Lawrence Hill Quotes

To gaze into another persons face is to do two things: to recognise their humanity and to assert your own.

You must learn to respect," Papa said. But I do not respect her," I said. Papa paused for a moment, and patted my leg. "Then you must learn to hide your disrespect.

When it comes to understanding others, we rarely tax our imaginations.

I remember wondering, within a year or two of taking my first my first steps, why only men sat to drink tea and converse, and why women were always busy. I reasoned that men were weak and needed rest.

Reading felt like a daytime dream in a secret land. Nobody but I knew how to get there, and nobody but I owned that place

I had learned that there were times when fighting was impossible, when the best thing to do was to wait and to learn.

She asked why I was so black. I asked why she was so white. She said she was born that way. Same here, I replied.

Sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.

Some say that I was once uncommonly beautiful, but I wouldn't wish beauty on any woman who has not her own freedom, and who chooses not the hands that claim her.

Today you live, child. Tomorrow, you dream.

beware the clever man that makes the wrong look right

There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.

To gaze into another person's face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity, and to assert your own.

If the sky was so perfect, why was the earth all wrong

I concluded that no place in the world was entirely safe for an African, and that for many of us, survival depended on perpetual migration.

But I have long loved the written word, and come to see in it the power of the sleeping lion. This is my name. This is who I am. This is how I got here. In the absence of an audience, I will write down my story so that it waits like a restful beast with lungs breathing and heart beating.

To gaze into another person’s face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity, and to assert your own.

Someone knows my name. Seeing you makes me want to live.

Reading felt like a daytime dream in a secret land. Nobody but I knew how to get there, and nobody but I owned that place.

just want to read more books and be a knowledgeable female.

I stood up to take some air outside. The stars were brilliant that night, and the cicadas were crying in endless song. If the sky was so perfect, why was the earth all wrong?

Only from the calm, he said, can you see how to protect yourself from trouble.

The misfortune of those women was my good luck, their misery my escape.

I don't govern my life according to danger

I ain’t need no proof of puberty at fucking six o'clock on a Wednesday morning.

Lawrence has a wonderful hill in it, with a university on top and the first time I ran away from home, I ran up the hill and looked across the world: Kansas wheat fields and the Kaw River, and I wanted to go some place, too. I got a whipping for it.

I had chosen freedom, with all its insecurities, and nothing in the world would make me turn away from it.

In the absence of an audience, I will write down my story so that it waits like a restful beast with lungs breathing and heart beating.

I would have to confess that in the land of the toubabu, I had managed to save only myself.

I knew that it would be called the United States. But I refused to speak that name. there was nothing united about a nation that said all men were created equal, but that kept my people in chains

Mama is beautiful,” I said. “Mama is strong,” he said. “Beauty comes and goes. Strength, you keep forever.

I wouldn't wish beauty on any woman who has not her own freedom, and who chooses not the hands that claim her.

I looked up from the street and again at the wretched captives. I vowed not to let the noises of the city drown out their voices or rob me of my past. It was less painful to forget, but I would look and I would remember.

Englishmen do love to bury one thing so completely in another that the two can only be separated by force: peanuts in candy, indigo in glass, Africans in irons. Standing

To make it a crime for public institutions to serve the undocumented simply isolated people and drove them into poverty, she wrote. From then on, people who came looking for a library card received one, regardless of whether their papers were in order.

Never have I met a person doing terrible things who would meet my own eyes peacefully. To gaze into another person's face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity, and to assert your own.

Every time I had seen men rise up, they had not prevailed and innocent people had died. Daddy

Mama is beautiful,” I said. “Mama is strong,” he said. “Beauty comes and goes. Strength, you keep forever.” “What about the old people?” “They are the strongest of all, for they have lived longer than all of us, and they have wisdom,” he said, tapping his temple.

That, I decided, was what it meant to be a slave: your past didn't matter, in the present you were invisible and you had no claim on the future.

When it comes to understanding others,” I said, “we rarely tax our imaginations.

It doesn't matter what we call your soul, Daddy Moses said, smiling at me. What matters is where it travels and who it uplifts.

