Mare Love Quotes

You say you love rain, but you use an umbrella to walk under it. You say you love sun, but you seek shelter when it is shining. You say you love wind, but when it comes you close your windows. So that's why I'm scared when you say you love me.

I think given the choice between loving Mare - betrayal included - and never knowing her, I'd chose love. I risked, and I lost, but the risk was still worth it.

Even without her lightning, Mare Barrow still manages to strike me through.

Mare,” he whispers. “Choose me.” Choose a crown. Choose another king’s cage. Choose a betrayal to everything you’ve bled for. I find my thread of steel too. Thin but unbreakable. “I am in love with you, and I want you more than anything else in the world.” His words sound hollow coming from me. “Anything else in this world.” Slowly, my eyelids flutter open. He finds the spine to match my gaze. “Think what we could do together,” he murmurs, trying to pull me closer. My feet hold firm. “You know what you are to me. Without you, I have no one. I am alone. I have nothing left. Don’t leave me alone.” My breathing turns ragged. I kiss him for what could be, what might be, what will be—the last time. His lips feel strangely cold as we both turn to ice. “You aren’t alone.” The hope in his eyes cuts deeply. “You have your crown.

It’s not something you can control, Mare,” he replies, still standing so far away. “We can’t choose who we love. I wish, more than anything, that we could.” I feel cracked open. My skin still runs hot from Cal’s embrace, remembering the feel of him only moments ago. But in the deepest part of me, in spite of every fiber of my being, I think beyond the clearing, to ice-colored eyes, an empty promise, and a kiss aboard a boat.

C’mon, Mare. I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I’m married to the love of my life.

Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun. When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey. Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year. Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them. But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons. The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests, bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake. Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence. What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of: Resheph Anath Ashtoreth El Nergal Nebo Ninib Melek Ahijah Isis Ptah Anubis Baal Astarte Hadad Addu Shalem Dagon Sharaab Yau Amon-Re Osiris Sebek Molech? All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following: Bilé Ler Arianrhod Morrigu Govannon Gunfled Sokk-mimi Nemetona Dagda Robigus Pluto Ops Meditrina Vesta You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal. And all are dead.

For the love of the Six, don't call me that. Just Mare. Yes, like a horse. Stupid, I know, but I can't stand Amaranthine. What a ridiculously overlong and pretentious collections of syllables.

Remember you are water. Of course you leave salt trails. Of course you are crying. Flow. P.S. If there happens to be a multitude of griefs upon you, individual and collective, or fast and slow, or small and large, add equal parts of these considerations: that the broken heart can cover more territory. that perhaps love can only be as large as grief demands. that grief is the growing up of the heart that bursts boundaries like an old skin or a finished life. that grief is gratitude. that water seeks scale, that even your tears seek the recognition of community. that the heart is a front line and the fight is to feel in a world of distraction. that death might be the only freedom. that your grief is a worthwhile use of your time. that your body will feel only as much as it is able to. that the ones you grieve may be grieving you. that the sacred comes from the limitations. that you are excellent at loving.

In viata nu ai decat o unica mare dragoste ; toate cele care o preceda sunt amoruri de rodaj, iar toate cele care o urmeaza sunt amoruri de recuperare...

Mohabat ki khatir to admi suli charta rahe, marta rahe, khapta rahe, par kisi ki ana ko mota karne k liye koi kab tak apni jaan mare?

Ultimately, love for the self is the deepest pleasure we deny ourselves. I work daily to be courageous enough to indulge in the purest pleasure of self-love.

We also learn that love is a limited resource and that the love we want and need is too much, that we are too much. We learn to shrink, to lie about the whole love we need, settling with not quite good enough in order to not be alone.

Recently Mr. Mawdsley’s donkey escaped from his stall, raced down the road, and somehow found his way into an enclosed pasture. Mr. Caird’s prized mare was innocently grazing when the ill-bred seducer had his way with her. Now it appears the mare has conceived, and a feud is raging between Caird, who demands financial compensation, and Mawdsley, who insists that had the pasture fencing been in better repair, the clandestine meeting would never have occurred. Worse still, it has been suggested that the mare is a shameless lightskirt and did not try nearly hard enough to preserve her virtue.

We need to learn how to practice love such that care—for ourselves and others—is understood as political resistance and cultivating resilience.

Away There is no sorrow Time heals never; No loss, betrayal, Beyond repair. Balm for the soul, then, Though grave shall sever Lover from loved And all they share. See the sweet sun shines The shower is over; Flowers preen their beauty, The day how fair! Brood not too closely On love, on duty; Friends long forgotten May wait you where Life with death Brings all to an issue; None will long mourn for you, Pray for you, miss you, Your place left vacant, You not there.

My skin burs under Maven's gaze, with the memory of one stolen kiss. It was him who saved me from Evangeline. Cal who saved me from escaping and bringing more pain upon myself. Cal who saved me from conscription. I've been too busy trying to save others to notice how much Cal saves me. How much he loves me.

She is my mare and my best friend, and I keep waiting for something bad to happen to her, because I love her too much.

It’s not something you can control, Mare,” he replies, still standing so far away. “We can’t choose who we love. I wish, more than anything, that we could.

We can't choose who we love. I wish, more than anything, that we could.

I fear being alone more than anything else. So why do I do this? Why do I push away the people I love? What is so very wrong with me? I don't know. And I don't know how to make it stop.

Sai bene che non sogno. Ma ieri notte ho sognato che assistevamo a un funerale nel mare. All’inizio ero attonito. Poi pieno di rimpianti. Ma tu m’hai sfiorato un braccio e hai detto: “no, va tutto bene. Era molto vecchia, e poi lui l’ha amata tutta la vita

If the goal was to increase the love, rather than winning or dominating a constant opponent, I think we could actually imagine liberation from constant oppression. We would suddenly be seeing everything we do, everyone we meet, not through the tactical eyes of war, but through eyes of love. We would see that there's no such thing as a blank canvas, an empty land or a new idea - but everywhere there is complex, ancient, fertile ground full of potential.

When I was Mare Barrow of the Stilts, I thought the same way. I wondered what would happen if I survived conscription, and saw what that future held. A friendly marriage to the fish boy with green eyes, children we could love, a poor stilt home. It seemed like a dream back then, an impossibility. And it still is. It always will be. I do not love Kilorn, not the way he wants me to. I never will.

You have to let her know you’re in charge!” “I thought I was!” Typical female. The mare had only let him THINK he was in charge.

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour

Se pare că fiece individ în parte înțelege iubirea drept ceva care-l privește în modul cel mai personal, ca pe o chestiune de cea mai mare însemnătate pentru existența sa, astfel încât nici măcar astrofizicianului, atunci când i s-au aprins călcâiele, nu-i mai pasă câtuși de puțin de originea universului - darămite de vremea de-afară.

I have seen, over and over, the connection between tuning in to what brings aliveness into our systems and bring able to access personal, relational and communal power. Conversely, I have seen how denying our full, complex selves—denying our aliveness and our needs as living, sensual beings—increases the chance that we will be at odds with ourselves, our loved ones, our coworkers, and our neighbors on this planet.

You, too, are a fool, earthborn, to trust in demon-kind and to ride on a mare of smoke and night. What demons love they slay in the end, and the gifts of demons are snares. Go nowhere on a horse that fades, for your dreams will betray you.

Slim cunning hands at rest, and cozening eyes, Under this stone one loved too wildly lies; How false she was, no granite could declare; Nor all earth's flowers, how fair.

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes. There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames, its arms turning like a drowning man's. I send out red signals across your absent eyes that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse. You keep only darkness, my distant female, from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges. Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes. The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you. The night gallops on its shadowy mare shedding blue tassels over the land.

ISCARIOT" "A box of doves I placed beside your chest Liar A stork of silk With rubies in it's nest Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. A mare of wood Elder, elm and oak Liar Will keep you fair If you jest me no joke Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. I'm old and bruised But my fate is that of youth Liar Trickster you Be a grisly dragon's tooth Fire Of my love Will burn thee to a wizened word For ere to go unheard. You gashed the heart of my heart Like a Portuguese Witch, I'd planned for you this land But you devoured my hand.

There seems to be a vast amount of confusion in the Western world concerning these matters, but love and sexual activity are not synonymous: Only by becoming inhuman can the human being pretend that they are. The mare is not obliged to love the stallion, nor is the bull required to love the cow. They are doing what comes naturally.

