clearly, judging by the state of her laugh-sobbing in Karou's arms, hers was his, too.

You’re here.” “I am.” Jason boldly took in the way she looked. “I take it you don’t often wear that dress in court.” “Probably not a good idea.” He grinned. “Yes, I can imagine it would be somewhat awkward standing before a judge who has a huge hard-on.” “Is that the effect this dress has?” Taylor’s eyes traveled downward, to the zipper of Jason’s pants, and he was momentarily caught off guard by her bluntness. Her eyes sparkled, amused. “You’re blushing, Jason. That’s cute.

My parents taught me never to judge others based on whom they love, what color their skin is, or their religion. Why make life miserable for someone when you could be using your energy for good? We don’t need to share the same opinions as others, but we need to be respectful. When you hear people making hateful comments, stand up to them. Point out what a waste it is to hate, and you could open their eyes.

You know, there are some words I've known since I was a schoolboy: ' With the first link, the chain is forged. The first speech censured, the first thought forbidden, the first freedom denied, chains us all irrevocably.' Those words were uttered by Judge Aaron Satie as wisdom and warning. The first time any man's freedom is trodden on we're all damaged. I fear that today...

What happened after that had a dreamlike quality: in a dream I saw the jury return, moving like underwater swimmers, and Judge Taylor's voice came from far away, and was tiny. I saw something only a lawyer's child could be expected to see, could be expected to watch for, and it was like watching Atticus walk into the street, raise a rifle to his shoulder and pull the trigger, but watching all the time knowing that the gun was empty.

We're getting a marriage license and I will marry you right then and there in front of the judge. That doesn't scare me. Diapers scare me. But spending my life with you doesn't scare me. Not one bit.

So how can I condemn the fourteen-year-old girl who did whatever she could to get herself out of town? And how can I judge the eighteen-year-old who got herself out of that marriage once it was safe to do so?

Be careful not to judge anyone by the way they look. For when doing so, you are missing out on discovering who they truly are. Trials and triumphs are rerely seen at first glance. Look with your heart for another's heart. Here is the beauty.

One of the best things Dr. G. told me was that I didn't have to judge every new situation I encountered. Living alone, for example. She said I didn't have to say that living alone was good or bad, I could just live alone and not make a judgement on it.

You can always judge a man by how he treats his dog,

A writer should be judged on how red they make their reader's eyes.

Reverend Sykes’s voice was as distant as Judge Taylor’s: “Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passin’.

Thus Milton refines the question down to a matter of faith," said Coleridge, bringing the lecture to a close, "and a kind of faith more independent, autonomous - more truly strong, as a matter of fact - than the Puritans really sought. Faith, he tells us, is not an exotic bloom to be laboriously maintained by the exclusion of most aspects of the day to day world, nor a useful delusion to be supported by sophistries and half-truths like a child's belief in Father Christmas - not, in short, a prudently unregarded adherence to a constructed creed; but rather must be, if anything, a clear-eyed recognition of the patterns and tendencies, to be found in every piece of the world's fabric, which are the lineaments of God. This is why religion can only be advice and clarification, and cannot carry any spurs of enforcement - for only belief and behavior that is independently arrived at, and then chosen, can be praised or blamed. This being the case, it can be seen as a criminal abridgement of a person's rights willfully to keep him in ignorance of any facts - no piece can be judged inadmissible, for the more stones, both bright and dark, that are added to the mosaic, the clearer is our picture of God.

Ah, God, it were an easy Matter to choose a Calling had one all Time to live in! I should be fifty Years a Barrister, fifty a Physician, fifty a Clergyman, fifty a Soldier! Aye, and fifty a Thief, and fifty a Judge! All Roads are fine Roads, beloved Sister, none more than another, so that with one Life to spend I am a Man bare-bumm'd at Taylors with Cash for but one pair of Breeches, or a Scholar at Brookstalls with Money for a single Book: to choose ten were no Trouble; to choose one, impossible! All Trades, all Crafts, all Professions are wondrous, but none is finer than the rest together. I cannot choose, sweet Anna: twixt Stools my Breech falleth to the Ground!

And I said, “And no one’s gonna judge me if I end up sounding like a screeching cat?” And I’ll never forget, Billy leaned onto the button, and said, “If you were a cat, your screech would bring every cat running to you.

Judging from the array of swords and axes and daggers and bows and other implements of killing and dismemberment that they carried around, she gathered that manual dexterity was an imperative. The better to kill you with, my dears.

Ruth handed her a slice of bacon, as if that would fix everything, which it nearly did, judging by the look on her face.