Some say that I was once uncommonly beautiful, but I wouldn’t wish beauty on any woman who has not her own freedom, and who chooses not the hands that claim her.

sapling,

Some people call the sunset a creation of extraordinary beauty, and proof of God’s existence. But what benevolent force would bewitch the human spirit by choosing pink to light the path of a slave vessel? Do not be fooled by that pretty colour, and do not submit to its beckoning.

Every voter knew that the Family Party had come to power promising to deport Illegals, to manage its borders more efficiently and to ensure that people of traditional European stock weren't overrun in their own country.

Englishmen do love to bury one thing so completely in another that the two can only be separated by force: peanuts in candy, indigo in glass, Africans in irons.

I remember wondering, within a year or two of taking my first steps, why only men sat to drink tea and converse, and why women were always busy. I reasoned that men were weak and needed rest. As

Appleby’s

Personally, I concluded that no place in the world was entirely safe for an African, and that for many of us, survival depended on perpetual migration.

For this child of mine, home would be me. I would be home. I would be everything for this child until we went home together.

We, the survivors of the crossing, clung to the beast that had stolen us away. Not a soul among us had wanted to baord that ship, but once out on open waters, we held on for dear life. The ship became an extension of our own rotting bodies. Those who were cut from the heaving animal sank quick to their deaths, and we who remained attached wilted more slow as poison festered in our bellies and bowels. We stayed with the beast until new lands met our feet, and we stumbled down the long plants just before the poison became fatal. Perhaps here in this new land, we would keep living.

As soon as you become aware of the problems, they become yours too.

Learn all you can.... Get to know their families, clans and tribes, friends and enemies, wells, hills and roads. Do all this by listening and by indirect inquiry. ... Get to speak their dialect ... not yours. Until you can understand their allusions, avoid getting deep into conversation or you will drop bricks. ~ T.E. Lawrence, from "The Arab Bulletin," 20 August 1917

In South Carolina, I had been an African. In Nova Scotia, I had become known as a Loyalist, or a Negro, or both. And now, finally back in Africa, I was seen as a Nova Scotian, and in some respects thought of myself that way too.

She turned, and saw a great white moon looking at her over the hill. And her breast opened to it, she was cleaved like a transparent jewel to its light. She stood filled with the full moon, offering herself. Her two breasts opened to make way for it, her body opened wide like a quivering anemone, a soft, dilated invitation touched by the moon.

Never have I met a person doing terrible things who would meet my own eyes peacefully. To gaze into another person's face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity, and to assert your own.

To Connie, everything in her world and life seemed worn out, and her dissatisfaction was older than the hills.

Friends are like books. You carry them with you forever, regardless of mundane impediments like geography.

WHEN I WAS VERY YOUNG, Papa used to tell me that words fly on wild winds from the mouths of sly people. When the winds pick up, he said, sand blows into your ears and bites your eyes. Storms build overhead like a lake with a spout, but you can’t see or hear. Only when you are safely sheltered, Papa said, can you tell which way the wind is blowing. Only from the calm, he said, can you see how to protect yourself from trouble.

Let me begin with a caveat to any and all who find these pages. Do not trust large bodies of water, and do not cross them. If you, dear reader, have an African hue and find yourself led toward water with vanishing shores, seize your freedom by any means necessary. And cultivate distrust of the colour pink. Pink is taken as the colour of innocence, the colour of childhood, but as it spills across the water in the light of the dying sun, do not fall into its pretty path. There, right underneath, lies a bottomless graveyard of children, mothers and men. I shudder to imagine all the Africans rocking in the deep. Every time I have sailed the seas, I have had the sense of gliding over the unburied. Some people call the sunset a creation of extraordinary beauty, and proof of God's existence. But what benevolent force would bewitch the human spirit by choosing pink to light the path of a slave vessel? Do not be fooled by the pretty colour, and do not submit to its beckoning.

He wouldn’t take a baby,” I said. “Child,” Georgia said, “evil ain’t got no roof.

Why must one climb the hill ? Why must one climb? Why not stay below? Why force one’s way up the slope? Why force one’s way up and up, when one is at the bottom? Oh, it was very tiring, very wearying, very burdensome. Always burdens, always, always burdens.