Erau singuri - se credeau singuri - în casa mare și adormită. Nici o mărturisire, nici o sărutare, tăcere... Apoi, discuții înfierbântate și pasionate, în care vorbeau despre țările lor, despre familiile lor, despre muzică, despre cărți... Fericirea stranie pe care o simțeau... Graba de a descoperi fiecare inima celuilalt, o grabă de iubit care este deja o formă de dăruire, prima, dăruirea sufletului înainte de cea a trupului. <> Dar până atunci nici o vorbă de iubire. La ce bun? Sunt inutile când vocea răgușește, când gurile tremură, când se lasă tăcerile lungi...

I will never make the mistake of loving you ever again." "So you choose him?" That's all it ever was. Jealousy. Rivalry. All so shadow could defeat the flame. "Cal betrayed me, and I betrayed him. And you betrayed us both, in a thousand different ways. I choose no one.

I will always love you, over the moon, under the sun and in and out of the stars.

It's not something you can control, Mare," he replies, still standing so far away. "We can't choose who we love. I wish, more than anything. that we could.

Who will you be, my Little Ones? Will you dance for the fires of your youth and run at midnight to water’s edge, diving into summer’s heat? Will you ride a wild mare to any thought or dream or love of your making? Will you seek the artistry of your own infatuations and explore . . .

Con la mano ancora ferma sui polsi di lei, aprì gli occhi e si sentì sprofondare nel mare limpido dello sguardo di Melanie che sembrava promettere molto più di quello che lui pensava di meritare.

The additional truth is, even though we want to help the survivor, we love obsessing over and punishing “villains.” We end up putting more of our collective attention on punishing those accused of causing harm than supporting and centering the healing of survivors, and/or building pathways for those who are in cycles of causing harm to change.

Iubirea e banală. Îți provoacă o intoxicație chimică foarte asemănătoare cu aceea dată de o reușită mult așteptată sau de mersul cu mare viteză. În acele momente, nu mai ținem cont de nimic și ne concentrăm doar asupra propriei noastre delectări; viața de zi cu zi ne este distorsionată și devenim iraționali: ne simțim fericiți și ni se pare că totul este posibil.

Iubirea adevărată e o experienţă a bucuriei împărtăşite şi ea iradiază, ca atare, în întregul spaţiu din jurul său. Evident, nu cred în utopia unei exaltări de fiecare clipă, sau în convieţuirea paradiziacă, în care totul e roz, adorabil, ireproşabil. Vreau doar să spun că dacă o întîlnire de dragoste devine prea complicată, dacă emoţia, farmecul şi plăcerea se umplu, dintr-un motiv sau altul, de cearcăne, ceva în măruntaiele acestei întîlniri e pe cale de a se deteriora. De asemenea, dacă frumuseţea întîlnirii se cuplează cu nefericirea masivă a altora. O mare iubire care sfîrşeşte prin a ruina cariere, caractere, vieţi e o iubire mai curînd strîmbă şi are puţine şanse de happy end. Sintagme de tipul „sînt îndrăgostit fără speranţă“, „sînt îndrăgostit şi mă simt vinovat“, „sînt îndrăgostit şi nu mai sînt bun de nimic“ n-au ce căuta în vocabularul iubirii. Iubirea adevărată e creatoare, mobilizatoare, restauratoare. E tonică, simplă, vitală. Amărăciunile, neîncrederea, infernul geloziei, suspiciunile mărunte, spaima de viitor şi tot alaiul de indispoziţii cotidiene care confiscă uneori viaţa cuplului sînt preliminarii şi semne ale ratării. Iubirea fericită este, dimpotrivă, un corelativ a reuşitei umane, o binecuvîntare care îmbogăţeşte şi înfrumuseţează inventarul destinului pămîntesc. Fericirea se multiplică, atunci cînd e atentă la fericirea partenerului, iar fericirea cuplului aşază asupra întregii comunităţi un cer mai curat şi mai hrănitor. Ştiu foarte bine că descrierea de mai sus nu se potriveşte tuturor iubirilor, că iubirile fericite nu se întîlnesc pe toate drumurile (deşi sînt sigur că ele sînt mai numeroase decît ne închipuim). Dar iubirile nefericite ar trebui şterse din registrul iubirii: admit că ele sînt curente, aproape inevitabile şi că îşi au nimbul lor de tragism şi de respectabilitate. Nu sînt însă iubiri adevărate: sînt doar teribile probe existenţiale, provocări tainice ale sorţii, materie primă pentru o eventuală soluţie de înţelepciune. Iubirea adevărată e fericire pe termen lung, sau nu e deloc.

Dad and Gram didn't take a single day on the ranch for granted. Regardless of the weather, the greeted each morning as if they'd embrace it, filling their eyes with a vaulting sky and sagebrush-coverd ridges. Then they gave silent prayer of thanks for living the life they loved.

C’mon, Mare. I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I’m married to the love of my life.” “The love of your life is a Harley!” “Not anymore!

Look thy last on all things lovely Every hour…

Oricât de puţin timp petrecuseră prima oară împreună, Brian reţinuse una dintre slăbiciunile ei: marea.

What we need right now is a radical, global love that grows from deep within us to encompass all life.

What we need is a culture where the common experience of trauma leads to a normalization of healing. Being able to say I have good reasons to be scared of the dark, of raised voices, of being swallowed up by love, of being alone. And being able to offer each other: I know a healer for you. I'll hold your hand in the dark. Let's begin a meditation practice. Perhaps talk therapy is not enough. We should celebrate love in our community as a measure of healing. The expectation should be -- I know we are all in need of healing -- so how are we doing our healing work?

If ever again we happened to lose our balance, just when sleepwalking through the same dream on the brink of hell’s valley, if ever the magical mare (whom I ride through the night air hollowed out into caverns and caves where wild animals live) in a crazy fit of anger over some word I might have said without the perfect sweetness that works on her like a charm, if ever the magic Mare looks over her shoulder and whinnies: “So! You don’t love me!” and bucks me off, sends me flying to the hyenas, if ever the paper ladder that I climb so easily to go pick stars for Promethea—at the very instant that I reach out my hand and it smells like fresh new moon, so good, it makes you believe in god’s genius—if ever at that very instant my ladder catches fire—because it is so fragile, all it would take is someone’s brushing against it tactlessly and all that would be left is ashes—if ever I had the dreadful luck again to find myself falling screaming down into the cruel guts of separation, and emptying all my being of hope, down to the last milligram of hope, until I am able to melt into the pure blackness of the abyss and be no more than night and a death rattle, I would really rather not be tumbling around without my pencil and paper.

I fell off a dogsled down a frozen waterfall and landed on sharp ice on a kneecap. It was so agonizing, I thought, seriously, that my heart would stop. But I found that my whole dog team loved and worried about me so much, they curved downstream and worked back up to me to surround me as I lay clutching my lacerated knee, whimpering and pushing their warm bodies against me. I remember the love, the dog love, much more than the shattered knee. . . .

Miris dipped her head and inflicted a small, but painful, nip on the stranger's left arm. A startled yelp replaced his laughter. Then, it rang out again. "By all the gods, you even have your lovely mare trained to keep horse thieves in line!

San Valentino significava avere il doppio dei coperti, la sala trasformata in un mare di tavoli da due, le coppie strizzate in mezzo metro quadrato di spazio ad aspettare in eterno una bistecca e a guardarsi negli occhi facendosi forza per ciò che le aspettava nel dopocena.

Avem o anume senzaţie că aparţinem acelui bărbat - partener de dans - care ne lasă să executăm paşii pe care-i ştim deja. Cu el şi nu cu altul, hotărâm să stabilim relaţia pe care s-o facem să meargă. Nu există o substanţă chimică mai atrăgătoare decât sentimentul de tainică familiaritate apărut când se întâlnesc un bărbat şi o femeie ale căror modele de comportament se îmbină perfect ca piesele dintr-un joc de puzzle. (...) cu cât a fost mai mare durerea în copilărie, cu atât e mai puternic impulsul de a o reconstitui şi stăpâni la maturitate.

