Lengthy Love Quotes

What's your definition of dating? Lengthy social time spent with a woman during which we're not actively fucking

There is a saying in Korea: “Lengthy deliberation often leads to a terrible decision.” If you think and worry too much before doing something, “your boat goes to the mountain instead of the ocean.

I tell her I’ll be there soon and for the rest of the trip over, I’m doing that thing I indulge myself in sometimes, where I compose a lengthy, highly organized but incredibly witty lecture of censure to someone who has done me wrong.

One of the vital things for a writer who’s writing a book, which is a lengthy project and is going to take about a year, is how to keep the momentum going. It is the same with a young person writing an essay. They have got to write four or five or six pages. But when you are writing it for a year, you go away and you have to come back. I never come back to a blank page; I always finish about halfway through. To be confronted with a blank page is not very nice. But Hemingway, a great American writer, taught me the finest trick when you are doing a long book, which is, he simply said in his own words, “When you are going good, stop writing.” And that means that if everything’s going well and you know exactly where the end of the chapter’s going to go and you know just what the people are going to do, you don’t go on writing and writing until you come to the end of it, because when you do, then you say, well, where am I going to go next? And you get up and you walk away and you don’t want to come back because you don’t know where you want to go. But if you stop when you are going good, as Hemingway said…then you know what you are going to say next. You make yourself stop, put your pencil down and everything, and you walk away. And you can’t wait to get back because you know what you want to say next and that’s lovely and you have to try and do that. Every time, every day all the way through the year. If you stop when you are stuck, then you are in trouble!

A woman’s strength and character shouldn’t ever be underestimated, although time and time again women are taken for granted. A woman has a choice; just like anyone else on this earth—she doesn’t have to give her all for her family, friends, or co-workers. Women are human, just like everyone else. However, a woman is treated as though she’s not. It is beyond ridiculous that a woman always has to justify her actions in lengthy detail in every situation and the person she encounters.

There is lovemaking that is bad for a person, just as there is eating that is bad. That boysenberry cream pie from the Thrift-E Mart may appear inviting, may, in fact, cause all nine hundred taste buds to carol from the tongue, but in the end, the sugars, the additives, the empty calories clog arteries, disrupt cells, generate fat, and rot teeth. Even potentially nourishing foods can be improperly prepared. There are wrong combinations and improper preparations in sex as well. Yes, one must prepare for a fuck--the way an enlightened priest prepares to celebrate mass, the way a great matador prepares for the ring: with intensification, with purification, with a conscious summoning of sacred power. And even that won't work if the ingredients are poorly matched: oysters are delectable, so are strawberries, but mashed together ... (?!) Every nutritious sexual recipe calls for at least a pinch of love, and the fucks that rate four-star rankings from both gourmets and health-food nuts use cupfuls. Not that sex should be regarded as therapeutic or to be taken for medicinal purposes--only a dullard would hang such a millstone around the nibbled neck of a lay--but to approach sex carelessly, shallowly, with detachment and without warmth is to dine night after night in erotic greasy spoons. In time, one's palate will become insensitive, one will suffer (without knowing it) emotional malnutrition, the skin of the soul will fester with scurvy, the teeth of the heart will decay. Neither duration nor proclamation of commitment is necessarily the measure--there are ephemeral explosions of passion between strangers that make more erotic sense than lengthy marriages, there are one-night stands in Jersey City more glorious than six-months affairs in Paris--but finally there is a commitment, however brief; a purity, however threatened; a vulnerability, however concealed; a generosity of spirit, however marbled with need; and honest caring, however singled by lust, that must be present if couplings are to be salubrious and not slow poison.

Narcissists (and often, by contagion, their unfortunate victims) don't talk, or communicate: they fend off, hide and evade . . . [They] perfect the ability of saying nothing in lengthy Castro-like speeches. Their locution is impregnated with first person pronouns ("I", "me", "my", "mine" - aka "high pronoun density"). The ensuing convoluted sentences are .. a lack of commitment elevated to an ideology. The narcissist prefers to wait and see what procrastination brings: postponement of the inevitable leads to the inevitability of postponement as a strategy of survival.

A patriarchal blessing is a revelation to the recipient, even a white line down the middle of the road, to protect, inspire, and motivate activity and righteousness. A patriarchal blessing literally contains chapters from your book of eternal possibilities. I say eternal, for just as life is eternal, so is a patriarchal blessing. What may not come to fulfillment in this life may occur in the next. We do not govern God's timetable. 'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.' . . . Your patriarchal blessing is yours and yours alone. It may be brief or lengthy, simple or profound. Length and language do not a patriarchal blessing make. It is the Spirit that conveys the true meaning. Your blessing is not to be folded neatly and tucked away. It is not to be framed or published. Rather, it is to be read. It is to be loved. It is to be followed. Your patriarchal blessing will see you through the darkest night. It will guide you through life's dangers. . . . Your patriarchal blessing is to you a personal Liahona to chart your course and guide your way.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor. Fortune favors the brave. Big risks lead to big rewards.” “Do you want to inform me why you suddenly turned into a talking fortune cookie?

And, of course, there is the person you come back to: his face and body and voice and scent and touch, his way of waiting until you finish whatever you're saying, no matter how lengthy, before he speaks, the way his smile moves so slowly across his face that it reminds you of moonrise, how clearly he has missed you and how clearly happy he is to have you back. Then there are the things, if you are particularly lucky, that this person has done for you while you're away: how in the pantry, in the freezer, in the refrigerator will be all the food you like to eat, the scotch you like to drink. There will be the sweater you thought you lost the previous year at the theater, clean and folded and back on its shelf. There will be the shirt with its dangling buttons, but the buttons will be sewn back in place...And there will be no mention of it, and you will know that it was done with genuine pleasure, and you will know that part of the reason—a small part, but a part—you love being in this apartment and in this relationship is because this other person is always making a home for you, and that when you tell him this, he won't be offended but pleased, and you'll be glad, because you meant it with gratitude. And in these moments—almost a week back home—you will wonder why you leave so often, and you will wonder whether, after the next year's obligations are fulfilled, you ought not just stay here for a period, where you belong.

Every nutritious sexual recipe calls for at least a pinch of love, and the fucks that rate four-star rankings from both gourmets and health-food nuts used cupfuls. Not that sex should be regarded as therapeutic or to be taken for medicinal purposes - only a dullard would hang such a millstone around the nibbled neck of a lay - but to approach sex carelessly, shallowly, with detachment and without warmth is to dine night after night in erotic greasy spoons. In time, one's palate will become insensitive, one will suffer (without knowing it) emotional malnutrition, the skin of the soul will fester with scurvy, the teeth of the heart will decay. Neither duration nor proclamation of commitment is necessarily the measure - there are ephemeral explosions of passion between strangers that make more erotic sense than many lengthy marriages, there are one-night stands in Jersey City more glorious than six-months affairs in Paris - but finally there is a commitment, however brief; a purity, however threatened; a vulnerability, however concealed; a generosity of spirit, however marbled with need; an honest caring, however singed by lust, that must be present if couplings are to be salubrious and not slow poison.

