Marked By Masks And Secrets Quotes

Sentimentality, the ostentatious parading of excessive and spurious emotion, is the mark of dishonesty, the inability to feel; the wet eyes of the sentimentalist betray his aversion to experience, his fear of life, his arid heart; and it is always, therefore, the signal of secret and violent inhumanity, the mask of cruelty.

The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He steals the mother’s milk and blackens it to make printer’s ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He pretends to spare her the pangs of child-bearing so that he may have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a blood-sucker, a hypocrite, and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist’s work is to shew us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them. And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant, they love one another.

I had three seconds to understand what the fuck was happening before my witch girlfriend killed me.

And you were stalking me,” she added with a halfhearted huff. “I prefer admiring from a distance.

In the woodblock prints of the Genroku period one often finds the features of a pair of lovers to be surprisingly similar, with little to distinguish the man from the woman. The universal ideal of beauty in Greek sculpture likewise approaches a close resemblance between the male and female. Might this not be one of the secrets of love? Might it not be that through the innermost recesses of love there courses an unattainable longing in which both the man and the woman desire to become the exact image of the other? Might not this longing drive them on, leading at last to a tragic reaction in which they seek to attain the impossible by going to the opposite extreme? In short, since their mutual love cannot achieve a perfection of mutual identity, is there not a mental process whereby each of them tries instead to emphasize their points of dissimilarity—the man his manliness and the woman her womanliness—and uses this very revolt as a form of coquetry toward the other? Or if they do achieve a similarity, it unfortunately lasts for only a fleeting moment of illusion. Because, as the girl becomes more bold and the boy more shy, there comes an instant at which they pass each other going in opposite directions, overshooting their mark and passing on beyond to some point where the mark no longer exists.

Kylo whispered, stroking my hair. “My love is not contingent upon your behavior. You don’t have to perform for my love. You don’t have to beg for it. Or even ask very politely. I love you for existing. I love you for being you.

We all want to live in a world where we can make a difference... That's why Spider-Man fights the good fight. Or Captain Marvel. Or me. Or... There are a lot of us. And we don't all wear masks these days. Iron Man went public. So did Captain America. Others. Probably because it's harder to keep secrets in an internet surveillance age. But I think some of it, too, is that the ethical paradox can wear you down. No one on the white-hat side has ever hidden his or her identity with less than noble intent: to make the fight about something bigger than us. To represent a greater justice, where the focus can be on right and wrong... and not on whether the bad guys will exact reprisal on those close to us. And sometimes you have to lie... because you can justify a lie if lives are riding on it. Even as you fight for, as the saying goes, truth and justice... even if you're a lawyer who has sworn to live by the truth... you willingly bear false witness.

Just because someone is drawn to your light, doesn’t mean they’re made of light themselves. Some recognize that you hold something they will never have, and they will do anything, anything at all, to try to starve that radiance until it dies. Because they’d rather you both live in darkness than for you to be the only one to shine.

SECTION XI.--The Strength of Simplicity. The soul in the state of abandonment knows how to see God even in the proud who oppose His action. All creatures, good or evil, reveal Him to it. __________________________________________________________________ The whole practice of the simple soul is in the accomplishment of the will of God. This it respects even in those unruly actions by which the proud attempt to depreciate it. The proud soul despises one in whose sight it is as nothing, who beholds only God in it, and in all its actions. Often it imagines that the modesty of the simple soul is a mark of appreciation for itself; when, all the time, it is only a sign of that loving fear of God and of His holy will as shown to it in the person of the proud. No, poor fool, the simple soul fears you not at all. You excite its compassion; it is answering God when you think it is speaking to you: it is with Him that it believes it has to do; it regards you only as one of His slaves, or rather as a mask with which He disguises Himself. Therefore the more you take a high tone, the lower you become in its estimation; and when you think to take it by surprise, it surprises you. Your wiles and violence are just favours from Heaven. The proud soul cannot comprehend itself, but the simple soul, with the light of faith, can very clearly see through it. The finding of the divine action in all that occurs at each moment, in and around us, is true science, a continuous revelation of truth, and an unceasingly renewed intercourse with God. It is a rejoicing with the Spouse, not in secret, nor by stealth, in the cellar, or the vineyard, but openly, and in public, without any human respect. It is a fund of peace, of joy, of love, and of satisfaction with God who is seen, known, or rather, believed in, living and operating in the most perfect manner in everything that happens. It is the beginning of eternal happiness not yet perfectly realised and tasted, except in an incomplete and hidden manner. The Holy Spirit, who arranges all the pieces on the board of life, will, by this fruitful and continual presence of His action, say at the hour of death, "fiat lux," "let there be light" (Gen. i, 14), and then will be seen the treasures which faith hides in this abyss of peace and contentment with God, and which will be found in those things that have been every moment done, or suffered for Him. When God gives Himself thus, all that is common becomes wonderful; and it is on this account that nothing seems to be so, because this way is, in itself, extraordinary. Consequently it is unnecessary to make it full of strange and unsuitable marvels. It is, in itself, a miracle, a revelation, a constant joy even with the prevalence of minor faults. But it is a miracle which, while rendering all common and sensible things wonderful, has nothing in itself that is sensibly marvellous.