Audre Lorde taught us that caring for ourselves is “not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”52 And although we know how to meme and tweet those words, living into them is harder. We have a deeper socialization to overcome, one that tells us that most of us don’t matter—our health, our votes, our work, our safety, our families, our lives don’t matter—not as much as those of white men. We need to learn how to practice love such that care—for ourselves and others—is understood as political resistance and cultivating resilience.

b) ‘A Muslim is like a date palm tree whose leaves do not fall, always beneficial and never harmful.’ “This influences my organizing by reminding me that my core responsibility is to be a benefit to whatever I’m engaged in. I may not always know HOW that will happen but it has to be my aim. I want peoples’ lives to have been better (even in very tiny ways) from having participated with me in this work. This means to me that I bring beautiful words, actions, ideas, and behaviors into spaces. At the end of it all even if we don’t see the fruits of our labor, shouldn’t we be able to say we loved and enjoyed each other? That’s why I want to act and be like a palm tree, providing shade, covering my comrades (instead of throwing shade lol). I want to provide food (dates). I want to be what they can lean on. I want to be a resource, sustaining our work.” —Aisha Shillingford “I

Una vita tranquilla e sicura non è materiale adatto alla scrittura.[...] Ho vissuto in un mare in tempesta, con onde che mi portavano sulla cresta e poi mi facevano precipitare nel vuoto [...] Ora navigo alla deriva, giorno dopo giorno, contenta del semplice fatto di galleggiare finché è possibile.

The horse was a pure-bred Arab. She came, bright and dancing, flaunting into the ring, her tail held high over her quarters, her silken mane flowing over the crest of her neck. Her head was fine-boned and delicate, with the concave line of the true Arab horse. Her dark, lustrous eyes were fringed with long lashes and the nostrils wrinkling her velvet muzzle were huge black pits. She moved around the ring like a bright flame, her pricked ears delicate as flower petals. Her legs were clean and unblemished and her small hooves were polished ivory. After the dull ache of the rosinbacks, she was all light and fire. Jinny sat entranced, hardly breathing, and then her breath burst out of her in a throbbing gasp. She loved the chestnut mare. As if all their long day's travelling had only been for this. As if she had come all the way from Stopton only for this, to see this sudden gift of perfection.

Morozko halted and faced the horse, narrow-eyed. I am not blind, continued the mare. Even to things that go on two feet. You made that jewel so that you would not fade. But now it is doing too much. It is making you alive. It is making you want what you cannot have, and feel what you ought not to understand, and you are beguiled and afraid. Better to leave her to her fate, but you cannot. Morozko pressed his lips together. The trees sighed overhead. All at once his anger seemed to leave him. “I do not want to fade,” he said unwillingly. “But I do not want to be alive. How can a death-god be alive?” He paused, and something changed in his voice. “I could have let her die, and taken the sapphire from her and tried again, found another to remember. There are others of that bloodline.” The mare’s ears went forward and back. “I did not,” he said abruptly. “I cannot. Yet every time I go near her, the bond tightens. What immortal ever knew what it was like to number his days? Yet I can feel the hours passing when she is near.” The mare nosed again at the deep snow. Morozko resumed his pacing. Let her go, then, said the mare, quietly, from behind him. Let her find her own fate. You cannot love and be immortal. Do not let it come to that. You are not a man.

Toate sentimentele mi se par inutile, făcînd ca lucrurile să se termine rău. Viața poate fi mult mai simplă dacă abolim emomțiile. Dar nu trebuie să te educ, Shmuel. Poate te mulțumești cu faptul că, în general, te tolerez într-o măsură mai mare sau mai mică, iar din cînd în cînd apar și momente ceva mai bune decît acesta.

Counterman - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury Circumcision made me apostate I thumped thighs and turned Tartar The king will go and evil eves get raped Just as tutored Nadir Shah I'd kiss the sword and leap in air On galloping mare a burning torch I proceed towards falling outposts The metropolis burns A naked priest elopes with Shiva's phallus.

Behind her, the two Sharpe sisters came out to cross the courtyard. He dragged in a heavy breath as the younger one caught his eye. Masters approached to look out the window, too. "And there she comes, the most beautiful woman in the world." "And the most maddening," Jackson muttered. "Watch it, Pinter," Masters said in a voice tinged with amusement. "That's my wife you're talking about." Jackson started. He hadn't been staring at Mrs. Masters. "I beg your pardon," he murmured, figuring he'd best not explain. Masters would never accept that Lady Celia was to her sister as a gazelle was to a brood mare. The newly wedded barrister was blinded by love. Jackson wasn't. Any fool could see that Lady Celia was the more arresting of the two. While Mrs. Masters had the lush charms of a dockside tart, Lady Celia was a Greek goddess-willowy and tall, small-breasted and long-limbed, with a fine lady's elegant brow, a doe's soft eyes... And a vixen's temper. The damned female could flay the flesh from a man's bones with her sharp tongue. She could also heat his blood with one unguarded smile. God save him, it was a good thing her smile had never been bestowed on him. Otherwise, he might act on the fantasy that had plagued him from the day he'd met her-to shove her into some private closet where he could plunder her mouth with impunity. Where she would wrap those slender arms about his neck and let him have his way with her.

Who will you be my Little Ones? Who will you be, my Little Ones? Will you dance for the fires of your youth and run at midnight to water's edge, diving into summer's heat? Will you ride a wild mare to any thought or dream or love of your making? Will you seek the artistry of your own infatuations and explore all the reckless and eccentric corners of your own impetuous world?

Not used to be being bested, are you?" "No," he said bluntly. "Poseidon could outrun your mare, and you know it. But I'm not about to risk galloping over a field I don't know. There could have been rabbit holes." "Of course.Rabbit holes.I understand." He frowned,about to defend his actions further, when he noted a twinkle in her gaze. The little minx was taunting him. For some reason, that improved his mood, and he said with a smile, "Sophia, my love, don't tempt a sinner. I am not afraid of you or your horse, and you damn well know it." "I'm sure you have a reason for not wishing to race," she returned in a demure voice, though her eyes sparkled with laughter. "I am just not certain you have a just cause." "I have both. The reason for not racing you is the potential harm to the animals; and the just cause is that I wish to keep you alone for as long as possible. And that will be more difficult to do once we reach the house." Her brows rose, a faint color touching her cheeks. "Oh." His lips twitched. "That's all you can say now? After all that posturing? You are a tease,my lady." "I don't consider myself so." "No woman does, and yet most are.

I draw myself up next to her and look at her profile, making no effort to disguise my attention, here, where there is only Puck to see me. The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls over her face in the breeze. Her expression is less ferocious than usual, less guarded. I say, “Are you afraid?” Her eyes are far away on the horizon line, out to the west where the sun has gone but the glow remains. Somewhere out there are my capaill uisce, George Holly’s America, every gallon of water that every ship rides on. Puck doesn’t look away from the orange glow at the end of the world. “Tell me what it’s like. The race.” What it’s like is a battle. A mess of horses and men and blood. The fastest and strongest of what is left from two weeks of preparation on the sand. It’s the surf in your face, the deadly magic of November on your skin, the Scorpio drums in the place of your heartbeat. It’s speed, if you’re lucky. It’s life and it’s death or it’s both and there’s nothing like it. Once upon a time, this moment — this last light of evening the day before the race — was the best moment of the year for me. The anticipation of the game to come. But that was when all I had to lose was my life. “There’s no one braver than you on that beach.” Her voice is dismissive. “That doesn’t matter.” “It does. I meant what I said at the festival. This island cares nothing for love but it favors the brave.” Now she looks at me. She’s fierce and red, indestructible and changeable, everything that makes Thisby what it is. She asks, “Do you feel brave?” The mare goddess had told me to make another wish. It feels thin as a thread to me now, that gift of a wish. I remember the years when it felt like a promise. “I don’t know what I feel, Puck.” Puck unfolds her arms just enough to keep her balance as she leans to me, and when we kiss, she closes her eyes. She draws back and looks into my face. I have not moved, and she barely has, but the world feels strange beneath me. “Tell me what to wish for,” I say. “Tell me what to ask the sea for.” “To be happy. Happiness.” I close my eyes. My mind is full of Corr, of the ocean, of Puck Connolly’s lips on mine. “I don’t think such a thing is had on Thisby. And if it is, I don’t know how you would keep it.” The breeze blows across my closed eyelids, scented with brine and rain and winter. I can hear the ocean rocking against the island, a constant lullaby. Puck’s voice is in my ear; her breath warms my neck inside my jacket collar. “You whisper to it. What it needs to hear. Isn’t that what you said?” I tilt my head so that her mouth is on my skin. The kiss is cold where the wind blows across my cheek. Her forehead rests against my hair. I open my eyes, and the sun has gone. I feel as if the ocean is inside me, wild and uncertain. “That’s what I said. What do I need to hear?” Puck whispers, “That tomorrow we’ll rule the Scorpio Races as king and queen of Skarmouth and I’ll save the house and you’ll have your stallion. Dove will eat golden oats for the rest of her days and you will terrorize the races each year and people will come from every island in the world to find out how it is you get horses to listen to you. The piebald will carry Mutt Malvern into the sea and Gabriel will decide to stay on the island. I will have a farm and you will bring me bread for dinner.” I say, “That is what I needed to hear.” “Do you know what to wish for now?” I swallow. I have no wishing-shell to throw into the sea when I say it, but I know that the ocean hears me nonetheless. “To get what I need.