It was she who had led him to find himself. Picasso had risen to the challenge God had placed before him without even realizing it. In spite of his fears, in the face of her lengthy illness, and now her impending death, he had not abandoned her. Her steadfast love had helped him to become a noble man, and to be there for her in a way he had not been able to be for Conchita.

Well, did anything interesting happen today?' [my father] would begin. And even before the daily question was completed I had eagerly launched into my narrative of every play, and almost every pitch, of that afternoon's contest. It never crossed my mind to wonder if, at the close of a day's work, he might find my lengthy account the least bit tedious. For there was mastery as well as pleasure in our nightly ritual. Through my knowledge, I commanded my father's undivided attention, the sign of his love. It would instill in me an early awareness of the power of narrative, which would introduce a lifetime of storytelling, fueled by the naive confidence that others would find me as entertaining as my father did.

Love, Henry remembered thinking then, was a lengthy series of insignificant questions whose answers you couldn’t live without.

I like lots of bands, and I LOVE fewer, but the list is still lengthy. I rarely pick a "favorite" because I think that's for laypeople who don't understand the infinite possibilities of music.

Is Abelone beautiful? I asked myself, surprised. Then I left home to go to the Academy for Young Noblemen; it was the start of a distasteful and harmful period. But there at Soro whenever I separated myself from the others and they let me stand in peace at the window I would look out in amongst the trees; and in such moments and at night the certainty grew in me that Abelone was beautiful. And I started writing her all those letters, lengthy ones and short, many of them secret letters in which I thought I was writing about Ulsgaard and about my present unhappiness . But, as I see it now, they may well have been love letters.

I reckon you must get bored more easily than other people.” He came up onto one elbow and looked at her. “Yes. You’ll have your hands full, keeping me excited.” “I don’t remember anything about that in the marriage vows,” she said. “There was obey—I noticed that came first—but I privately added a lengthy footnote to that item.” “This surprises me not at all. But there was the part about serving me.” “It, too, needed a footnote. Then love and honor and keeping you and sticking with you and nobody else. I remember all those. But I don’t recall the minister mentioning anything about keeping you excited.” “That was the serve part. It had an asterisk and some fine print.” “I did not hear any fine print.

Ugh. Would that Christmas could just be, without presents. It is just so stupid, everyone exhausting themselves, miserably haemorrhaging money on pointless items nobody wants: no longer tokens of love but angst-ridden solutions to problems. [...] What is the point of entire nation rushing round for six weeks in a bad mood preparing for utterly pointless Taste-of-Others exam which entire nation then fails and gets stuck with hideous unwanted merchandise as fallout? If gifts and cards were completely eradicated, then Christmas as pagan-style twinkly festival to distract from lengthy winter gloom would be lovely. But if government, religious bodies, parents, tradition, etc. insist on Christmas Gift Tax to ruin everything why not make it that everyone must go out and spend £500 on themselves then distribute the items among their relatives and friends to wrap up and give to them instead of this psychic-failure torment?

A novel is something that stands at the end of a lengthy process called writing. It is not a preexisting Platonic form embedded within the writer... I do not have a Boston marathon inside me waiting to get out. The marathon is a peak experience I am rightly entitled to only as the culmination of years of regular training and love of running.

Some kinds of instruction in prayer used to say, at the beginning, ‘Put yourself in the presence of God.’ But I often wonder whether it would be more helpful to say, ‘Put yourself in the place of Jesus.’ It sounds appallingly ambitious, even presumptuous, but that is actually what the New Testament suggests we do. Jesus speaks to God for us, but we speak to God in him. You may say what you want – but he is speaking to the Father, gazing into the depths of the Father’s love. And as you understand Jesus better, as you grow up a little in your faith, then what you want to say gradually shifts a bit more into alignment with what he is always saying to the Father, in his eternal love for the eternal love out of which his own life streams forth. That, in a nutshell, is prayer – letting Jesus pray in you, and beginning that lengthy and often very tough process by which our selfish thoughts and ideals and hopes are gradually aligned with his eternal action; just as, in his own earthly life, his human fears and hopes and desires and emotions are put into the context of his love for the Father, woven into his eternal relation with the Father – even in that moment of supreme pain and mental agony that he endures the night before his death.

It’s not her ability to give birth—whether one son or seven—that has earned their respect. It’s Ruth’s love for Naomi. This translation gets to the heart of it: “she loves you more than seven sons of your own would love you” (CEV). These women know hesed when they see it. They recognize loyalty and compassion and loving-kindness. They’re applauding Ruth for her deep commitment to Naomi, her lengthy trek from Moab, her weeks of gleaning, her willingness to marry an older man, her eagerness to bear an heir for Naomi’s family, her hours of labor to bring this redeemer into the world, and, above all, her faith in the God of Israel. Those are seven solid reasons; we could probably come up with seventy more.

She sorted through the clothes. “Do you mind wearing Emilio’s underwear?” She turned back to him with the two different styles that she’d found. “You’re about the same size. And they’re clean. They were wrapped in a paper package, like from a laundry service.” Max gave her a look, because along with the very nice, very expensive pair of black silk boxers she’d pilfered from Emilio, she’d also borrowed one of his thongs. “What?” Gina said. It was definitely a man-thong. It had all that extra room for various non-female body parts. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m not,” she said, trying to play it as serious. “One, it’s been a while, maybe your tastes have changed. And two, these might actually be more comfortable, considering the placement of your bandage and—” He took the boxers from her. “Apparently I was wrong.” She turned away and started sorting through the pairs of pants and Bermuda shorts she’d grabbed, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. To make sure he didn’t fall over. Right. After he got the boxers on, he took off the bathrobe and . . . Okay, he definitely wasn’t as skinny as he’d been after his lengthy stint in the hospital. Emilio’s pants probably weren’t going to fit him, after all. Although, there was one pair that looked like they’d be nice and loose . . . There they were. The Kelly green Bermuda shorts. Max gave her another one of those you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glances as he put the bathrobe over the back of another chair. “Do I really look as if I’ve ever worn shorts that color in my entire life?” She tried not to smile. “I honestly don’t think you have much choice.” She let herself look at him. “You know, you could just go with the boxers. At least until your pants dry. You know what would really work with that, though? A bowtie.” She turned, as if to go back to the closet. “I’m sure Emilio has a tux. Judging from his other clothes, it’s probably polyester and chartreuse, but maybe the bowtie is—” “Gina.” Max stopped her before she reached the door. He motioned for her to come back. She held out the green shorts, but instead of taking them, he took her arm, pulled her close. “I love you,” Max said, as if he were dispatching some terrible, dire news that somehow still managed to amuse him at least a little. Gina had been hoping that he’d say it, praying even, but the fact that he’d managed to smile, even just a bit while he did, was a miracle. And then, before her heart even had a chance to start beating again, he kissed her. And oh, she was also beyond ready for that particular marvel, for the sweet softness of his mouth, for the solidness of his arms around her. There was more of him to hold her since he’d regained his fighting weight—and that was amazing, too. She skimmed her hands across the muscular smoothness of his back, his shoulders, as his kiss changed from tender to heated. And, God. That was a miracle, too. Except she couldn’t help but wonder about those words, wrenched from him, as if it cost him his soul to speak them aloud. Why tell her this right now? Yes, she’d been waiting for years for him to say that he loved her, but . . . Max laughed his surprise. “No. Why do you . . .?” He figured it out himself. “No, no, Gina, just . . . I should’ve said it before. I should have said it years ago, but I really should have said it, you know, instead of hi.” He laughed again, clearly disgusted with himself. “God, I’m an idiot. I mean, hi? I should have walked in and said, ‘Gina, I need you. I love you, don’t ever leave me again.’” She stared at him. It was probably a good thing that he hadn’t said that at the time, because she might’ve fainted. It was obvious that he wanted her to say something, but she was completely speechless.