A few years ago, Ed and I were exploring the dunes on Cumberland Island, one of the barrier islands between the Atlantic Ocean and the mainland of south Georgia. He was looking for the fossilized teeth of long-dead sharks. I was looking for sand spurs so that I did not step on one. This meant that neither of us was looking very far past our own feet, so the huge loggerhead turtle took us both by surprise. She was still alive but just barely, her shell hot to the touch from the noonday sun. We both knew what had happened. She had come ashore during the night to lay her eggs, and when she had finished, she had looked around for the brightest horizon to lead her back to the sea. Mistaking the distant lights on the mainland for the sky reflected on the ocean, she went the wrong way. Judging by her tracks, she had dragged herself through the sand until her flippers were buried and she could go no farther. We found her where she had given up, half cooked by the sun but still able to turn one eye up to look at us when we bent over her. I buried her in cool sand while Ed ran to the ranger station. An hour later she was on her back with tire chains around her front legs, being dragged behind a park service Jeep back toward the ocean. The dunes were so deep that her mouth filled with sand as she went. Her head bent so far underneath her that I feared her neck would break. Finally the Jeep stopped at the edge of the water. Ed and I helped the ranger unchain her and flip her back over. Then all three of us watched as she lay motionless in the surf. Every wave brought her life back to her, washing the sand from her eyes and making her shell shine again. When a particularly large one broke over her, she lifted her head and tried her back legs. The next wave made her light enough to find a foothold, and she pushed off, back into the water that was her home. Watching her swim slowly away after her nightmare ride through the dunes, I noted that it is sometimes hard to tell whether you are being killed or saved by the hands that turn your life upside down.

Think of body shame like the layers of an onion. For decades in our own lives and for centuries in civilization, we have been taught to judge and shame our bodies and to consequently judge and shame others. Getting to our inherent state of radical self-love means peeling away those ancient, toxic messages about bodies. It is like returning the world’s ugliest shame sweater back to the store where it was purchased and coming out wearing nothing but a birthday suit of radical self-love.

At first, I was scared to be alone. No routines. No rules. Just me. But I think..." Taylor wiped a tear away. "I think I was always in the jungle. Before. It was always there. I think I had to come out here to find the answer." "And what did you find?" "I love myself. They make it so hard for us to love ourselves." Taylor stared off into the dark. Her face gleamed with tears. Snot ran over her lips. "The judges won't like that answer." "Nobody's judging you." Taylor choked on a sob. "Always," she whispered.

If you cannot uplift someone, don’t risk the repercussions attached to trying to bring them down. Malicious behavior always finds its way back to you in one form or the other. If you examine yourself and acknowledge your own short-comings, you would not have the mindset or heart to judge what you deem to be the missteps of another.

If we can judge God’s Word, instead of being judged by it, if we can give God as much or as little as we like, then we are lords and He the indebted one, to be grateful for our dole and obliged by our compliance with His wishes. If on the other hand He is Lord, let us treat Him as such. “Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?

Yes," said Pericles. "Today's patriotism may be tomorrow's treason, if it serves any judge or politician. And so it would go with any statute you might define today, no matter how explicit the terms. Let us suppose that a future Roman Head of Stae is a plotting and ambitious his country. So he might say to his pople, 'I love my country and in the name of that love I propose such and such an amendment to the Constitution, of which our fathers would have approved in the light of today's needs and changing circumstances. In truth, the Constitution of our fathers really means so-and-so.' I assure you, gentlemen, that he will already have a band of fellow traitors who will uphold him, and help to confuse the citizens. Then, if any patriot would oppose him the traitor will denounce him for treason! You can be certain, then,, that the unfortunate patriot would suffer the penalty for the alleged crime.

In a manner to us incomprehensible and inexplicable, [the Savior] bore the weight of the sins of the whole world; not only of Adam, but of his posterity; and in doing that, opened the kingdom of heaven, not only to all believers and all who obeyed the law of God, but to more than one-half of the human family who die before they come to years of maturity, as well as to the heathen, who, having died without law, will, through His mediation, be resurrected without law, and be judged without law, and thus participate, according to their capacity, works and worth, in the blessings of His atonement.