Here are some reasons we swallow our truths: - Capitalism: we are taught that love is about belonging to one person or community, and we must contort in order to ensure continued belonging. We are taught that our value is in what we can produce, and emotions impede production. - The oppression of supremacy: we are taught that, if we are not white, male, straight, able, wealthy, adult, etc., our truths don't matter. This starts very early, we are taught that our feelings and thoughts as children are unimportant, that we are to "be seen and not heard". - The oppression of false peace: we are taught that our truths are disruptive, and that disruption is a negative act. This one is particularly insidious, and ties back into capitalism—only those moving towards profit can adds would create disruption, everyone else should be complacent consumers.

The back barn door opened, and in walked a vision in a billowing green dress. As she led in her mare, Mr. McBride’s voice faded away as Tom’s total attention turned to the girl. About twenty-one or two, Tom guessed. Not too tall, nor short. Beautiful heart-shaped face decorated with rosy cheeks and light freckles. Long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. Perfectly set green eyes. Full-bosomed and hourglass shaped. Breathtaking.

Your life is your spiritual path. Don’t be quick to abandon it for bigger and better experiences. You are getting exactly the experiences you need to grow. If your growth seems to be slow or uneventful for you, it is because you have not fully embraced the situations and relationships at hand. To know the self is to allow everything, to embrace the totality of who we are—all that we think and feel, all that we fear, all that we love.

Today is another day! Yesterday is gone but not its memories. There were so many things we expected yesterday which did not happen and what we least expected happened instead. Some are still expecting something. Expectation is a pillar of life. We all do have our expectations for today. Though we may or we may not be able to tell with certainty how our expectations would materialize. We ought to take life easy. Well, it may not be so easy to take it easy but, take it easy! Stay focused and entrust your trust in God. After all what you least expects can happen; serendipity can visit you and stay with you forever at a twinkle of an eye. The coin of life can however turn within a moment of time and your expectations can become a big had I know and a night mare; the vicissitudes of life can rob you at any moment of time. No one knows what the next second really holds. What matters in life is to do what matter; plant the seed of life God has entrusted in your hands and dare to ensure its abundant fruitfulness. The very problem in life is living to neglect the very reasons why you are living because of the problems you may face in living why you must live. When you trade why you must live for why you must not live, you are ruled by what you know but you do not know how it is ruling you. Once we have life, let us live for life all about living and living life is life!

That strange feeling came back to Nick’s stomach, although this time it traveled upward to the vicinity of his heart. His hands stroked and soothed the mare, but all his attention centered on the woman kneeling in the straw. The haughty attitude Elizabeth sometimes displayed had vanished. Happiness lit up her face, and her eyes shone with love. Look at me that way, he silently pleaded. He knew Star didn’t appreciate her loving attention the same way he would.

The Night-Swans by Walter De la Mare 'Tis silence on the enchanted lake, And silence in the air serene, Save for the beating of her heart, The lovely-eyed Evangeline. She sings across the waters clear And dark with trees and stars between, The notes her fairy godmother Taught her, the child Evangeline. As might the unrippled pool reply, Faltering an answer far and sweet, Three swans as white as mountain snow Swim mantling to her feet. And still upon the lake they stay, Their eyes black stars in all their snow, And softly, in the glassy pool, Their feet beat darkly to and fro. She rides upon her little boat, Her swans swim through the starry sheen, Rowing her into Fairyland-- The lovely-eyed Evangeline. 'Tis silence on the enchanted lake, And silence in the air serene; Voices shall call in vain again On earth the child Evangeline. 'Evangeline! Evangeline!' Upstairs, downstairs, all in vain. Her room is dim; her flowers faded; She answers not again.

«C'era una volta una donna simile a una stella che ardeva incandescente nella vastità del cielo. Così come Venere appare al tramonto, lei splendeva di una luce tutta sua. Quando passeggiava, gli alberi ondeggiavano per l'amore che provavano per lei, e l'umile terra le accarezzava i piedi. Giacere accanto a lei significava sentire risuonare nelle tempie il pulsare delle maree che vengono attratte ad adorare la luna. Baciare le sue labbra significava assaporare l'eternità e nutrirsene. Chi può descrivere l'immensità della sua gloria?»

The Mongols loved competitions of all sorts, and they organized debates among rival religions the same way they organized wrestling matches. It began on a specific date with a panel of judges to oversee it. In this case Mongke Khan ordered them to debate before three judges: a Christian, a Muslim, and a Buddhist. A large audience assembled to watch the affair, which began with great seriousness and formality. An official lay down the strict rules by which Mongke wanted the debate to proceed: on pain of death “no one shall dare to speak words of contention.” Rubruck and the other Christians joined together in one team with the Muslims in an effort to refute the Buddhist doctrines. As these men gathered together in all their robes and regalia in the tents on the dusty plains of Mongolia, they were doing something that no other set of scholars or theologians had ever done in history. It is doubtful that representatives of so many types of Christianity had come to a single meeting, and certainly they had not debated, as equals, with representatives of the various Muslim and Buddhist faiths. The religious scholars had to compete on the basis of their beliefs and ideas, using no weapons or the authority of any ruler or army behind them. They could use only words and logic to test the ability of their ideas to persuade. In the initial round, Rubruck faced a Buddhist from North China who began by asking how the world was made and what happened to the soul after death. Rubruck countered that the Buddhist monk was asking the wrong questions; the first issue should be about God from whom all things flow. The umpires awarded the first points to Rubruck. Their debate ranged back and forth over the topics of evil versus good, God’s nature, what happens to the souls of animals, the existence of reincarnation, and whether God had created evil. As they debated, the clerics formed shifting coalitions among the various religions according to the topic. Between each round of wrestling, Mongol athletes would drink fermented mare’s milk; in keeping with that tradition, after each round of the debate, the learned men paused to drink deeply in preparation for the next match. No side seemed to convince the other of anything. Finally, as the effects of the alcohol became stronger, the Christians gave up trying to persuade anyone with logical arguments, and resorted to singing. The Muslims, who did not sing, responded by loudly reciting the Koran in an effort to drown out the Christians, and the Buddhists retreated into silent meditation. At the end of the debate, unable to convert or kill one another, they concluded the way most Mongol celebrations concluded, with everyone simply too drunk to continue.