I have selected the twenty most relevant and have also included a lengthy one from her to a Paul Jellinek. Please familiarize yourself with them prior to my arrival. I suggest you clear your calendar for the rest of the day and week. I look forward to meeting you at the Visitor Center. With your full cooperation, we are hoping to keep Microsoft out of it. Yours, Marcus Strang P.S.: We all love your TEDTalk. I’d love to see the latest on Samantha 2 if time permits. PART FOUR Invaders MONDAY, DECEMBER 20 Police report filed by night manager at the Westin Hotel STATE OF WASHINGTON CIRCUIT COURT KING COUNTY STATE OF WASHINGTON -vs.- Audrey Faith Griffin I, Phil Bradstock, an officer with the Seattle Police Department, having been first duly sworn in, on oath, state that:

She wanted strangers to know God's love, so how much more did she want that for me? But instead of getting the daughter she deserved, who would be happy and satisfied with life in the county and marriage to a God-fearing man, she got a daughter who rolled her eyes when she was the unwilling recipient of lengthy prayers. But that didn't stop my mother from trying to bridge the gap. She loved me and wanted me to have access to the faith that had given her so much comfort. Above all she wanted us to be together in eternity. Before I walked away from the church, my family and I used to look in the same direction, toward the same sun. We believed there was one God and he was looking on us with love, because we were his children and we followed his commandments. There were those on the margins-my aunt who smoked cigarettes, Catholics, or the people who went to the mosque across the street from the hospital. But no one in our community would actually deny the existence of God.

Rather than returning to school, he drove straight to the psychologist. “You may need a bit of adjustment, but it’s nothing serious,” the doctor said, after listening to his lengthy narrative. “Nothing serious?” Luo Ji opened his bloodshot eyes wide. “I’m madly in love with a fictional person from a novel of my own creation. I’ve been with her, I’ve traveled with her, and I’ve even broken up with my real-life girlfriend over her. Is that nothing serious to you?” The doctor smiled tolerantly. “Don’t you get it? I’ve given my most profound love to an illusion!” “Are you under the impression that the object of everyone else’s love actually exists?” “Is that even a question?” “Sure. For the majority of people, what they love exists only in the imagination. The object of their love is not the man or woman of reality, but what he or she is like in their imagination. The person in reality is just a template used for the creation of this dream lover. Eventually, they find out the differences between their dream lover and the template. If they can get used to those differences, then they can be together. If not, they split up. It’s as simple as that. You differ from the majority in one respect: You didn’t need a template.” “So this isn’t a sickness?” “Only in the way your girlfriend pointed out: You’ve got natural literary talent. If you want to call that a sickness, go right ahead.” “But isn’t imagining to this degree a little excessive?” “There’s nothing excessive about imagination. Especially where love is concerned.” “So what should I do? How can I forget about her?” “It’s impossible. You can’t forget her, so don’t make the effort. That will only lead to side effects, and maybe even mental disorders. Let nature take its course. Once more, for emphasis: Don’t try to forget about her. It won’t work. But as time passes, her influence on your life will decrease. And you’re actually quite lucky. Whether or not she really exists, you’re fortunate to be in love.” This

If loneliness or sadness or happiness could be expressed through food, loneliness would be basil. It’s not good for your stomach, dims your eyes, and turns your mind murky. If you pound basil and place a stone over it, scorpions swarm toward it. Happiness is saffron, from the crocus that blooms in the spring. Even if you add just a pinch to a dish, it adds an intense taste and a lingering scent. You can find it anywhere but you can’t get it at any time of the year. It’s good for your heart, and if you drop a little bit in your wine, you instantly become drunk from its heady perfume. The best saffron crumbles at the touch and instantaneously emits its fragrance. Sadness is a knobby cucumber, whose aroma you can detect from far away. It’s tough and hard to digest and makes you fall ill with a high fever. It’s porous, excellent at absorption, and sponges up spices, guaranteeing a lengthy period of preservation. Pickles are the best food you can make from cucumbers. You boil vinegar and pour it over the cucumbers, then season with salt and pepper. You enclose them in a sterilized glass jar, seal it, and store it in a dark and dry place. WON’S KITCHEN. I take off the sign hanging by the first-floor entryway. He designed it by hand and silk-screened it onto a metal plate. Early in the morning on the day of the opening party for the cooking school, he had me hang the sign myself. I was meaning to give it a really special name, he said, grinning, flashing his white teeth, but I thought Jeong Ji-won was the most special name in the world. He called my name again: Hey, Ji-won. He walked around the house calling my name over and over, mischievously — as if he were an Eskimo who believed that the soul became imprinted in the name when it was called — while I fried an egg, cautiously sprinkling grated Emmentaler, salt, pepper, taking care not to pop the yolk. I spread the white sun-dried tablecloth on the coffee table and set it with the fried egg, unsalted butter, blueberry jam, and a baguette I’d toasted in the oven. It was our favorite breakfast: simple, warm, sweet. As was his habit, he spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his baguette and dunked it into his coffee, and I plunked into my cup the teaspoon laced with jam, waiting for the sticky sweetness to melt into the hot, dark coffee. I still remember the sugary jam infusing the last drop of coffee and the moist crumbs of the baguette lingering at the roof of my mouth. And also his words, informing me that he wanted to design a new house that would contain the cooking school, his office, and our bedroom. Instead of replying, I picked up a firm red radish, sparkling with droplets of water, dabbed a little butter on it, dipped it in salt, and stuck it into my mouth. A crunch resonated from my mouth. Hoping the crunch sounded like, Yes, someday, I continued to eat it. Was that the reason I equated a fresh red radish with sprouting green tops, as small as a miniature apple, with the taste of love? But if I cut into it crosswise like an apple, I wouldn't find the constellation of seeds.