The last year of her college career was wheeling slowly round. She could see ahead her examination and her departure. She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her teeth. Would the next move turn out the same? Always the shining doorway ahead; and then, upon approach, always the shining doorway was a gate into another ugly yard, dirty and active and dead. Always the crest of the hill gleaming ahead under heaven: and then, from the top of the hill only another sordid valley full of amorphous, squalid activity.

The light of San Francisco is a sea light an island light And the light of fog blanketing the hills drifting in at night through the Golden Gate to lie on the city at dawn...

There was no wheel of course, no golden gates, no hill, no dry lands. Just two brothers trying to right a wrong.

Lawrence Block called Telling Lies for Fun and Profit,

It's time you realized that uncertainty is the perpetual lot of mortal creatures, and resigned yourself to being no better than the rest of us. We've no choice but to trust what we don't understand, accept what we can't believe and walk where there's no path we can see.

The crypt underneath the manor was beautiful and in perfect preservation. Paul made a drawing. Miriam stayed with him. She was thinking of Mary Queen of Scots looking with her strained hopeless eyes, that could not understand misery, over the hills where no help came, or sitting in this crypt being told of a God as cold as the place she sat in.

She had the ash of disillusion gritting under her teeth. Would the next move turn out the same? Always the shining doorway ahead; and then, upon approach, always the shining doorway was a gate into another ugly yard, dirty and active and dead. Always the crest of the hill gleaming ahead under heaven: and then, from the top of the hill only another sordid valley full of amorphous, squalid activity.

Dog-tired" If she would come to me here Now the sunken swaths Are glittering paths To the sun, and the swallows cut clear Into the setting sun! if she came to me here! If she would come to me now, Before the last-mown harebells are dead; While that vetch-clump still burns red! Before all the bats have dropped from the bough To cool in the night; if she came to me now! The horses are untackled, the chattering machine Is still at last. If she would come We could gather up the dry hay from The hill-brow, and lie quite still, till the green Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its active sheen. I should like to drop On the hay, with my head on her knee, And lie dead still, while she Breathed quiet above me; and the crop Of stars grew silently. I should like to lie still As if I was dead; but feeling Her hand go stealing Over my face and my head, until This ache was shed.

It stood on an eminence in a rather fine old park of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near distance the chimney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and smoke, and on the damp, hazy distance of the hill the raw straggle of Tevershall village, a village which began almost at the park gates, and trailed in utter hopeless ugliness for a long and gruesome mile: houses, rows of wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses, with black slate roofs for lids, sharp angles and wilful, blank dreariness.

There’s got to be a minimum basic kind of competence before you can even begin to think of writing, and there’s got to be a whole hell of a lot more than that before you can even dream of being one of those writers who appear in the how-to-read anthologies. I don’t say it can’t happen. It can happen. You don’t even have to be a better person. All you have to do is have that twist of the mind that is true talent. You have to see everything in a way that’s not just accurate but peculiar--that’s all, just have an originality of perception and utterance.

Miriam sat in the rocking-chair, and did not speak. He hesitated, expecting her to rise and go with him to the barn as usual for his bicycle. She remained as she was. He was at a loss. "Well - goodnight all!" he faltered. She spoke her goodnight along with all the others. But as he went past the window, he looked in. She saw him pale, his brows knit slightly in a way that had become constant with him, his eyes dark with pain. She rose and went to the doorway to wave goodbye to him as he passes through the gate. He rode slowly under the pine trees, feeling a cur and a miserable wretch. His bicycle went tilting down the hills at random. He thought it would be a relief to break one's neck.

He does not know that Facebook is monitoring him and spying on him and even listening to him more or less constantly, nor does he believe it when he’s told this very thing by Jack, that he is being secretly watched by Facebook. This comes in the form of a long private letter that Jack has composed pleading with his father to stop spending so much time with all these conspiracies, that none of them are true, that Lawrence is getting unnecessarily worked up and angry about nothing, that there are no shadowy cabals secretly plotting against the world, and what’s happening here is actually just that a small group of engineers in Silicon Valley have built moneymaking algorithms that are now optimizing, that what Lawrence is seeing is not reality but rather an algorithmic abstraction of reality that sits invisibly atop reality like a kind of distortion field.