First, he comprehended he had at least until Christmas to change her mind. Second, he understood part of Emmie’s bad mood and skittishness was due to sheer exhaustion, which he could address fairly easily. Third, Emmie had not expected him to react as he had to her lack of virginity. She had anticipated he would reject her for it or judge her, and it was a consequence she was willing—almost eager—to bear. So he didn’t have her trust—yet. And he did not have all the facts. Emmie was keeping secrets, at least, and if Winnie’s disclosure regarding Bothwell was any indication, Winnie had a few things to get off her chest, as well. Just like managing a group of junior officers. Always a mare’s nest, always making simple problems difficult, and always needing to be hauled backward out of the thickets they should never have blundered into. Except, he mused as he regarded Emmie’s drawn features, he hadn’t been in love with his recruits, and males were infinitely less complicated than females. Thank the gods Bonaparte had not been female, or the empire would already have encompassed Cathay. ***

before he went back to helping the boy. Missing from the Warrior tent were Kalona and Aurox. For obvious reasons, Thanatos had decided the Tulsa community wasn’t ready to meet either of them. I agreed with her. I wasn’t ready for … I mentally shook myself. No, I wasn’t going to think about the Aurox/Heath situation now. Instead I turned my attention to the second of the big tents. Lenobia was there, keeping a sharp eye on the people who clustered like buzzing bees around Mujaji and the big Percheron mare, Bonnie. Travis was with her. Travis was always with her, which made my heart feel good. It was awesome to see Lenobia in love. The Horse Mistress was like a bright, shining beacon of joy, and with all the Darkness I’d seen lately, that was rain in my desert. “Oh, for shit’s sake, where did I put my wine? Has anyone seen my Queenies cup? As the bumpkin reminded me, my parents are here somewhere, and I’m going to need fortification by the time they circle around and find me.” Aphrodite was muttering and pawing through the boxes of unsold cookies, searching for the big purple plastic cup I’d seen her drinking from earlier. “You have wine in that Queenies to go cup?” Stevie Rae was shaking her head at Aphrodite. “And you’ve been drinkin’ it through a straw?” Shaunee joined Stevie Rae in a head shake. “Isn’t that nasty?” “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Aphrodite quipped. “There are too many nuns lurking around to drink openly without hearing a boring lecture.” Aphrodite cut her eyes to the right of us where Street Cats had set up a half-moon display of cages filled with adoptable cats and bins of catnip-filled toys for sale. The Street Cats had their own miniature version of the silver and white tents, and I could see Damien sitting inside busily handling the cash register, but except for him, running every aspect of the feline area were the habit-wearing Benedictine nuns who had made Street Cats their own. One of the nuns looked my way and I waved and grinned at the Abbess. Sister Mary Angela waved back before returning to the conversation she was having with a family who were obviously falling in love with a cute white cat that looked like a giant cottonball. “Aphrodite, the nuns are cool,” I reminded her. “And they look too busy to pay any attention to you,” Stevie Rae said. “Imagine that—you may not be the center of everyone’s attention,” Shaylin said with mock surprise. Stevie Rae covered her giggle with a cough. Before Aphrodite could say something hateful, Grandma limped up to us. Other than the limp and being pale, Grandma looked healthy and happy. It had only been a little over a week since Neferet had kidnapped and tried to kill her, but she’d recovered with amazing quickness. Thanatos had told us that was because she was in unusually good shape for a woman of her age. I knew it was because of something else—something we both shared—a special bond with a goddess who believed in giving her children free choice, along with gifting them with special abilities. Grandma was beloved of the Great Mother,

few years later, Demeter took a vacation to the beach. She was walking along, enjoying the solitude and the fresh sea air, when Poseidon happened to spot her. Being a sea god, he tended to notice pretty ladies walking along the beach. He appeared out of the waves in his best green robes, with his trident in his hand and a crown of seashells on his head. (He was sure that the crown made him look irresistible.) “Hey, girl,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You must be the riptide, ’cause you sweep me off my feet.” He’d been practicing that pickup line for years. He was glad he finally got to use it. Demeter was not impressed. “Go away, Poseidon.” “Sometimes the sea goes away,” Poseidon agreed, “but it always comes back. What do you say you and me have a romantic dinner at my undersea palace?” Demeter made a mental note not to park her chariot so far away. She really could’ve used her two dragons for backup. She decided to change form and get away, but she knew better than to turn into a snake this time. I need something faster, she thought. Then she glanced down the beach and saw a herd of wild horses galloping through the surf. That’s perfect! Demeter thought. A horse! Instantly she became a white mare and raced down the beach. She joined the herd and blended in with the other horses. Her plan had serious flaws. First, Poseidon could also turn into a horse, and he did—a strong white stallion. He raced after her. Second, Poseidon had created horses. He knew all about them and could control them. Why would a sea god create a land animal like the horse? We’ll get to that later. Anyway, Poseidon reached the herd and started pushing his way through, looking for Demeter—or rather sniffing for her sweet, distinctive perfume. She was easy to find. Demeter’s seemingly perfect camouflage in the herd turned out to be a perfect trap. The other horses made way for Poseidon, but they hemmed in Demeter and wouldn’t let her move. She got so panicky, afraid of getting trampled, that she couldn’t even change shape into something else. Poseidon sidled up to her and whinnied something like Hey, beautiful. Galloping my way? Much to Demeter’s horror, Poseidon got a lot cuddlier than she wanted. These days, Poseidon would be arrested for that kind of behavior. I mean…assuming he wasn’t in horse form. I don’t think you can arrest a horse. Anyway, back in those days, the world was a rougher, ruder place. Demeter couldn’t exactly report Poseidon to King Zeus, because Zeus was just as bad. Months later, a very embarrassed and angry Demeter gave birth to twins. The weirdest thing? One of the babies was a goddess; the other one was a stallion. I’m not going to even try to figure that out. The baby girl was named Despoine, but you don’t hear much about her in the myths. When she grew up, her job was looking after Demeter’s temple, like the high priestess of corn magic or something. Her baby brother, the stallion, was named Arion. He grew up to be a super-fast immortal steed who helped out Hercules and some other heroes, too. He was a pretty awesome horse, though I’m not sure that Demeter was real proud of having a son who needed new horseshoes every few months and was constantly nuzzling her for apples. At this point, you’d think Demeter would have sworn off those gross, disgusting men forever and joined Hestia in the Permanently Single Club. Strangely, a couple of months later, she fell in love with a human prince named Iasion (pronounced EYE-son, I think). Just shows you how far humans had come since Prometheus gave them fire. Now they could speak and write. They could brush their teeth and comb their hair. They wore clothes and occasionally took baths. Some of them were even handsome enough to flirt with goddesses.

I’m not really sure why. But . . . do you stop loving someone just because they betray you? I don’t think so. That’s what makes the betrayal hurt so much—pain, frustration, anger . . . and I still loved her. I still do.” “How?” Vin asked. “How can you? And, how can you possibly trust people? Didn’t you learn from what she did to you?” Kelsier shrugged. “I think . . . I think given the choice between loving Mare—betrayal included—and never knowing her, I’d choose love. I risked, and I lost, but the risk was still worth it. It’s the same with my friends. Suspicion is healthy in our profession—but only to an extent. I’d rather trust my men than worry about what will happen if they turn on me.” “That sounds foolish,” Vin said. “Is happiness foolish?” Kelsier asked, turning toward her. “Where have you been happier, Vin? On my crew, or back with Camon?” Vin paused.

His face paled, and he stroked a hand down the mare's cobweb-coloured mane. 'I was forced to watch as my father butchered the female I loved. My brothers forced me to watch.' My heart tightened for him- for the pain that haunted him. 'There was no magic spell, no miracle to bring her back. There were no gathered High Lords to resurrect her. I watched, and she died, and I will never forget that moment when I heard her heart stop beating.' My eyes burned. 'Tamlin got what I didn't,' Lucien said softly, his breathing ragged. 'We all heard your neck break. But you got to come back. And I doubt that he will ever forget that sound, either. And he will do everything in his power to protect you from that danger again, even if it means keeping secrets, even if it means sticking to rules you don't like. In this, he will not bend. So don't ask him to- not yet.' I had no words in my head, my heart. Giving Tamlin time, letting him adjust... It was the least I could do.