And what was the setting of this most profound moment? A garden full of olive trees. The olive tree is such a picture of perspective.1 I believe the Creator of all, who does everything with purpose, chose to be in the shade and shadow of the olive trees often. And possibly didn’t just choose to be among the olive trees in His darkest hour, but might He have actually created them for such a time as this? Yes, the olive tree was more than just a backdrop for Jesus. The Crushing Times Are Necessary Times First, in order to be fruitful, the olive tree has to have both the east wind and the west wind. The east wind is the dry, hot wind from the desert. This is a harsh wind. So harsh that it can blow over green grass and make it completely wither in one day. (The east wind is also the one that blew over Job’s house.) The west wind, on the other hand, comes from the Mediterranean. It brings rain and life. The olive tree needs both of these winds to produce fruit … and so do we. We need both the winds of hardship and the winds of relief to sweep across our lives if we are to be truly fruitful. The Crushing Times Are Processing Times Another thing to consider about the olive tree is how naturally bitter the olive is and what it must go through to be useful. If you were to pick an olive from the tree and try to eat it, its bitterness would make you sick. For the olive to be edible, it has to go through a lengthy process, which includes … washing, breaking, soaking, sometimes salting, and waiting. It is a lengthy process to be cured of bitterness and prepared for usefulness. If we are to escape the natural bitterness of the human heart, we have to go through a long process as well … the process of being cured.

Boswell, like Lecky (to get back to the point of this footnote), and Gibbon before him, loved footnotes. They knew that the outer surface of truth is not smooth, welling and gathering from paragraph to shapely paragraph, but is encrusted with a rough protective bark of citations, quotations marks, italics, and foreign languages, a whole variorum crust of "ibid.'s" and "compare's" and "see's" that are the shield for the pure flow of argument as it lives for a moment in one mind. They knew the anticipatory pleasure of sensing with peripheral vision, as they turned the page, gray silt of further example and qualification waiting in tiny type at the bottom. (They were aware, more generally, of the usefulness of tiny type in enhancing the glee of reading works of obscure scholarship: typographical density forces you to crouch like Robert Hooke or Henry Gray over the busyness and intricacy of recorded truth.) They liked deciding as they read whether they would bother to consult a certain footnote or not, and whether they would read it in context, or read it before the text it hung from, as an hors d'oeuvre. The muscles of the eye, they knew, want vertical itineraries; the rectus externus and internus grow dazed waggling back and forth in the Zs taught in grade school: the footnote functions as a switch, offering the model-railroader's satisfaction of catching the march of thought with a superscripted "1" and routing it, sometimes at length, through abandoned stations and submerged, leaching tunnels. Digression—a movement away from the gradus, or upward escalation, of the argument—is sometimes the only way to be thorough, and footnotes are the only form of graphic digression sanctioned by centuries of typesetters. And yet the MLA Style Sheet I owned in college warned against lengthy, "essay-like" footnotes. Were they nuts? Where is scholarship going?

Aaaaarrrgghhh! I have become everything i despise. Some people say love is like a drug and i'm beginning to believe them. It's a powerful mind-altering one that turns you from a well-balanced individual into an utter moron devoid of all rationality. If you could get it in a bottle it would be Class A and would come with a lengthy prison sentence if you were caught in possession.

I was now able to logically decipher my behavior and analyze my actions. I understood all the conditioning that the exploitation and disgrace had in creating the different personality parts and behavioral traits that dwelt in my depths. I started to understand how criticism and insults painfully intensified my ignominious impression of myself, causing me to take everything personally. The numb, confused, and skeptic defender parts now made sense to me. I could see how they contributed to the various problems I incurred throughout my life. I comprehended why I mistrusted and did pernicious things to loved ones—for fear they would do them to me first. The need to self-medicate made sense. I began to recognize the urge for porn. The need to commit acts of perversion was a result of my adolescent mind being manipulated and programmed to believe it was acceptable. I perceived that the reason why I wanted to be humiliated sexually was because the shameful part from the humiliation of the maltreatment wanted to be reinforced. The logic of it all—how all the parts fit together, their roles and reasons for being—became apparent to me. I opened my eyes for a brief moment. Keith was leaning forward with his right elbow resting on his leg, his hand supporting his chin, staring at me as if he was trying to analyze my thoughts. I gazed off in a distance, remembering my numerous misbehaviors. I could trace the main contributing factor for why I acted the way I did to the resulting ignominy from the desecration. But the most significant understanding I had was, that even though it wasn’t my fault, I was still responsible for my behavior. My lengthy musings came to a halt when Keith said, “Marco? Where are you now ... tell me what you’re seeing, thinking.” I proceeded to explain to him my current revelation. “Excellent work, Marco,” Keith said, cracking a smile. “Now think about your next step.” My next step was to cleanse and reprogram the inadequate part. I closed my eyes again and began to concentrate. The only way to accomplish this was to create a tangible picture in my mind of the inadequate part being exorcised of all its imperfect characteristics. Once I was able to concentrate on this step, I looked up into his gaze. “I see myself overlooking a canyon during a sunset. As the sun descends, I envision its rays reflecting off the sparse layers of cloud cover, creating a beautiful multi-layer spectrum of blazing colors. I imagine a cool breeze flowing across my body, as a warm illuminating light from above shines on me and creates a white-out effect that is the cleanest, brightest white I can imagine. I picture the whiteness as a soothing cleansing treatment for the blackness within. I’m feeling as pure and clean as the brilliant color itself.” "And now how do you want to orchestrate the inadequate part?" I stood up and puffed out my chest. "I want it to be the exact opposite—confident, strong, and stable. It should be at peace with itself and not paranoid about what other people think.” Sitting back down, I folded my hands over my crossed knees. “I don't want to feel as if I have to worry about working to exhaustion in my personal life. On the job, or in the gym, I shouldn’t feel I have to be perfect in order to be accepted in society. I want to move past that. I want to feel good and proud of myself. But most of all, I want to feel morally acceptable." I now had a better understanding of the inadequate part, its defender parts, and what they wanted. I was able to see the un-blending taking place within me. The unburdening and bearing witness process got me to the point of reprogramming the misconception that the inadequate part thought about itself. I could go straight to the visualization technique of cleansing and reprogramming the part whenever I felt its symptoms coming on. CHAPTER

I was alone with him in the bedroom; his mind was alert but his body was failing. He said, almost buoyantly, “I’m ready now.” I sat on the edge of the bed, and another silence fell over us. Then he said, “I wish I could cry, I wish I could cry.” At first I took this as a comment on his condition but am forever thankful that I pushed on. “What do you want to cry about?” I said. “For all the love I received and couldn’t return.” I felt a chill of familiarity. There was another lengthy silence as we looked into each other’s eyes. At last he said, “You did everything I wanted to do.” "I did it for you,” I said. Then we wept for the lost years. I was glad I didn’t say the more complicated truth: “I did it because of you.