shortly I should be able to live at peace in my cottage, with all the twenty four hours of the day to myself. Forty-six I am, and never yet had a whole week of leisure. What will 'for ever' feel like, and can I use it all? Please note its address from March onwards - Clouds Hill, Moreton, Dorset - and visit it, sometime, if you still stravage the roads of England in a great car. The cottage has two rooms; one, upstairs, for music (a gramophone and records) and one downstairs for books. There is a bath, in a demi-cupboard. For food one goes a mile, to Bovington (near the Tank Corps Depot) and at sleep-time I take my great sleeping bag, embroidered MEUM, and spread it on what seems the nicest bit of floor. There is a second bag, embroidered TUUM, for guests. The cottage looks simple, outside, and does no hurt to its setting which is twenty miles of broken heath and a river valley filled with rhododendrons run wild. I think everything, inside and outside my place, approaches perfection.

The sun was going down. Every open evening, the hills of Derbyshire were blazed over with red sunset. Mrs. Morel watched the sun sink from the glistening sky, leaving a soft flower-blue overhead, while the western space went red, as if all the fire had swum down there, leaving the bell cast flawless blue. The mountain-ash berries across the field stood fierily out from the dark leaves, for a moment. A few shocks of corn in a corner of the fallow stood up as if alive; she imagined them bowing; perhaps her son would be a Joseph. In the east, a mirrored sunset floated pink opposite the west’s scarlet. The big haystacks on the hillside, that butted into the glare, went cold. With Mrs. Morel it was one of those still moments when the small frets vanish, and the beauty of things stands out, and she had the peace and the strength to see herself. Now and again, a swallow cut close to her. Now and again, Annie came up with a handful of alder-currants. The baby was restless on his mother's knee, clambering with his hands at the light.

Barrels of oysters wrapped in seaweed came by boat from Stollport. Fat beam and trout were carried in dripping wooden boxes lined with wet straw. A great conger eel arrived in a crate large enough to hold a cannon and appeared so fearsome Mister Bunce quelled the kitchen boys' mock-screams only by bringing out Mister Stone to take his pick among the screechers. Sacks of raisins, currants, dried prunes and figs piled up in the dry larder. In the wet room, soused brawn, salted ling and gallipots of anchovies crowded the shelves and floor. In the butchery, Colin and Luke marshalled four undercooks, six men from the Estate armed with saws, a grumbling Barney Curle and his barrow to skin, draw and joint the hogs. Simeon, Tam Yallop and the other bakers lugged in sacks of meal from the Callock Marwood mill while a dray from the ale-house made journeys over the hill, past the gatehouse and into the yard until the buttery and cellar were filled with kegs and barrels. Rhenish wine arrived in a covered wagon, the dark oak tuns resting on a thick bed of bracken. Scents of cinnamon and saffron drifted out of the spice room.

Introduction This book is devoted to the blessed Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Daily working together as unified Godhead for our best interest. Would be incomplete without Jesus direct love bestowed upon me, through a perpetual act of faith in God. Fully trusting Jesus to lead me into a carefully laid-out plan. Dedicating this book to my children: Faith is 6, Christian 11, Christina 12 years old. Izzabella, my niece, is also featured in the story, Sally Saved Three Times. These Children are the inspiration for the characters in the stories. Added some personal experiences acquired during my childhood. Appreciate the support of my Mom, Dad, brother, Jacob, for being here for me the last five years. They helped me through hard circumstances when I needed them the most. Thank You! My second family is at the Erie Wesleyan Methodist Church on the corner of 29th and Liberty. They covered my life with prayer; great friends from the Lord; Supporting me on my journey towards my heavenly home. I am also thankful for Mike Lawrence who encouraged me to keep writing. Thanks, brother! This spectacular close friend of mine wrote the Forward of this book. He is God-given for moral support and prayer. Friends forever from Erie, Pennsylvania! There are scripture references, along with Bible lessons featured in each story. These short stories are ideal for devotions or bedtime stories. Suitable for parents and grandparents to read to children, grandchildren. Forward It is rare today to find Christians who are in love with doing the Lord's service. Many would sit to the side and let others bush-wack the path, but Bryan has always been the one who delights in making the way clear for others. His determination, commitment to producing these writings was encouraging to watch come to fruition. Take time now see for yourself how God is directing these works to provide something sincere, pure, innocent for families to enjoy. A pleasant respite from a sin-sick world. So, please, feel free to find a quiet place today and enjoy them alone or with your family. This body of work calls upon us to take time to be holy. I believe with all my heart that this is the authors intent, the Lord's plan, my hearts prayer that they bless you as much as they have blessed me. May God bless the time and energies sacrificed by the author in its production. Sincerely in Christ, Michael Lawrence. When writing with Shirley Dye on messenger about editing the book, she commented that this book would be a blessing to many people. That is my solemn humble prayer. Short Story Content 1. Mr. B.G. (My Testimony) 2. Trevor Wins Three Times 3. Winning The Man ON Rock-Hill 4. Sally Saved Three Times 5. Jonathan and Family Find God 6. Upright and Prideful Key Text, (Matthew 18:3), “And (Jesus) said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