ever. Amen. Thank God for self-help books. No wonder the business is booming. It reminds me of junior high school, where everybody was afraid of the really cool kids because they knew the latest, most potent putdowns, and were not afraid to use them. Dah! But there must be another reason that one of the best-selling books in the history of the world is Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray. Could it be that our culture is oh so eager for a quick fix? What a relief it must be for some people to think “Oh, that’s why we fight like cats and dogs, it is because he’s from Mars and I am from Venus. I thought it was just because we’re messed up in the head.” Can you imagine Calvin Consumer’s excitement and relief to get the video on “The Secret to her Sexual Satisfaction” with Dr. GraySpot, a picture chart, a big pointer, and an X marking the spot. Could that “G” be for “giggle” rather than Dr. “Graffenberg?” Perhaps we are always looking for the secret, the gold mine, the G-spot because we are afraid of the real G-word: Growth—and the energy it requires of us. I am worried that just becoming more educated or well-read is chopping at the leaves of ignorance but is not cutting at the roots. Take my own example: I used to be a lowly busboy at 12 East Restaurant in Florida. One Christmas Eve the manager fired me for eating on the job. As I slunk away I muttered under my breath, “Scrooge!” Years later, after obtaining a Masters Degree in Psychology and getting a California license to practice psychotherapy, I was fired by the clinical director of a psychiatric institute for being unorthodox. This time I knew just what to say. This time I was much more assertive and articulate. As I left I told the director “You obviously have a narcissistic pseudo-neurotic paranoia of anything that does not fit your myopic Procrustean paradigm.” Thank God for higher education. No wonder colleges are packed. What if there was a language designed not to put down or control each other, but nurture and release each other to grow? What if you could develop a consciousness of expressing your feelings and needs fully and completely without having any intention of blaming, attacking, intimidating, begging, punishing, coercing or disrespecting the other person? What if there was a language that kept us focused in the present, and prevented us from speaking like moralistic mini-gods? There is: The name of one such language is Nonviolent Communication. Marshall Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication provides a wealth of simple principles and effective techniques to maintain a laser focus on the human heart and innocent child within the other person, even when they have lost contact with that part of themselves. You know how it is when you are hurt or scared: suddenly you become cold and critical, or aloof and analytical. Would it not be wonderful if someone could see through the mask, and warmly meet your need for understanding or reassurance? What I am presenting are some tools for staying locked onto the other person’s humanness, even when they have become an alien monster. Remember that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk was turned into a Klingon, and Bones was freaking out? (I felt sorry for Bones because I’ve had friends turn into Cling-ons too.) But then Spock, in his cool, Vulcan way, performed a mind meld to determine that James T. Kirk was trapped inside the alien form. And finally Scotty was able to put some dilithium crystals into his phaser and destroy the alien cloaking device, freeing the captain from his Klingon form. Oh, how I wish that, in my youth or childhood,

The Old Issue October 9, 1899 “HERE is nothing new nor aught unproven,” say the Trumpets, “Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed. “It is the King—the King we schooled aforetime !” (Trumpets in the marshes—in the eyot at Runnymede!) “Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger,” peal the Trumpets, “Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall. “It is the King!”—inexorable Trumpets— (Trumpets round the scaffold at the dawning by Whitehall!) “He hath veiled the Crown and hid the Sceptre,” warn the Trumpets, “He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will. “Hard die the Kings—ah hard—dooms hard!” declare the Trumpets, Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill! Ancient and Unteachable, abide—abide the Trumpets! Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets— Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings! All we have of freedom, all we use or know— This our fathers bought for us long and long ago. Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw— Leave to live by no man’s leave, underneath the Law. Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the King. Till our fathers ’stablished, after bloody years, How our King is one with us, first among his peers. So they bought us freedom—not at little cost Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost, Over all things certain, this is sure indeed, Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed. Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure. Whining “He is weak and far”; crying “Time shall cure.”, (Time himself is witness, till the battle joins, Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people’s loins.) Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace. Suffer not the old King here or overseas. They that beg us barter—wait his yielding mood— Pledge the years we hold in trust—pawn our brother’s blood— Howso’ great their clamour, whatsoe’er their claim, Suffer not the old King under any name! Here is naught unproven—here is naught to learn. It is written what shall fall if the King return. He shall mark our goings, question whence we came, Set his guards about us, as in Freedom’s name. He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware; He shall change our gold for arms—arms we may not bear. He shall break his judges if they cross his word; He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord. He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring Watchers ’neath our window, lest we mock the King— Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies; Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies. Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay, These shall deal our Justice: sell—deny—delay. We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse For the Land we look to—for the Tongue we use. We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet, While his hired captains jeer us in the street. Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun, Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run. Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled, Laying on a new land evil of the old— Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain— All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again. Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue— Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew. Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid: Step for step and word for word—so the old Kings did! Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read. Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed— All the right they promise—all the wrong they bring. Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King!