What is the Wii U, Gubben?" Farfar said, unable to keep the grin off his face as he balled the wrapping paper in his hands and stared at the box in his lap. "Don't we already have a Wii?" Then, more concerned, "How much did you spend on this?" "Not too much," I said, grinning back. "It's refurbished." "And old," Jorge added helpfully. "And old. Nintendo's already moved on to newer systems. Plus," I said, tossing a second present onto Farfar's lap and picking up his blue Wii remote from the coffee table, strumming the rubber bands holding the battery cover in place with my thumb. "This system's backward compatible." I watched Farfar peel back the paper one his unauthorized second present and nod to himself. He let out a sound like a deeply satisfied bear. "Oh, god," Maggie said, laughing. "Let's hook it up, Gubben." "They released a deluxe edition for the newer system," I explained, leading to our lengthy, highly technical discussion of Mario Kart 8 for Wii U vs. 8 Deluxe for the Switch, while I hooked up the new system to the TV

Like a painter in temperance, the brush flow with the melody on the canvas kindle light within a cadence heart a reflection of life and death. Strokes of countless ink a constellation of countless little tears, wide emotions and lengthy death. In riddance of suicidal emotions embracing serenity tone

The wounded heart learns self-love by first overcoming low self-esteem. Nathaniel Branden's lengthy wort Six Pillars of Self-Esteem highlights important dimensions of self-esteem, "The practice of living consciously, self -acceptance, self-responsibility, self-assertiveness, living purposefully and the practice of personal integrity.

Cultures that preserve lengthy procedures of enticement and sensuality, long series of gifts and counter-gifts, with sex being but one service amongst others, and the act of love one possible end-term to a prescribed, ritualistic interchange. Such proceedings no longer make sense to us; ;sex has become, strictly speaking, the actualization of desire in pleasure - all else is literature. An extraordinary crystalization around the orgasmic, and more generally, the energizing function .

You have exceeded my every expectation, love. You are so much more than the meek little librarian I watched from the windows at the university.” “The fact that you think that’s a normal statement proves I’ve fallen for an absolute lunatic. I’ll add stalking to your lengthy list of offenses.” “You’ve fallen for me, have you?” Cade asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he glossed over the rest of her insults and focused on that one, weighty word. “Yes, fallen, as in I’ve leapt from the edge of reason and plummeted into the chasm of whatever blissful insanity this is.” “What lovely evasion, my dear,” Cade teased playfully as he bent to steal another kiss from her lips. “To think, all of this happened because you wouldn’t hand over a fucking book. As much as it generally vexes me, perhaps I should be thanking you for your stubbornness. I couldn’t bend you to my will if I tried. And, as we both are intimately aware, I have tried. Endlessly.

Sentences of life and its assessment do not endorphins privity, baffledness, or deviation of contradistinction present because it dislodges disjunction. The person alienately fills his own space, where corporial rial segregation can never go; it cannot interfere in lengthiness because physical engineering in disparity reflects the mileage of one's remoteness. This does not endorse and rate the demolition of ignorance; you are umpiring, you are shielded, and you consume those items lovingly if you are never tarnished. This has endowed polish in the state of your expert deeds as long as you gleam that they are precious in your unreprimands, while you do not hear them all in an unhealthy way because your sense of humor would not want to be humiliated over there. It is just a margin of natural longevity of energy contents.

New Zealand had taught me that I wanted a more outdoorsy lifestyle, ideally at the beach. In Detroit, I'd seen young people like me buying and fixing up their own homes, and I dreamed of owning my own flat, a flat that could handle a cat. The user-friendliness of a city like Glasgow had made me intolerant of London's lengthy commutes and sky-high rents, which I'd come to see as the enemy of creativity. I was never going to be able to take a gamble, and take a few months off paid commissions to write a book (this book), while I was frantically typing away, like a muppet at a piano, to scrape together the rent each month. I will always love London, and I owe the city a lot. My career as a writer is the greatest gift I've ever been given, and London gave me my career. But the other cities I'd seen, well, they'd made me realise there was more to life than London.

She turned to her left to to face the young man who spoke the word that changed her life. Her eyes met eyes that penetrated her soul, and she knew instinctively that she would fall in love if she hadn't already. His face was soft and flawless. His lengthy dark brown hair was parted to the left and partially covered his ears. His smile was absolutely mesmerizing, magical. If

Where the makers of modern dictionaries strive for uniformity, Johnson was quite happy to vary the size of his entries. Although some of his definitions of natural phenomena are lean, many are lengthy, even opulent, reflecting the contemporary love affair with unusual flora and fauna. Here more than anywhere he strays towards an encyclopedic approach, and the Dictionary begins to resemble, at least fleetingly, a herbal and a bestiary.

in the bathroom where we Post-Human Services men took our lengthy organic shits, straining to be free of whatever greenery tormented us. On

We will close this chapter with a lengthy quote from Tim Keller about how we should read the Bible and think about Christ even in the Old Testament: Jesus is the true and better Adam who passed the test in the garden and whose obedience is imputed to us. Jesus is the true and better Abel who, though innocently slain, has blood now that cries out, not for our condemnation, but for acquittal. Jesus is the true and better Abraham who answered the call of God to leave all the comfortable and familiar and go out into the void not knowing whither he went to create a new people of God. Jesus is the true and better Isaac who was not just offered up by his father on the mount but was truly sacrificed for us. And when God said to Abraham, “Now I know you love me because you did not withhold your son, your only son whom you love from me,” now we can look at God taking his Son up the mountain and sacrificing him and say, “Now we know that you love us because you did not withhold your Son, your only Son, whom you love from us.” Jesus is the true and better Jacob who wrestled and took the blow of justice we deserved, so we, like Jacob, only receive the wounds of grace to wake us up and discipline us. Jesus is the true and better Joseph who, at the right hand of the king, forgives those who betrayed and sold him and uses his new power to save them. Jesus is the true and better Moses who stands in the gap between the people and the Lord and who mediates a new covenant. Jesus is the true and better Rock of Moses who, struck with the rod of God’s justice, now gives us water in the desert. Jesus is the true and better Job, the truly innocent sufferer, who then intercedes for and saves his stupid friends. Jesus is the true and better David whose victory becomes his people’s victory, though they never lifted a stone to accomplish it themselves. Jesus is the true and better Esther who didn’t just risk leaving an earthly palace but lost the ultimate and heavenly one, who didn’t just risk his life, but gave his life to save his people. Jesus is the true and better Jonah who was cast out into the storm so that we could be brought in. Jesus is the real Rock of Moses, the real Passover Lamb, innocent, perfect, helpless, slain so the angel of death will pass over us. He’s the true temple, the true prophet, the true priest, the true king, the true sacrifice, the true lamb, the true light, the true bread. The Bible’s really not about you—it’s about him.51