We had an expression in my village. 'Beware the clever man who makes wrong look right.

husband,” said Lawrence. “And I’m not sure how seriously we should take that

Nuances of shade and colour in the sand and rock; desert textures - fine, rough, ordered, chaotic, ridged with salt-crust; a broken and wind-swept landscape blends seamlessly into hidden valleys gentled with acacia trees; the smoothness of an ancient lake-bed followed by long struggles with soft sand; rolling hills tessellated with smooth black stones, so ordered it could be a mosaic; salt pans, still wet and yielding under our tyres, the surface cracked and wrinkled like elephant-skin; fine, milky, wind-blown dust so thick that the lower half of a body or motorbike simply disappears below waist height and strange half-people move mysteriously, seemingly unconnected with the ground; crisp-edged dunes lie on the hard desert surface, sculpted by the wind's hand; gnarled acacia trees, lonely patriarchs, seem to crouch and writhe against the heat, standing incongruous in the sand - disparate images flicker through my mind, blend and come together, separate and coalesce like slides flashed briefly against a wall and then they blend again.

The city that Elizabeth looked out on that spring was in the midst of changes far greater than any since the Revolutionary era. During the 1820s, Boston transformed itself from a harbor dependent on foreign imports to one rich in exports from the rising inland mill towns of Lawrence and Lowell. Independent proprietors built new wharves and bridges. A toll road stretching west across swampland between Boston and Brookline was laid out atop an ambitious system of dykes that provided waterpower for scores of new mills. Known as the Mill Dam, this last project served as the underpinnings for future expansion into the Back Bay. In the next decades, Boston, once just a tight fist of land thrust into the Atlantic, would nearly double in landmass: its seven hills were razed and its riverbeds dredged for landfill to support a population swelling past 50,000.

In Plato’s Republic, the character Glaucon mentions the tale of the ring of Gyges. The ring permits its wearer to turn invisible so that he can perpetrate any evil or fraudulent act without detection.

Removal Act of 1830. The residents found the Native Americans at Qualla quaint and amusing, and some would purchase Cherokee handicrafts to take home. The Removal Act of 1830, as vile a piece of legislation as ever enacted by a democratic government, decreed that all native peoples residing east of the Mississippi were to be relocated in Oklahoma. Ten thousand years of Native American culture meant nothing; a stroke of President Andrew Jackson’s pen set more than 100,000 Cherokee, Seminole, Chickasaw and Choctaw natives on a forced march west, a trek that has become known as the Trail of Tears. Many died on the way; others chose to die in protest against becoming strangers in a land bequeathed to them by their ancestors. But a handful of Cherokee successfully avoided the government round-up. They hid in the hills of south-east Tennessee, hills through which no white settler dare pass, and when a more enlightened federal government established the Qualla Reservation in 1889, their descendants were rewarded with the return of lands which had been their birthright from the beginning.

It takes two people to plant a tree, and they should take their time over it, for they cannot have anything more important to do with the time saved by haste.

The G&G, at 1106 Blue Hill Avenue, stood almost exactly midway between the Jewish district’s northern border in Grove Hall and its southern border in Mattapan Square. If asked to free-associate about Jewish Boston, former residents invariably utter “the G&G,” referring to Irving Green and Charlie Goldstein’s eatery.