It's sacred work, love. It's an altar." Dune hesitated to own that. "I've been seeing it as a research project. I mean Kama used to make altars. But we never had some clear lineage. I don't want to be..." Dune paused, then made a gesture of grabbing things all around her. "You can't, Don't worry." "Yes, I can. I don't belong to anything, it doesn't belong to me." "Well that's just the thing," Elouise turned to Dune with soft eyes. "When everything has been taken, filling that emptiness ain't appropriation. It's something else. It ain't pure, none of it. I think of these practices, my Orisha, my altars, my prayers and chants, and all this accumulation of spiritual armor, as something to comfort me when my ancestral ghost limbs hurt. Because I need Spirit so much! I answer what calls me ­­­­­- Spirit is bigger than any lineage! It comes through all these channels. It's complicated, beautifully complicated. But it ain't appropriation, not amongst displaced and denied peoples. It's different.

an idle threat, for Nuri Said with the guns had gone back to Guweira. There were only one hundred and eighty Turks in the village, but they had supporters in the Muhaisin, a clan of the peasantry; not for love so much as because Dhiab, the vulgar head-man of another faction, had declared for Feisal. So they shot up at Nasir a stream of ill-directed bullets. The Howeitat spread out along the cliffs to return the peasants' fire. This manner of going displeased Auda, the old lion, who raged that a mercenary village folk should dare to resist their secular masters, the Abu Tayi. So he jerked his halter, cantered his mare down the path, and rode out plain to view beneath the easternmost houses of the village. There he reined in, and shook a hand at them, booming in his wonderful voice: 'Dogs, do you not know Auda?' When they realized it was that implacable son of war their hearts failed them, and an hour later Sherif Nasir in the town-house was sipping tea with his guest the Turkish Governor, trying to console him for the sudden change of fortune. At dark Mastur rode in. His Motalga looked blackly at their blood enemies the Abu Tayi, lolling in the best houses. The two Sherifs divided up the place, to keep their unruly followers apart. They had little authority to mediate

This Compost" Something startles me where I thought I was safest, I withdraw from the still woods I loved, I will not go now on the pastures to walk, I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea, I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me. O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken? How can you be alive you growths of spring? How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain? Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you? Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead? Where have you disposed of their carcasses? Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations? Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat? I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv'd, I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through the sod and turn it up underneath, I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat. 2 Behold this compost! behold it well! Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person—yet behold! The grass of spring covers the prairies, The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden, The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward, The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches, The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves, The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree, The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests, The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs, The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare, Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves, Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in the dooryards, The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead. What chemistry! That the winds are really not infectious, That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me, That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues, That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it, That all is clean forever and forever, That the cool drink from the well tastes so good, That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy, That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me, That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease, Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease. Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient, It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions, It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas'd corpses, It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor, It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops, It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.

In the half darkness, piles of fish rose on either side of him, and the pungent stink of fish guts assaulted his nostrils. On his left hung a whole tuna, its side notched to the spine to show the quality of the flesh. On his right a pile of huge pesce spada, swordfish, lay tumbled together in a crate, their swords protruding lethally to catch the legs of unwary passersby. And on a long marble slab in front of him, on a heap of crushed ice dotted here and there with bright yellow lemons, where the shellfish and smaller fry. There were ricco di mare---sea urchins---in abundance, and oysters, too, but there were also more exotic delicacies---polpi, octopus; aragosti, clawless crayfish; datteri di mare, sea dates; and grancevole, soft-shelled spider crabs, still alive and kept in a bucket to prevent them from making their escape. Bruno also recognized tartufo di mare, the so-called sea truffle, and, right at the back, an even greater prize: a heap of gleaming cicale. Cicale are a cross between a large prawn and a small lobster, with long, slender front claws. Traditionally, they are eaten on the harbor front, fresh from the boat. First their backs are split open. Then they are marinated for an hour or so in olive oil, bread crumbs, salt, and plenty of black pepper, before being grilled over very hot embers. When you have pulled them from the embers with your fingers, you spread the charred, butterfly-shaped shell open and guzzle the meat col bacio----"with a kiss," leaving you with a glistening mustache of smoky olive oil, greasy fingers, and a tingling tongue from licking the last peppery crevices of the shell. Bruno asked politely if he could handle some of the produce. The old man in charge of the display waved him on. He would have expected nothing less. Bruno raised a cicala to his nose and sniffed. It smelled of ozone, seaweed, saltwater, and that indefinable reek of ocean coldness that flavors all the freshest seafood. He nodded. It was perfect.

Miss Prudence Mercer Stony Cross Hampshire, England 7 November 1854 Dear Prudence, Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results. To my mind, the old fable has been disproved: there are times in life when one definitely wants to be the hare, not the tortoise. We fought at the southern port of Balaklava on the twenty-fourth of October. Light Brigade was ordered to charge directly into a battery of Russian guns for no comprehensible reason. Five cavalry regiments were mowed down without support. Two hundred men and nearly four hundred horses lost in twenty minutes. More fighting on the fifth of November, at Inkerman. We went to rescue soldiers stranded on the field before the Russians could reach them. Albert went out with me under a storm of shot and shell, and helped to identify the wounded so we could carry them out of range of the guns. My closest friend in the regiment was killed. Please thank your friend Prudence for her advice for Albert. His biting is less frequent, and he never goes for me, although he’s taken a few nips at visitors to the tent. May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon. As for your favorite song…were you aware that “Over the Hills and Far Away” is the official music of the Rifle Brigade? It seems nearly everyone here has fallen prey to some kind of illness except for me. I’ve had no symptoms of cholera nor any of the other diseases that have swept through both divisions. I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency. Regarding the donkey feud: while I have sympathy for Caird and his mare of easy virtue, I feel compelled to point out that the birth of a mule is not at all a bad outcome. Mules are more surefooted than horses, generally healthier, and best of all, they have very expressive ears. And they’re not unduly stubborn, as long they’re managed well. If you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad. I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before. Ever yours, Christopher P.S. Sketch of Albert included As Beatrix read, she was alternately concerned, moved, and charmed out of her stockings. “Let me reply to him and sign your name,” she begged. “One more letter. Please, Pru. I’ll show it to you before I send it.” Prudence burst out laughing. “Honestly, this is the silliest things I’ve ever…Oh, very well, write to him again if it amuses you.

Mor rubbed her face. 'You were right about me, though. You were...' Her hand shook as she lowered it. She gnawed on her lip, throat bobbing. Her eyes at last met mine- bright and fearful and anguished. Her voice broke as she said, 'I don't love Azriel.' I remained perfectly still. Listening. 'No, that's not true, either. I- I do love him. As my family. And sometimes I wonder if it can be... more, but... I do not love him. Not the way he- he feels for me.' The last words were a trembling whisper. 'Have you ever loved him? That way?' 'No.' She wrapped her arms around herself. 'No, I don't... You see...' I'd never seen her at such a loss for words. She closed her eyes, fingers digging into her skin. 'I can't love him like that.' 'Why?' 'Because I prefer females.' For a heartbeat, only silence rippled through me. 'But- you sleep with males. You slept with Helion...' And had looked terrible the next day. Tortured and not sated. Not just because of Azriel, but... because it wasn't what she wanted. 'I do find pleasure in them. In both.' Her hands were shaking so fiercely that she gripped herself even tighter. 'But I've known, since I was little more than a child, that I prefer females. That I'm... attracted to them more over males. That I connect with them, care for them more on that soul-deep level But at the Hewn City... All they care about is breeding their bloodlines, making alliances through marriage. Someone like me... If I were to marry where my heart desired, there would be no offspring. My father's bloodline would have ended with me. I knew it- knew that I could never tell them. Ever. People like me... we're reviled by them. Considered selfish, for not being able to pass on the bloodline. So I never breathed a word of it. And then... then my father betrothed me to Eris, and... And it wasn't just the prospect of marriage to him that scared me. No, I knew I could survive his brutality, his cruelty and coldness. I was- I am stronger than him. It was... It was the idea of being bred like a prize mare, of being forced to give up that one part of me...' Her mouth wobbled, and I reached for her hand, prying it off her arm. I squeezed gently as tears began sliding down her flushed face. 'I slept with Cassian because I knew it would mean little to him, too. Because I knew doing it would buy me a shot at freedom. If I had told my parents that I preferred females... You've met my father. He and Beron would have tied me to that marriage bed for Eris. Literally. But sullied... I knew my shot at freedom lay there. And I saw how Azriel looked at me... knew how he felt. And if I'd chosen him...' She shook her head. 'It wouldn't have been fair to him. So I slept with Cassian, and Azriel though I deemed him unsuitable, and then everything happened and...' Her fingers tightened on mine. 'After Azriel found me with that note nailed to my womb... I tried to explain. But he started to confess what he felt, and I panicked, and... and to get him to stop, to keep him from saying he loved me, I just turned and left, and... and I couldn't face explaining it after that. To Az, to the others.' She loosed a shuddering breath. 'I sleep with males in part because I enjoy it, but... also to keep people from looking too closely.