End June 2012 In response to Dr. Arius’ questions for his research, I wrote: Dr. A.S., As always it is a delight to receive your emails. I’ll be more than happy to answer your questions. I’ll respond to them one at a time. Please bear with me if my answers are lengthy at times. If I veer off into a tangent, please feel free to eliminate or edit my response. I’m eager to find out the results your research will yield when you are done with the survey. I’m ready to begin. Question one: * In “Initiation,” you said that as far as you can remember, even as a baby, you disliked your father. What was it that you didn’t like about the man? Did he have a certain smell that repelled you or something conscious or subconscious that blocked your connection towards him? Answers: Although I cannot provide you with definitive answers, I’ll do my best to remember how I felt when I was with my dad. a) Mr. S.S. Foong was a heavy smoker since the day I was born. I presume as a baby, the cigarette smell on his person repelled me. His aggressively loud booming voice did nothing to my gentle ears, either. Although he never shouted at me when I was a child, his stern demeanor deterred me from wanting to be near him. Moreover, his angry reprimands toward his subordinates when they had done nothing wrong challenged my respect for the man I called Father. b) Maybe unconsciously I was imbued with a glamorized portrayal of the “ideal” family from western magazines, movies, and periodicals of the mid-20th century. I wanted a father whom I could look up to: a strong, kind man who understands the needs of his family and children. But this was a Hollywood invention. It doesn’t exist, or it exists empirically in a small sector of the global population. c) Since my dad was seldom at home (he was with his mistress and their children), it was difficult to have a loving relationship with the man, especially when he roared and rebuked me for my effeminate behavior over which I had no control. I was simply being who I was. His negative criticisms damaged my ego badly. d) I could not relate to his air of superiority toward my mother. I resented that aspect of my father. I swore to myself that I would not grow up to be like my old man.

Debbie truly had Tess’s best interest at heart with the promoting of romanticized contemplation, and she hoped that such contemplation would make transparent a roses and chocolate candy theme that would ignite a passionate desire in her friend for deep intimate companionship that would make lengthy modifications until it became a candlelight connection that would light up brightly and cause a common smile to take form in the lives of two singles. But the detailed scene of Tess’s grander purview on the overall picture placed her friend’s intent in a corner of stagnant nothingness that had no realistic chance of ever modifying into the romantic reality that she advocated.

First things first. “What are you doing here?” she whispered after shutting the door behind them. Kyle folded his arms across his chest. “Are you kidding me? I find you in the kitchen, with your ex-boyfriend declaring his undying love for you, and you ask me what I’m doing?” “Well, I assumed your cross-examination was going to be quite lengthy, so I figured I’d get all my questions out of the way first.” He pointed. “Don’t try to be cute when I’m pissed like this. And for the record, I came back because I forgot my watch on your nightstand. I heard a guy’s voice inside your apartment, and the door was unlocked, so I walked in.” Did he now? “When you’re feeling a little less prickly, we should probably have a talk about boundaries and this whole possessive side of yours.” “Fair enough. The next time I hear a strange man inside your apartment and find your door mysteriously unlocked, I won’t check to make sure you’re not being robbed or held at gunpoint by some lunatic felon that you’ve prosecuted.” Rylann paused, thinking that over. “Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to take issue with the whole possessive thing.

Love," as he now conceived of it, involved "slow growth, many slowly formed bonds, tests by vicissitudes as well as pleasure, mutual sharing of esthetic experiences, humor, sensory things from food through music to passion, etc." Any truly lasting relationship, he concluded would necessitate "a lengthy apprenticeship.

Thetans, Hubbard explained, existed long before the beginning of time and had drifted through the eons, picking up and then discarding physical bodies as if they were temporary shells. Bored, they created the universe. But after a while, they got trapped in that creation. During the lengthy course of their history, which Hubbard called the “whole track,” they had been implanted, through electric shock, pain, or hypnotic suggestion, with a host of ideas, some positive, like love, and others contradictory or negative—such as the ideas of God, Satan, Jesus Christ, and political or bureaucratic government. Eventually they came to believe themselves to be no more than the bodies they inhabited—Hubbard called them “theta beings”—and their original power was lost.

St. Chrysostom says: "What is worse than hell? But nothing is more profitable than the fear thereof. For the fear of hell ob tains for us the crown of Heaven. 13 ... If fear were not a good thing, Christ would not have de livered numerous and lengthy discourses on the future punishment and torments/' 14 St. Augus tine, in particular, was a herald, as of divine love, so likewise of the fear of God. "This fear," he says in his homilies on the Psalms, "is not yet chaste. . . . He fears punishments. Whatever good he does, he does out of fear, moved not by fear of losing good, but by fear of suffering evil. He does not fear to lose the affection of the most beautiful Spouse, but he fears to be cast into hell. This fear is good and useful." 15

Reminiscences of yet a young life's battles and hard struggles came surging into the mind in quick succession: events of boyhood, of youth, and manhood; perils, travels, scenes, joys, and sorrows; loves and hates; friendships and indifferences. My mind followed the various and rapid transition of my life's passages; it drew the lengthy, erratic, sinuous lines of travel my footsteps had passed over. If I had drawn them on the sandy floor, what enigmatical problems they had been to those around me, and what plain, readable, intelligent histories they had been to me! The loveliest feature of all to me was the form of a noble, and true man, who called me son. Of my life in the great pine forests of Arkansas, and in Missouri, I retained the most vivid impressions. The dreaming days I passed under the sighing pines on the Ouachita's shores; the new clearing, the block-house, our faithful black servant, the forest deer, and the exuberant life I led, were all well remembered. And I remembered how one day, after we had come to live near the Mississipi, I floated down, down, hundreds of miles, with a wild fraternity of knurly giants, the boatmen of the Mississipi, and how a dear old man welcomed me back, as if from the grave. I remembered also my travels on foot through sunny Spain, and France, with numberless adventures in Asia Minor, among Kurdish nomads. I remembered the battle-fields of America and the stormy scenes of rampant war. I remembered gold mines, and broad prairies, Indian councils, and much experience in the new western lands. I remembered the shock it gave me to hear after my return from a barbarous country of the calamity that had overtaken the fond man whom I called father, and the hot fitful life that followed it. Stop!