New people rarely went there to live. The same families married the same families until relationships were hopelessly entangled and the members of the community looked monotonously alike. Jean Louise, until the Second World War, was related by blood or marriage to nearly everybody in the town, but this was mild compared to what went on in the northern half of Maycomb County: there was a community called Old Sarum populated by two families, separate and apart in the beginning, but unfortunately bearing the same name. The Cunninghams and the Coninghams married each other until the spelling of the names was academic—academic unless a Cunningham wished to jape with a Coningham over land titles and took to the law. The only time Jean Louise ever saw Judge Taylor at a dead standstill in open court was during a dispute of this kind. Jeems Cunningham testified that his mother spelled it Cunningham occasionally on deeds and things but she was really a Coningham, she was an uncertain speller, and she was given to looking far away sometimes when she sat on the front porch. After nine hours of listening to the vagaries of Old Sarum’s inhabitants, Judge Taylor threw the case out of court on grounds of frivolous pleading and declared he hoped to God the litigants were satisfied by each having had his public say. They were. That was all they had wanted in the first place.

Much is said in our expanding world about the need to celebrate diversity. Of course we are a diverse community; that is how a society like ours is constituted. But our strength is not to be found in our diversity; our power to influence the world for good will not come through our diversity. Some seem to act as though the Lord has said, "Be diverse, and if ye are not diverse, ye are not mine." No, we are to strive to achieve unity in spite of our diversity. "We are seeking to establish a oneness," Elder John Taylor observed, "under the guidance and direction of the Almighty. . . . If there is any principle for which we contend with greater tenacity than another, it is this oneness. . . . To the world this principle is a gross error, for amongst them it is every man for himself; every man follows his own ideas, his own religion, his own morals, and the course in everything that suits his own notions. But the Lord dictates differently. We are under His guidance, and we should seek to be one with him and with all the authorities of His Church and kingdom on the earth in all the affairs of life. . . . This is what we are after, and when we have attained to this ourselves, we want to teach the nations of the earth the same pure principles that have emanated from the Great Eloheim. We want Zion to rise and shine that the glory of God may be manifest in her midst. . . . We never intend to stop until this point is attained through the teaching and guidance of the Lord and our obedience to His laws. Then, when men say unto us, 'you are not like us,' we reply, 'we know it; we do not want to be. We want to be like the Lord, we want to secure His favor and approbation and to live under His smile, and to acknowledge, as ancient Israel did on a certain occasion, "The Lord is our God, our judge, and our king, and He shall reign over us.

To the ordinary cultivated student of civilization the genesis of a Church is of little interest, and at all events we must not confound the history of a Church with its spiritual meaning. To the ordinary observer the English Church in history means Hooker and Jeremy Taylor — and should mean Andrewes also: it means George Herbert, and it means the churches of Christopher Wren. This is not an error: a Church is to be judged by its intellectual fruits, by its influence on the sensibility of the most sensitive and on the intellect of the most intelligent, and it must be made real to the eye by monuments of artistic merit. The English Church has no literary monument equal to that of Dante, no intellectual monument equal to that of St. Thomas, no devotional monument equal to that of St. John of the Cross, no building so beautiful as the Cathedral of Modena or the basilica of St. Zeno in Verona. But there are those for whom the City churches are as precious as any of the four hundred odd churches in Rome which are in no danger of demolition, and for whom St. Paul's, in comparison with St. Peter's, is not lacking in decency; and the English devotional verse of the seventeenth century — admitting the one difficult case of conversion, that of Crashaw — finer than that of any other country or religion at the time.

Even what are considered the accomplishments of diversity are admissions of its failure. All across America, public organizations such as fire departments and police forces congratulate themselves when they manage to hire more than a token number of blacks or Hispanics. They promise that this will greatly improve service. And yet, is this not an admission of how difficult the multi-racial enterprise really is? If all across America it has been shown that whites cannot provide effective police protection for blacks or Hispanics, it only proves that diversity is an insoluble problem. If blacks want black officers and Hispanics want Hispanic officers, they are certainly not expressing support for diversity. A mixed-race force—touted as an example of the benefits of diversity—becomes necessary only because of the tensions that arise between officers of one race and citizens of another. The diversity we celebrate is necessary only because of the intractable problems of diversity. Likewise, if Hispanic judges and prosecutors must be recruited for the justice system, does this mean whites cannot dispense dispassionate justice? If non-white teachers are necessary role models for non-white children, does this mean inspiration cannot cross racial lines? If newspapers must hire non-white reporters in order to satisfy non-white readers, does this mean whites cannot write acceptable news for non-whites? If blacks demand black newscasters and weathermen on television, does it mean they prefer to get their information from people of their own race? If majority-minority voting districts must be established so that non-whites can elect representatives of their own race, does this mean democracy itself divides Americans along racial lines? All such efforts at diversity are not expressions of the strength of multi-racialism; they are desperate efforts to counteract its weaknesses. They do not bridge gaps; they institutionalize them.