When you’re scared or hurting or humiliated, but you’re still in cover-up mode because you’re afraid of losing another person’s respect, here’s what happens: ■ Your own mirror neuron receptor deficit widens. You don’t feel understood because you can’t be understood. That’s because nobody has a clue what’s going on with you. You’re on your own, and it’s a self-inflicted wound. ■ The person whose respect you’re worried about losing (a parent, a boss, a child, a partner) can’t mirror your distress and understand it. Instead, the person will mirror the attitude you’re using to mask your distress. If you’re using anger to cover up fear, you’ll get anger in return. If you’re using a “screw you” attitude to hide your feelings of helplessness, you’ll get back “fine—screw you too.” When you bare your neck, however—when you find the courage to say “I’m afraid” or “I’m lonely” or “I don’t know how to get through this”—the other person will immediately mirror your true feelings.

Secrets whispered. Seductions staged. Masks worn. Marks left.

Then, he fucking spit.

For my clan, I was impenetrable, violent—all sharp edges, brutality, and razored, competent logic. For her, only for her, I was anything she needed me to be.

I was unraveling. Possessed. Consumed.

I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to fall asleep.” She furrowed her brows, as if the words were spoken in a different language. “Why?” “Because in my arms is the safest place you will ever be.

The truth was often just as painful as it was useful. Liberation was only possible after total destruction of everything we once thought we knew.

People are messengers, even when the lessons they teach us are brutal and unforgiving.

Evie did that cute thing she did when she followed me around like a baby duck.

In our kiss, I tasted it—the buzz of fate, the love written in the stars that I’d once believed could only be found between the pages of a book.

Open.” I opened my mouth, and Kylo spit inside. He glared down at me until I swallowed. “Thank you, Kylo.

I was a fly in a carnivorous plant’s trap, content to be consumed so long as this delicious, addictive pleasure coursed through my blood.

She hated how much she wanted me. She hated what I did to her mind even more than what I did to her body. Because I was challenging all of her faulty beliefs.

Not everyone will disappoint you, Evie. If you hide from the world, the world will hide from you.

Start with a 12- to 16-hour overnight fast daily. Incorporate into your diet phytochemicals (see Chapter 7), known to activate longevity pathways, including those in strawberries, turmeric, broccoli, green tea, pomegranate, Himalayan Tartary buckwheat, and mushrooms. Take a 2-minute cold shower or a cold plunge every morning, followed by short bursts of sprinting three or four times a week. Do strength training for 20 to 30 minutes three times a week. Add a sauna or steam as often as you can. Get blue-blocker glasses for the evening and replace your LED and fluorescent light bulbs with smart bulbs that adjust the light spectrum for the time of day, full spectrum in the day and red light for nighttime. Try a home red-light-therapy device. Explore intravenous ozone therapy or get an inexpensive home unit for rectal ozone therapy. Consider a course of hyperbaric oxygen therapy or try a Cellgym if there is one in your area or a low-oxygen exercise mask, which are available for $50. These tools are safe and available to us now, and they can provide a host of health and longevity benefits.

I don’t have words for the hold you have over me, angel,” he said softly. “There is no end to the depths of my obsession. Every inch of your body, every beat of your vulnerable heart, every shade of your multitudinous soul, and every thought in your beautiful mind—I need to see it all, to possess it all. Because you already possess me. I fear the lengths I would go, the distances I would travel, the atrocities I would commit to keep you safe. Or merely to ensure you always know just how much I adore you.

I agree with you,” he said softly. “Reality is malleable. If you don’t like your current one, you can always surround yourself with those who dream of something more.

I think I’ve always been waiting for you. My soul recognized yours the moment I saw you.

My love is not contingent upon your behavior. You don’t have to perform for my love. You don’t have to beg for it. Or even ask very politely. I love you for existing. I love you for being you.

Because in my arms is the safest place you will ever be.

So the first and most important rule for taking control in a stressful situation is this: get yourself under control first. (That’s why flight attendants instruct you to put your own oxygen mask on first before placing one on your child.)

Reality is malleable. If you don’t like your current one, you can always surround yourself with those who dream of something more.

The genuine passion ripe in her blood

There was that word again. Reality. I’d never been a fan of the notion. Perhaps why I spent so much time escaping to other worlds between the pages of a book.

There is no end to the depths of my obsession. Every inch of your body