The Glory Yet to Be God called to us, His people To be His holy bride From out the rest of living souls He calls us to His side The way He calls is rugged Steep The way He knows We are His sheep By grand design, He has the goals His love leads to the waterholes Gives us this day our daily bread And hitherto, He's always led Though dark the way The path is steep He drives the wolves from us, His sheep At times the clouds obscure His face But, bless His name, supplies of grace Can fortify against every shock His wisdom plans for all the flock Just now the skies seemed solid brass For not, just think It came to pass The furnace, seven times hotter be My grace sufficient is for thee Your soul is riding out the gail Your courage falters, and the tale Is not yet told, but brighter gold Comes from this long hostility As Jesus calls, look unto Me I've planned for thee eternal days I've planned for thee a thousand ways I went through my Gethsemany Will you, my child, bear this for Me? My back was stripped--I bore the rod Will bear this for Me, your God? I plan for thee a jeweled crown Will you go through, or let me down? Can you bear up a few more years Or will you cause your master tears? While Joseph's brothers made a pile Joseph suffered for a while That while did not seem a lengthy season With no design, no rhyme or reason The brothers did not care a bit That Joseph languished in a pit They showed no sorrow for his plight They cared not for the wrong or right But, God was there, behind the cloud He does not shout His plan aloud The path through pit and prison led For Joseph to the nation's head Not then did Joseph weep or groan Each step was leading to a throne The starving brothers soon behold A ruler with a chain of gold They wept, and each his breast did smite Before one sold to Ishmalite Their brother, with the power of death Each man fell down with baited breath Forgiving, Joseph understood Yee meant for evil, God meant for good He did not leave me, or forsake He knew each step I had to take My shepherd, led by pastures green No other way could there have been For me, I proved that He is God Endured the dark, and kissed the rod Take this example from His word And follow on to know the Lord Now, through darksome glass we see But oh, the glory yet to be

Great paintings,” says Meichler, who agrees to a lengthy interview, “transport you to a place of luminance and memories. Inside of paintings is where I keep my second home.

As purchasers, how often do we end by using money as a substitute for what we fear is insufficient thoughtfulness and sensitivity?—by deciding, at the end of a lengthy shopping excursion, to buy expensive presents for our loved ones simply because we cannot think of that one simple gift that would be modest in price but perfectly intimate in effect.

As I was writing this book, my sister-in-law called early one morning to say that my younger brother Glenn had died overnight after a lengthy illness. 'Go back to sleep,' she urged me, but as I sat there with the phone in my hand, I actually asked myself, 'What would Cokie do?' And I immediately knew the answer: get up, get dressed, and go over to my brother's house, about fifteen minutes away. As I was driving there, I called my sister and told her I was following Cokie's example. You're wrong, she said, Cokie would have been there last night, sleeping on the couch. When I told my son, Lee, this story, he corrected me again. Mom, he said, would have been there for the last three nights sleeping on the couch. Perhaps, after reading this book, you too will start asking that same question: What would Cokie do?

Burn was real, and what they had was real. “I love you,” she finally whispered, the words nearly catching in her throat as she did her best to avoid choking up. Burn was quiet for a long moment. Though they’d certainly spoken of love before, this time seemed especially meaningful, not bound by any lengthy discussions or arguments. “And I love you.

Hospitality requires too much work. Create a guest list, send invitations, plan a menu, make a playlist, shop for groceries, design a tablescape, unearth and polish the fancy dishes, wash and press the table linens, chill the dessert, prepare the meal, dress for the occasion, light the candles, wash the dishes, do the mopping, “Keep-a busy, Cinderelly!”—perhaps this is the list that churns in your head every time you think about hosting others in your home. If so, no wonder you’ve stamped “Too much work” over the whole thing. That list is nearly as long as the tax code and would take more than a pack of animated mice to help you complete it. Might I offer you a word of encouragement I hope will dowse the hot flames of frustration that surround your attempts at hosting? Unless Victorian-era aristocracy has suddenly made a comeback in your neighborhood, you might be making hospitality harder than it needs to be. In chaining yourself to a lengthy list of to-dos, you may inadvertently lose sight of the whole point of hospitality: to welcome the stranger. Don’t make the experience about you, make it about them. Remember, Leviticus 19:34 kind of hospitality leads with ’āhaḇ love. It chooses service over performance, present over perfect.

There is a reason, after all, that Mark Twain sent a lengthy bill of fare home ahead of him after he’d spent so much time in Europe. Among the things he’d missed the most were: "Virginia bacon, broiler; peach cobbler, Southern style; butter beans; sweet potatoes; green corn, cut from the ear and served with butter and pepper; succotash; soft-shell crabs." … And then there’s the exchange between Katherine Anne Porter and William Faulkner that occurred at a swanky French restaurant that was probably Maxim’s. They had dined well and enjoyed a fair amount of Burgundy and port, but at the end of the meal Faulkner’s eyes glazed over a bit and he said, "Back home the butter beans are in, the speckled ones," to which a visibly moved Porter could only respond, "Blackberries." Now, I’ve repeated this exchange in print at least once before, but I don’t care. No matter who we are or where we’ve been, we are all, apparently, ‘leveled’ by the same thing: our love of our sometimes lowly, always luscious cuisine—our love, in short, of Home.

Thus the child who is not loved by his parents will always assume himself or herself to be unlovable rather than see the parents as deficient in their capacity to love. Or early adolescents who are not yet successful at dating or at sports will see themselves as seriously deficient human beings rather than the late or even average but perfectly adequate bloomers they usually are. It is only through a vast amount of experience and a lengthy and successful maturation that we gain the capacity to see the world and our place in it realistically, and thus are enabled to realistically assess our responsibility for ourselves and the world.

He was buoyant with the triumph of the roses. He'd bestowed pearls upon women he'd courted before, he'd indulgently paid lengthy bills for all manner of folderol presented to him by modistes and run up by mistresses, he'd given jewels to his wife, but never, never had he enjoyed giving a gift as much as he'd had this morning, regardless of its strategic purpose. He'd enjoyed the giving as much as Genevieve clearly had enjoyed the getting, judging from the colors she'd turned and that glow in her eyes. A man could grow almost too accustomed to seeking that response to a gift, the way one grew to love opium (not that 'he' was familiar with that particular vice) or drink. He could spend sleepless nights imagining how to go about getting it again.