Follow my lead," De murmured. "We will head for the hills to the west, as far from this battle as our horses can take us." He freed one of the horses from the chariot and guided it to Luce. The horse was stunning, black as coal, with a diamond-shaped white patch on its chest.De helped Luce into the saddle and held up the king's halberd in one hand and a crossbow in the other.Luce had never fired or even touched a crossbow in her life,and Lu Xin had only used one once,to scare a lynx away from her baby sister's crib.But the weapon felt light in Luce's hand,and she knew if it came down to it,she could fire it. De smiled at her choice and whistled for his horse. A beautiful brindle mare trotted over.He hopped onto its back. "De! What are you doing?" an alarmed voice called from the line of the horses. "You were to kill the king! Not mount him on one of our horses!" "Yes! Kill the king!" a chorus of angry voices called. "The king is dead!" Luce shouted, silencing the soldiers. The feminine voice behind the helmet brought gasps from all of them. They stood frozen, uncertain whether to raise their weapons. De drew his horse close to Luce's. He took her hands in his.They were warmer and stronger and more reassuring than anything she'd ever felt. "Whatever happens,I love you.Our love is worth everything to me." "And to me," Luce whispered back. De let out a battle cry,and their horses took off at a breakneck pace. The crossbow nearly slipped out of Luce's grasp as she lurched forward to clutch the reins. Then the rebel soldiers began to shout. "Traitors!" "Lu Xin!" De's voice rose above the shrillest cry,the heaviest horse's hoof. "Go!" He raised his arm high, pointing toward the hills.

It’s nice to see you.” Stupid, silly, banal little words. Luca smiles, his dark blue eyes sparking. “Nice?” he says, and he starts to take off his shoes. “This is a very strong word in English, non è vero?” “No,” I say quickly. “It’s not a strong word at all.” “Oh, peccato,” he says cheerfully, which means “what a shame.” He’s pulling off his socks. “What are you doing?” I ask, which is stupid too, as it’s obvious; he’s standing up now, his hands at his waistband, unbuckling his belt. The sight is incredibly disconcerting. I back away, into deeper water, on the tips of my toes now. “Luca--” “I am hot,” he says. “That’s correct, isn’t it? Not ‘I have hot.’” I know what he means: in Italian, you say you “have” hot or cold, not that you “are.” It takes a bit of getting used to. Especially with the double meaning, which I’m certainly not going to explain to him now. “Yes,” I say even more feebly as Luca’s jeans drop to the ground and he steps out of them. Thank goodness he’s wearing boxers! His legs are long and almost too thin, a bit stork-like. I’m ridiculously glad to have found a defect in him. As he starts to unbutton his shirt, I take another step back and find myself treading water frantically, out of my depth now. I can’t look at his mostly bare body: I turn away, feeling a blush suffusing my cheeks. So I hear, rather than see, him dive into the river. He surfaces next to me, shaking his wet hair back from his face. It plasters down to his skull, and that makes his bone structure much more pronounced, his cheekbones sharp as knives. I stare at him, tongue-tied, as he treads water easily next to me. “Now you must be cross with me,” he says, a thread of laughter in his voice. “You must tell me that I’m wrong, that we must not be alone together.” “We mustn’t,” I say, suddenly angry. “You know we mustn’t.” I can’t keep treading water; my legs feel too wobbly. I put my head down and swim away from him, a couple of strokes to the far bank, where I can stand. He follows me; he swims right to me, and when he comes up, he’s so close, so tall, that he blocks out the moon. His bare chest is dappled with drops of water clinging to his skin. I can’t look anymore, so I raise my eyes, and then I’m looking into his, and oh no, that’s a really terrible idea, that’s the worst idea in the world… “Se scorre un fiume dentro ad ogni cuore, arriveremo al mare prima o poi,” he says, looking down at me. “More Jovanotti,” he adds, smiling, as he sees me staring at him in confusion. Jovanotti is Luca’s favorite singer; he’s quoted songs of his before to me. But I don’t know this one. “‘If a river runs inside every heart, we will arrive at the sea,’” he translates. “I think of this because we are in a river.” “It’s very pretty,” I mumble. “The rest of the song is maybe not so pretty,” he says. “It is a love song, but Jovanotti tells the truth about love. That it is sometimes not pretty at all.” I nod, even though hearing the word “love” spoken by Luca is enough to make me feel as if I’m blushing all over.

Se scorre un fiume dentro ad ogni cuore, arriveremo al mare prima o poi,” he says, looking down at me. “More Jovanotti,” he adds, smiling, as he sees me staring at him in confusion. Jovanotti is Luca’s favorite singer; he’s quoted songs of his before to me. But I don’t know this one. “‘If a river runs inside every heart, we will arrive at the sea,’” he translates. “I think of this because we are in a river.” “It’s very pretty,” I mumble. “The rest of the song is maybe not so pretty,” he says. “It is a love song, but Jovanotti tells the truth about love. That it is sometimes not pretty at all.” I nod, even though hearing the word “love” spoken by Luca is enough to make me feel as if I’m blushing all over.

Se scorre un fiume dentro ad ogni cuore, arriveremo al mare prima o poi,” he says, looking down at me. “More Jovanotti,” he adds, smiling, as he sees me staring at him in confusion. Jovanotti is Luca’s favorite singer; he’s quoted songs of his before to me. But I don’t know this one. “‘If a river runs inside every heart, we will arrive at the sea,’” he translates. “I think of this because we are in a river.” “It’s very pretty,” I mumble. “The rest of the song is maybe not so pretty,” he says. “It is a love song, but Jovanotti tells the truth about love. That it is sometimes not pretty at all.” I nod, even though hearing the word “love” spoken by Luca is enough to make me feel as if I’m blushing all over. He reaches out to stroke my wet hair, smoothing it back from my face. “Just once,” he says softly. “Just now, just for a few moments…” We lean into each other at the same time, wet skin pressed against wet skin, cold water over cold skin, warming each other, heating up so fast it feels as if the river droplets are burning off us already as our lips meet. I’ve never kissed anyone in the water before, never been so---comparatively--naked as I press against someone, and it’s dizzying. My hands slip over his shoulders, run over his back, feel the lean muscles there, the strength as his arms tighten around my waist, pulling me up toward him, onto the tips of my toes again. He’s kissing me hard, his tongue cool in my mouth, and I can’t help kissing him back just as hard.

Acolo unde eşti, lumina nu poate pătrunde. O poţi doar vedea. O poţi doar visa. A fi pregătită să pierzi presupune cea mai mare libertate pe care o poţi avea. - Strălucind mai mult decât niciodată

Acolo unde eşti, lumina nu poate pătrunde. O poţi doar vedea. O poţi doar visa. A fi pregătită să pierzi presupune cea mai mare libertate pe care o poţi avea.

gaze now was thoughtful and filled with pity. ‘How old are you, love? If’n you don’t mind me asking. I’d like to help you look after them babbies but, as you can see, me hands is a bit full already. And once I’ve weaned this little ‘un, I’ll have to get back to work meself. Old Maggie upstairs’ll watch childer fer me in return for a few handouts.’ ‘Oh, that’s all right. I can manage, thank you. I’m nearly sixteen,’ Ruby lied. Mare’s eyebrows lifted slightly in disbelief, then she gave a gentle sigh. ‘Well, you’re welcome to stop on till you find yer feet, but even if you finds a proper job like, getting paid a living wage that’ll keep a family is well-nigh impossible. Make you old before yer time bosses do, allus clipping a bit off here, cutting a penny off there. Just when you think you’re sorted you find you can’t afford to pay the rent and eat. Not both at the same time anyroad.’ ‘We’ll manage. I’m sure we will.’ ‘Happen so.’ The sadness

Books bear the dreary whisper of an author's memory, a phantom of dreams and mares woven from lessons. Read and explore a life beyond your own, one where forgotten names triumph and fall, and where love and hate crumble the hardest hearts. There is power in words. It can alter the living, immortalize the dead, and forge Gods.