Judges’ rulings on particular cases of such death row confinement have declared it cruel and unusual, a form of torture, as have international jurists.

U.S. death rows, still displaying over 3,000 persons, are similarly sites of torture. After a person is sentenced to death, he or she is held in situations approximating solitary confinement, sometimes for decades, under prolonged and anguishing anticipation of the state’s calculation of an execution date. Judges

No one can hold me accountable. That is a job for my conscience and my soul. I am the only judge of what I am capable of, because who really knows me but me? Who really understands the road I have traveled if they can't even find it on a map?

Affirmative action is the crowning, debilitating insult. Blacks must be helped at every stage in life, from Head Start to college recruitment, to job quotas, to race-based promotions. How can this help but sap the efforts of even the most hardworking? How can it help but insult real achievements? Affirmative action also gives whites a genuine grievance. Maybe the generation of judges who turned the Civil Rights Act upside down felt guilty. Maybe they were guilty. But the young white men they are now punishing for the sins of their ancestors are not guilty—though if they object to an unjust system that discriminates against them, they will be pelted with charges of racism.

Miami police were reportedly hesitant to pursue these crimes for fear that they would be accused of racial and religious persecution.313 And, in fact, that is precisely the argument that defense attorney and former judge Alcee Hastings tried to make. He claimed that the prosecutions were racially motivated. In May 1992, a jury found Mr. Mitchell guilty of conspiracy to commit murder.314 Needless to say, there would be a coast-to-coast media din of unprecedented proportions if a white group were discovered to have engaged in ritual murder and mutilation of blacks. In fact, the Yahweh trial ran concurrently with the trial of the Los Angeles policemen who were videotaped beating Rodney King. Mr. King’s name was constantly in the news and practically a household name; few outside of Miami had heard of the Yahweh cult.

Yeah, the princess and the pea. Only the pea was Daddy, getting thrown in jail for bribing a judge or forgetting my birthday because he and Mom were off in Europe.” “At least you had parents.” Baldwin looked into his wineglass, and Taylor reached over and touched his hand.

I found myself sitting in the middle of a bedroom floor surrounded by atavistic morons, with a redhead on opiates who was convinced she could read my thoughts and tell me my future. That would have been simple: the future had me trying to escape this fucking awful “party.” The redhead, who we will call Janice, was equal parts pretentious, innocuous, and full of shit. Janice was an actress (an actress in LA . . . what were the odds?) and was trying out for a role in a health food commercial. Judging by the shape she was in, I could have told her that she had an ice cube’s chance in Cuba of making that dream a reality. She looked more like Wynonna Judd than Julianne Moore, complete with the face of a long-haired Clint Eastwood squinting into the desert sun. But being a respectful prick, I kept it to myself, kindly wished her luck in her endeavors, and made to take my leave of it all, grabbing for the front doorknob with one hand and dialing for a cab on my cell phone with the other. Unfortunately Janice wasn’t done with me, much to my chagrin. I explained to her I was leaving; she asked whether she could catch a ride back to her apartment. Knowing full well that nothing was going to happen with this person, I said sure.

Perez might irritate the shit out of him, but he was the best judge of character Taylor knew. He watched men like David Attenborough watched animals.

In the mirror,' she thought, 'he sees something unreal - he sees the opinion of the world, is driven by fear of the world and judges me by the world's standards. But the world isn't real. It has no existence. Mr. Taylor is real - or was until this morning - and I am real, but what is Roddy? He is just a man looking into a mirror watching his own face growing angrier.

All I do know is that if I ever hear a man make fun of a woman for loving Harry Styles or anything, for that matter…I am going to out them for the fangirls they are. My life is being ruined because this judge is the equivalent of a Swiftie. The Raiders are basically his Taylor, and I’m paying the price for Crew’s betrayal.” “Yeah, that judge is a real antihero…” Mills throws out, making my sister smile before she answers in the exact way I knew one of them would the moment I made a fucking Taylor Swift comparison.

If success was judged by the people I loved and who loved me, then my life had indeed been a success.

to hug Toni Burgess and Sandy Wilson, the Devil Girlz we’d met in Taylor Creek, Oregon. Correction: former Devil Girlz. There was no sign of leather. Instead Toni was in a dress and had soccer-mom hair, and she said she was going back to teaching school. Sandy just looked sweet. More people were introduced: lawyers for both sides, and His Honor Marlon Sykes, a judge

Egan. It’s derived from MacAodhagáin. The family were the brehons, the hereditary lawyers and judges, to the chieftains of Roscommon.