Do you think you would like to test it with me?” Pete asked. He held out his hand, and Beatriz thought for a moment before taking it. Together they climbed onto the amber-brown dance stage and walked across the boards into the very center. They stopped and faced each other. “I don’t know how to dance,” Beatriz admitted. “I don’t either,” Pete said. “I guess we’ll figure it out.” Beatriz took his free hand and put it on her waist. “It’s cold,” Beatriz said. “It is,” Pete said. He stood a little closer to her so that they were warm together. “There’s no music,” Beatriz said. “We need the radio.” But the station had long since gone quiet, and Diablo Diablo had long since turned back into Joaquin. Pete put his voice right by Beatriz’s ear so that his breath warmed her skin, and he began to sing. It was nothing extravagant, just Patsy Cline sung in his low and uneven voice, and they began to dance. It was very quiet. No one else would have seen if not for the desert. But when the desert heard Pete Wyatt singing a love song, it took notice. The desert loved him, after all, and wanted him happy. So when it heard Pete singing, it rose a wind around them until the breeze sang gently like strings, and when it heard Pete singing, it provoked the air to heat and cool around every stone and plant so that each of these things sounded in harmony with his voice, and when it heard Pete singing, it roused Colorado’s grasshoppers to action and they rubbed their legs together like a soft horn section, and when it heard Pete singing, it shifted the very ground beneath Bicho Raro so that the sand and the dirt pounded a beat that matched the sound of the incomplete heart that lived in Pete Wyatt. The sound of this roused the Sorias from their sleep. Francisco looked out of his greenhouse and saw Pete and Beatriz dancing, and he missed Antonia. Antonia looked out the window of her house and saw Pete and Beatriz dancing, and she missed Francisco. Luis the one-handed took out his future love’s box of gloves from beside his bed and counted them. Nana reached for the photograph of her long-dead husband. Michael had been sleeping rolled up in his own lengthy beard, but he woke up and returned to sleep rolled up with Rosa instead. Judith looked out her window and wept with happiness to see her sister happy, and Eduardo wept, too, because he always liked to dress to match his wife when he could.

I don’t get it,” I told Sir Alfred. “She said she loves me – said it twice. But then she also kept saying, ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’ It’s got me in a bind. I don’t know what to do.” We walked for two minutes before he responded. “I’m taking so long to answer because we’re talking about women and that’s a subject on which I really never know what to say. No man does.” After another lengthy pause he said, “See here, Allen, it’s part of a woman’s wonder and mystery. At times they can just explode, flinging around jagged emotions like so much shrapnel. That’s when one must take cover and stay alert.

I began to wonder about my own church, which has its godly share of hospitable, big-hearted people. But Presbyterian worship, even in small towns such as mine, presumes a high degree of literacy; each Sunday’s bulletin contains new and often lengthy prayers to be read aloud. I wondered if many of these people would feel welcome there, as reading is such a struggle for them. And as I looked around that room I kept thinking: Kathleen, these are the people Jesus says will be first in the kingdom. And I had a kind of vision of all of us coming together, bearing our different wounds, offering differing gifts. The preachers, prophets, healers, and discerners of spirits. Those who can describe the faith and those who can only live it. Those who speak in tongues, and those who interpret. Those who write, and those who sing. Those who have knowledge, and those who are wise only in the sight of God. Each of us poor and in need of love, yet rich in spirit. Each of us speaking in the language we know, and being understood. Pentecost, indeed.

I know it difficult to teach of 6 billion people to love each others... But atleast some can give up hate... Just trail of thoughts for you.. The beings on the planet came to existance. Somehow.. Not willing to debate about the source being God or Science.. Then they started evolving and adapting with the natural srrounding.. Some went to Africa the nature burnt their skins and raised the melanin content in their bodies and made them "Blacks".. Some went to Europe the same malanin was washed away as wasnt required and they became "Whites".. And the most fortunate like us came to Southern Asia and became "Browns" Similar was the case with adaptation to the fooding habits too... These habits took ages to settle in and were forced by nature... With passage of time humans gathered some wisdom and wanted too move away from the natural coarse of life designed by nature for them. In most of the ancient paintings found people have been shown killing or exploiting others.. In most of the recorded history maximum elaboration is about Battles and Wars. Where winners were always HEROES and losers were VILLAINS.. In recorded history very few VILLAINS actually won final wars. People started choosing the Victorious as heroes out of fear. The victorious could define and dictate terms to the society. This continues for ages till further evolution of human brains started. The evolution of human brains led to disloyalty towards the victorious and powerful rulers. Their brains taught them the power of togetherness clubbed with conspiracy could uproot the rulers. They started resisting the powerful. May be this is the time when something called religions came to existence to tame the behaviour of Man from the fear of unknown... i.e. Heaven and Hell. They held the societies together got in rules and regulations but again these were based on hating others and protecting community, cities or co-followers. Unfortunately now These Fears of Unknown from different geographical locations are confronting each other stating my fear is bigger than your fear.. But eventually every one has some path i.e. Birth to Death ... During this lengthy thoughts i have understood that its not the fault of a Black to be black and there is no contribution of a White in being born a white... So being Brown is Great... Eternal life is fro the people who did things for generations to remember that's what heaven and hellz all about. - A Black can show supremacy by being Nelson Mandella - A White can help and heal people to Become Mother Teressa - A Brown can liberate and fight for Kids and become Kailash Satyarthi At this point you must also know that Thousands of Years have Gone.. and one thing that remains constant after "CHANGE" is "HATE" Can we change or let it be as was written on the WALL...

If Fibber McGee supplied a subtitle for this book, it would likely be “A lengthy log listing the legendary shows of the loquacious leader and his laudable lady who landed loads of laughable lines in the laps of lots of lads and lasses who loved listening in locales from the lofty ledges of Leadville to luscious Lake Louise.

He loves it all anyway, as his first life as a teenager never allowed. Everything is different this time. On Sundays his mother’s lengthy grace doesn’t grate on him. This time he savors each one At high school he recalls who wrote poetry in Klingon, who sold dope, who was really gay and thought nobody knew. Friends, long forgotten by his late forties. As they pass by him again, he has a sad appreciation of how fleeting it all is.

There is a saying in Korea: “Lengthy deliberation often leads to a terrible decision.” If you think and worry too much before doing something, “your boat goes to the mountain instead of the ocean.” Now and then it is necessary to trust your intuition and push ahead in the direction you feel is appropriate.

An analytic colleague of mine once expressed to me his chagrin when, at the very end of a somewhat lengthy analysis, his obese patient rose from the couch and at the door remarked to him, “You’ve always found me repulsive, haven’t you?” The patient thereby expressed her bitterness at having felt insufficiently loved by her analyst, who she felt was just going through the motions, doing the strict minimum that he felt professionally obliged to do. The analyst recognized all too late that, indeed, he had all along felt repulsed by this particular patient and was dismayed to realize that he had, in spite of himself, conveyed this to her. The analysand need not come to love the analyst – that is not a requirement or sine qua non of the treatment, at least certainly not in its initial stages. But if the analyst cannot find at least something to love in a particular analysand (to wit, his or her unconscious), trouble will ineluctably ensue and the analyst would do better to refer the analysand to a trusted fellow practitioner than to continue to work with the analysand him-or herself.