Agni was her brother and she loved him, and he often understood her, but he was a man. In the end he thought as a man thinks, of owning and mastering.

no more stolen moments, let alone hours, in which to discover each other . . . from now on, they were formally betrothed, and that betrothal had its own rules. Maddening, perhaps intentionally so. Luci filched another stuffed date from the tray a sleepy maidservant was carrying back to the kitchen, and followed her father into the library. Her uncle and grandfather, already relaxed in chairs by the fireplace, looked up as she came in. "Luci, you should be in bed." "Papa, I'm not sleepy." He raised his eyebrows at her, but she didn't move. "Papa, I had a message cube from Esmay today." Her uncle Casimir sighed. "Esmay . . . now there's another problem. Berthold, did you get anywhere in the Landsmen's Guild?" "Nowhere. Oh, Vicarios won't oppose us, but that's because of Luci, and his support is half-hearted. It would be different if she hadn't left so young, I think. They don't really remember her, and even though they awarded her the Starmount, and consider her a hero, they do not want a Landbride—any Landbride but especially our Landbride—connected to an outlander family. Cosca told me frankly that even if she moved here, and also her husband, he would oppose it. Nothing good ever came from the stars, he insisted." "And the votes?" "Enough for a challenge, Casi, I'm sure of it. No, the only way out of this is for Esmaya to come and talk to them herself." "Or resign." "Or resign, but—will she?" Luci spoke up. "She mentioned that in her cube." "What—resigning? Why?" "Her precious Fleet seems to think about us the way the Landsmen's Guild thinks about them. She says they have some kind of regulation forbidding officers to marry Landbrides." Her father snorted. "Do they have one forbidding officers to be Landbrides? How ridiculous!" "Are you serious?" Casimir asked. "They have something specific about Landbrides? How would they know?" "I don't know," Luci said. "That's just what she said. And she said why didn't we take in all those women brought back from Our Texas—she was sure they'd fit in." A stunned silence, satisfying by its depth and length. "She what?" Casimir said finally. "Aren't those women—" "Free-birthers and religious cultists," Luci said, with satisfaction. "Exactly." "But—but the priests will object," Berthold said. "Not as badly as the Landsmen's Guild, if they hear of it. Dear God, I thought she had more sense than that!" "She is in love," Luci pointed out, willing now to be magnanimous. "Apparently Fleet is taking Barin's salary to pay for their upkeep—at least some of it—and Esmay's trying to help him out. Nineteen of them, after all, and all those children." "At our expense." Casimir shook his head. "Well, that settles it. She'll have to resign, as soon as I can get word to her. The Trustees will certainly not approve this, if I were willing to let it be known." He gave Luci a hard look. "You didn't tell Philip, I hope." "Of course not." Luci glared at her uncle. Esmay might not have any sense, but she knew what the family honor required. "I hope she does name you Landbride, Luci," Casimir said. "You'll be a good one." Luci had a sudden spasm of doubt. Was she being fair to Esmay, who after all had had so many bad things happen to her? But underneath the doubt, the same exultation she had felt when Esmay gave her the brown mare . . . mine, it's mine, I can take care of it, nobody can hurt it . . . "I wonder if we could place an ansible call," Casimir said. "Surely it's not that urgent,

Don Fabrizio remembered a conversation with Father Pirrone some months before in the sunlit observatory. What the Jesuit had predicted had come to pass. But wasn’t it perhaps good tactics to insert himself into the new movement, make at least part use of it for a few members of his own class? The worry of his imminent interview with Don Calogero lessened. “But the rest of his family, Don Ciccio, what are they really like?” “Excellency, no one has laid eyes on Don Calogero’s wife for years, except me. She only leaves the house to go to early Mass, the five o’clock one, when it’s empty. There’s no organ-playing at that hour; but once I got up early just to see her. Donna Bastiana came in with her maid, and as I was hiding behind a confessional I could not see very much; but at the end of Mass the heat was too great for the poor woman and she took off her black veil. Word of honour, Excellency, she was lovely as the sun, one can’t blame Don Calogero, who’s a beetle of a man, for wanting to keep her away from others. But even in the best kept houses secrets come out; servants talk; and it seems Donna Bastiana is a kind of animal: she can’t read or write or tell the time by a clock, can scarcely talk; just a beautiful mare, voluptuous and uncouth; she’s incapable even of affection for her own daughter! Good for bed and that’s all.” Don Ciccio, who, as protégé of queens and follower of princes, considered his own simple manners to be perfect, smiled with pleasure. He had found a way of getting some of his own back on the suppressor of his personality. “Anyway,” he went on, “one couldn’t expect much else. You know whose daughter Donna Bastiana is, Excellency?” He turned, rose on tiptoe, pointed to a distant group of huts which looked as if they were slithering off the edge of the hill, nailed there just by a wretched-looking bell-tower: a crucified hamlet. “She’s the daughter of one of your peasants from Runci, Peppe Giunta he was called, so filthy and so crude that everyone called him Peppe “Mmerda” . . . excuse the word, Excellency.” Satisfied, he twisted one of Teresina’s ears round a finger. “Two years after Don Calogero had eloped with Bastiana they found him dead on the path to Rampinzeri, with twelve bullets in his back. Always lucky, is Don Calogero, for the old man was getting above himself and demanding, they say.” Much of this was known to Don Fabrizio and had already been balanced up in his mind; but the nickname of Angelica’s grandfather was new to him; it opened a profound historical perspective, and made him glimpse other abysses compared to which Don Calogero himself seemed a garden flowerbed. The Prince began to feel the ground giving way under his feet; how ever could Tancredi swallow this? And what about himself? He found himself trying to work out the relationship between the Prince of Salina, uncle of the bridegroom, and the grandfather of the bride; he found none, there wasn’t any. Angelica was just Angelica, a flower of a girl, a rose merely fertilised by her grandfather’s nickname. Non olet, he repeated, non olet; in fact optime foeminam ac contuberninum olet.

Şi acum rămân acestea trei: credinţa, nădejdea şi dragostea. Iar mai mare dintre acestea este dragostea (I Corinteni 13-13)

This is my army," Sal yelled loud enough for her soldiers to hear. "These are my men. This is my country! You know the histories as well as I do. We were here first, so you must not have heard me. Get your asses off my damned iliri soil. I will only say it one more time, and next, it will be to your Emperor as I stick my white iliri arm down his pathetic, divine throat. Is that clear enough for you to understand?" The men didn't bother to reply. They simply turned their horses and raced back to their lines. Sal and Jase shoved their helms back on as they rode, allowing the mares to canter easily across the muddy field. "Ayati, I love you when you're angry", Jase said in her head, and Sal laughed, glancing at him once more. "Just wait, killer, because I'm about to get really pissed", she teased.

A lot of times, marriage is not explored as a safe space to be sexy. I get to show you how I love you, and I get be a freak with the person I am committed to. And, yes, there are some contradictions.

L'amore non corrisposto E' sempre amore Anche se non ha "quando" E non ha "dove" Questo vuol dire Che il suo spazio è immenso E' limpido il suo mare Di un azzurro intenso La barca mia Si perde all'orizzonte Tornerà indietro Ormai non ha più senso La terra ferma Quasi si confonde E poi scompare Lasciandomi sognare C'è qualche cosa di romantico Di appassionante ed incredibile E so che mi travolgerà E' come l'onda che mi riempirà L'anima… C'è qualche cosa di romantico D'immateriale e incomprensibile Che fa soffrire quando c'è Non lo credevo più possibile Non per me L'amore amaro e puro Che mi trascina fino a te In nessun luogo, mai, però per sempre Sento che ti amerò perdutamente Coltiverò così la mia speranza Il mare non si chiude in una stanza C'è qualche cosa di romantico D'immateriale e incomprensibile Che mi trascina fino a te Non lo credevo più possibile Non per me L'amore amaro e puro, sincero amaro e vero Che fa soffrire quando c'è L'amore non corrisposto è sempre amore

L'amore non corrisposto E' sempre amore Anche se non ha "quando" E non ha "dove" Questo vuol dire Che il suo spazio è immenso E' limpido il suo mare Di un azzurro intenso La barca mia Si perde all'orizzonte Tornerà indietro Ormai non ha più senso La terra ferma Quasi si confonde E poi scompare Lasciandomi sognare C'è qualche cosa di romantico Di appassionante ed incredibile E so che mi travolgerà E' come l'onda che mi riempirà L'anima… C'è qualche cosa di romantico D'immateriale e incomprensibile Che fa soffrire quando c'è Non lo credevo più possibile Non per me L'amore amaro e puro Che mi trascina fino a te In nessun luogo, mai, però per sempre Sento che ti amerò perdutamente Coltiverò così la mia speranza Il mare che si chiude in una stanza C'è qualche cosa di romantico D'immateriale e incomprensibile Che mi trascina fino a te Non lo credevo più possibile Non per me L'amore amaro e puro, sincero amaro e vero Che fa soffrire quando c'è L'amore non corrisposto è sempre amore

You can’t,” Mare sobs. “You can’t tell me you don’t love me because I know this isn’t all in my head. Love like this doesn’t have to be talked about. It’s so much more powerful than words. It can be felt and I feel that you love me like I love y—