Most autistics' opinions fall somewhere in the middle, with autistic people believing that institutionalization may be necessary in some circumstances, but whenever this happens, whatever facility houses these individuals must be run well, with the occupants being treated humanely. But there is still room for arguments with the people who take the middle-of-the-road point of view. Under what criteria may a person be judged in need of institutionalization? What does a well-run institution look like? What is the definition of humane treatment? People

Addison,” Taylor said quietly. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe Corbin really cares for you?” “What? Don’t be silly.” I frowned. “I’m just a conquest to him—it’s a feather in his cap to be able to say that a non-glam Auditor is his consort. It’s like… like a mobster showing off his girlfriend who also just happens to be a cop or a judge.” “Maybe not.” Taylor looked thoughtful. “I’ve heard rumors about Corbin.” “Such as?” I raised an eyebrow and made a go on signal with one hand. “Well, he’s not nearly the playboy he makes himself out to be for one thing,” Taylor said. “He’s almost never with anyone—he mostly keeps to himself except to feed occasionally. And he never pays the Crimson Debt or lets anyone else pay it for him.” “Meaning he doesn’t feed on anyone during sex or let them feed on him?” I said. She nodded. “Honestly, I don’t think he has that much sex at all. Not even glam-sex.” “Oh come on, Taylor—he’s a vampire,” I objected. “Sex and blood, that’s what they’re all about—that’s what they do.” “Most of them maybe. But if what I’ve heard is right, Corbin mostly keeps to himself.” “But why?” I asked, frowning. “I mean, it’s not for lack of willing partners, I’m sure.” He got under my skin like a bad rash but there was no denying Corbin was gorgeous. “I don’t know why, exactly.” Taylor shrugged. “They say he had someone once—a human—but he lost her. Now he mostly keeps to himself out of respect for her memory.” I thought of what he’d told me, about having a human female he loved enough to be gentle with once and how she’d “died anyway.” “Why didn’t he just bond her to him?” I asked. Vamps can bond any human they want, which greatly increases the human’s lifespan, sometimes even enough to match the vamp’s. It makes them a little more durable too, though under the law they’re still not supposed to have sex with the vamp that bonds them. “I don’t know.” Taylor shook her head. “But I do know you’re pretty much the only girl he’s shown an interest in. I mean, he does a lot of casual flirting, you know?” “Yeah, I know.” I nodded. Nobody was better at eye-fucking than Corbin. “But none of it amounts to anything. I mean, I’ve never heard of him taking anyone into one of his daylight resting places the way he took you. Not vampire, not human—no one,” Taylor emphasized.

upside down is the one we daily live in, in which sin has upset all order. A humourless determination to castigate sin and disorder takes over, a denial of ambiguity and complexity in an unmixed condemnation, which reflects the attempts by controlling élites to abolish carnivalesque and ludic practices, on the grounds that they sew disorder, mix pagan and Christian elements, and are a breeding ground of vice. (We are witnessing the birth of what will become in our day p.c.) Delumeau relates this to a parallel shift in attitude to madness;94 where previously this could be seen as the site of vision, even holiness, it now comes more and more to be judged unambiguously as the fruit of sin.

Is it worth it, Sue? Is it worth being criticized, degraded and judged just for a few happy moments? Is it worth walking on eggshells, constantly wondering when he’s going to have a go at you next?

If narratives like these are easy to overlook—or worse yet, to distort—then that is because our accustomed ways of hearing scripture often stop our ears to what is actually on the page. The old tape starts playing and we just let it run. This is one of the reasons why I remain a devoted student of the Bible: because what it says is so often not what I have been taught it says, or what I think it says, or what I want it to say. Scripture has its own voice—sometimes more terrible than wonderful—but it has never failed to reward my close attention, either with a fresh hearing or with the loud slamming of a door that tells me to come back later. Why persist? Because in a world where empires rise and fall, where legendary places of worship become museums, and where operating systems of all kinds have shorter and shorter life spans, the Bible offers me ballast that little else can. I turn to it the same way chemists turn to the periodic table or Supreme Court judges turn to the Constitution. It is my baseline in matters of faith—something far older than I am, with a great deal more experience in what it means to be both human and divine. There are times when I read the Bible literally—as when Moses complains about what a royal pain in the ass it is to be a religious leader, or when Jesus nails an inquisitor on his or her own iniquity—but on the whole I read it literarily, as the consummate work of divinely inspired human memory and imagination that I believe it is.

People are going to judge you anyway, so you might as well do what you want.