Kevin White had his father’s knack for hooking up with the right crowd. White’s first foray into politics came as a member of the Ward Five Democratic Committee, a liberal group consisting mainly of Jews and Yankees who in 1960 presented a reform slate to the voters on Beacon Hill. Kevin White then went on to win election as Massachusetts’ Secretary of State, a job that, in Boston’s political parlance, required “no heavy lifting.

Busloads of visitors from Los Alamos and beyond had begun arriving at Compañia Hill, the viewing site twenty miles northwest of Zero, at 0200. Ernest Lawrence was there, Hans Bethe, Teller, Serber, Edwin McMillan, James Chadwick come to see what his neutron was capable of and a crowd of other men, including Trinity staff no longer needed down on the plain.

Baudelaire, William Blake, D. H. Lawrence, William Burroughs, Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, Lenny Bruce, Ken Kesey, the Beatles, and Hunter S. Thompson were as much the fathers of Saturday Night as Kovacs, Carson, Benny, and Berle. Dan Aykroyd called it Gonzo Television. They were video guerrillas, he’d say. Every show was an assault mission.

Beginning with roughly a hundred acres (before he had finished he had added another three hundred), Mr. Lawrence decided to build a town. When his contractor asked him where to put the streets, Lawrence looked at the cow paths meandering up and down the hills and said, “Why not make the streets follow the cow paths?” And so, following the rules of bovine common sense, there the streets are for Mr. Mumford to admire.

(The hotel owed its marvelous name to the Magic Castle, a private club for magicians located just up the hill to the north. I’d been there once a few years earlier as the guest of a friend, and we sat at a table where an impressively drunk practitioner of the dark arts was showing off with a deck of cards. “I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said at one point, and puked onto the table with sangfroid I found enviable.)

Laypeople as well as most scientists believe that science regards the world as built out of tiny bits of matter. “Yet this view is wrong,” argues Henry Stapp, a physicist at the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory high in the hills above Berkeley, California. At least one version of quantum theory, propounded by the Hungarian mathematician John von Neumann in the 1930s, “claims that the world is built not out of bits of matter but out of bits of knowledge—subjective, conscious knowings,” Stapp says. These ideas, however, have fallen far short of toppling the materialist worldview, which has emerged so triumphant that to suggest humbly that there might be more to mental life than action potentials zipping along axons is to risk being branded a scientific naif. Even worse, it is to be branded nonscientific.

It takes two people to plant a tree, and they should take their time over it, for they cannot have anything more important to do with the time saved by haste.

I am a hill where poets run. I invented the alphabet after watching the flight of cranes who made letters with their legs. I am a lake upon a plain. I am a word in a tree. I am a hill of poetry. I am a raid on the inarticulate. I have dreamt that all my teeth fell out but my tongue lived to tell the tale. For I am a still of poetry. I am a bank of song. I am a playerpiano in an abandoned casino on a seaside esplanade in a dense fog still playing.

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So back over the sledding hill, across the iced-up pond, past the snowman with the funny hat, under the giant shimmering icicles and up the snowy back lane back to you; yes YOU,are you missing out on anything right NOW while thinking about tomorrow?

There was so much still to do. There were flowers to collect and transport and food to split up and send home and decisions to be made about the money still to be collected for the cost of the service and the casket and still the matter of thanking everyone who had sent flowers and still the need to notify everyone who would want to know but does not yet know and still the financial affairs and the reading of the will and the going through the house and cataloging and collecting and tossing all the things that needed to be tossed and all those memories what will be found and what should be kept and what should be given away and what to do now that this man, this father, is gone. There were leftovers. There were dirty dishes. There was cleaning, packaging, containing, refrigeration. There was looking under the tables. There was a baby’s bright red rattle, and a money clip, both put into lost and found. There was filing out, climbing up stairs, groaning at achy knees. There was the last person locking the doors, lights out, the quiet hush. There was the walk into the sun, the cold, the day, the season, the year, the next great loss, the next big shock, living and breathing and longing for all the people who were, like Lawrence, no longer there.