Mary Walker Quotes

Let the generations know that women in uniform also guaranteed their freedom.

We live in deeds, not years.

You must come to terms with the reality that nothing outside ourselves, be it people or things is actually responsible for our happiness.

It is literally impossible for one with any force of character and humanity to remain in the background when convinced by knowledge and reason, that their mission is evidently one that will result in great good…

It is literally impossible for one with any force of character and humanity to remain in the background when convinced by knowledge and reason, that their mission is evidently one that will result in great good…

Dr. Mary’s life should stand out to remind us that when people do not think as we do, do not dress as we do, and do not live as we do, that they are more than likely to be half a century ahead of their time, and that we should have for them not ridicule but reverence.

Love's language is imprecise, fits more like mittens than gloves.

It's Mari, Jack," Ken whispered, needing to say it aloud. "What?" Jack jerked around, staring at the sniper as the eyes fluttered closed. "Are you certain?" Ken pulled the woman's belt loose and buckled it around her leg. "Either that or your wife is playing sniper for the other team. It has to be Mari. She looks exactly like Briony.

Under a smoky streetlamp I stood face to face with my beloved and pricked my fingers against the diamond studs of her immaculate shirt front. Being tall, she slipped her hands naturally about my hips and pulled me close. And being bold, I put my mouth on hers and this time went inside and told her all the things I’d been longing to. Dark and sweet, the elixir of love is in her mouth. The more I drink, the more I remember all the things we’ve never done. I was a ghost until I touched you. Never swallowed mortal food until I tasted you, never understood the spoken word until I found your tongue. I’ve been a sleep-walker, sad somnambula, hands outstretched to strike the solid thing that could awaken me to life at last. I have only ever stood here under this lamp, against your body, I’ve missed you all my life.

These are the facts: The Walker boat smashed into Sam’s boat. Sam was shot and killed in the water. Katherine Barlow was rescued against her wishes. When they returned to the shore, she saw Mary Lou’s body lying on the ground. The donkey had been shot in the head. That all happened one hundred and ten years ago. Since then, not one drop of rain has fallen on Green Lake. You make the decision: Whom did God punish?

Hudson swept her hair out of her face and pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth. As her lips yielded to his, a thought came out of nowhere: I need you. Don’t let us go.

On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.

Never enough, Allie. It will never be enough.

There was a certain satisfaction to it, not owning anything and not being owned.

Sometimes you just have to eat cake out of the box.

Mary Walker rolled down her window, hoping the fresh October air would enliven her. Instead, the smell of autumn, the breeze, and the half-hidden moon reminded

I can’t do this anymore, Allie. I can’t keep pretending two weeks will be enough.” His impassioned voice was barely a whisper. “The thought of you leaving tears me apart, a knife twisting into my soul.

He cupped her jaw and gently turned her head. His blue eyes burned with sincerity. “What I want is for you to ask yourself what makes you happy. Not your parents, but you.” A stray tear slid down her cheek and he caught it with his thumb. “You have it in you to get what you want,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. “You have all along.

everything—sound, sight, feeling, certainly understanding. Christine remembered little of that night other than the smear of life and loss pulling her under, sinking her soul, and the sight of her mother crumpled in a chair with Uncle Harry and his glass of Johnny Walker Red. A man called, he’d said…

Eu unu cred că suntem aici ca să ne mirăm. Să ne mirăm. Să întrebăm. Iar dacă te miri de lucrurile mari şi întrebi de lucrurile mari, atuncea ’nveţi despre alea mărunte, aproape din întâmplare. Da despre lucrurile mari n-ai să ştii niciodată mai multe decât ştiai la început. Cu cât mă mir mai mult, cu atât iubesc mai mult, a spus el.

One can slide between poor and rich, the difference as slight as between paper and parchment, one voice and a choir, arms hanging by sides and a hug.

As a rule, she hated surprises, even good ones. Just one more side effect of being a type A control freak,

Since when did we become I.” He breathed out a frustrated sigh. “Look, whether the baby is mine or not, I’ll take care of it as if it were my own….. because I love you.

You’re my fucking world, Allie. The air I breathe. You are the love of my life. You were ten years ago, you were now, and you always will be. Forever.

I want you, Hudson. I always have.” “You’ve got me baby … I’m not going anywhere.

You’re my life, Alessandra. I would do anything for you. All you need to do is ask.

Marquis Julian Laurent,” he said, emphasizing a title that was nothing more than a mouthful of elegant bullshit.

You Forever have my heart" Love, Walker

You don’t ever have to hide from me, Mike. I’ve seen the man behind the mask; the scared broken boy, the brave teen. I’ve seen your tears before and I’ve wiped every single one of them away.

I'll say I'm sorry for the rest of my life if you'll forgive me," he whispered in her ear. "I want to hate you." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You want to, but you don't?" "I love you, you ass.

You seriously think you got some kind of god after you?” Gary asked. Marie nodded. Gary turned to me. “I vote we drop her off at a loony bin and run for the hills.” “Are you asking me to run away with you, Gary? After such a short, violent courtship?

I'm a sick bastard?!" He spat. "You have an "on the down-low" son and a whore for a daughter and I'm the sick one? Oh no sweetheart, I think you need to reevaluate the situation. Your children are nothing to be desired. Now, stop trying to distract me with your nonsense, I have a promise to fulfill.

Just as places where the goddess was worshipped became sites for Christian churches, so too were her symbols taken over. Before becoming Mary's symbol, for instance, the open red rose was associated with Aphrodite and represented mature sexuality. At Chartres, which is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, roses abound. Light streams through three enormous and beautiful stained glass rose windows, and a symbolic rose is at the center of the labryinth. The path of the labyrinth is exactly 666 feet long. Six hundred sixty-six, according to Barbara Walker, was Aphrodite's sacred number. In Chrstian theology it became a demonic one.

Because if the Texan hadn't been mistaken (or lying), and Jake had been convicted of the murder—and sentenced to hang for it—her dreams of a future with him would remain just that. And the mere thought of losing him, even for a reason like that, woke an ache inside her that she'd thought long buried, a pain as cutting and as deep as Mary's death had caused.

The more I drink, the more I remember all the things we’ve never done. I was a ghost until I touched you. Never swallowed mortal food until I tasted you, never understood the spoken word until I found your tongue. I’ve been a sleep-walker, sad somnambula, hands outstretched to strike the solid thing that could awaken me to life at last. I have only ever stood here under this lamp, against your body, I’ve missed you all my life.

Walker-thinkers have found various ways to accommodate the gifts that their walking brings. Caught paperless on his walks in the Czech enclaves of Iowa, maestro Dvořák scribbles the string quartets that visited his brain on his starched white shirt cuffs (so the legend goes). More proactively, Thomas Hobbes fashioned a walking stick for himself with an inkwell attached, and modern poet Mary Oliver leaves pencils in the trees along her usual pathways, in case a poem descends during her rambles.

At that moment, Hattie Parker stepped out of the general store. They didn't see her, but she saw them. She pointed in their direction and whispered, "God will punish you!" . . . These are the facts: The Walker boat smashed into Sam's boat. Sam was shot and killed in the water. Katherine Barlow was rescued against her wishes. When they retured to the shore, she saw Mary Lou's body lying on the ground. The donkey had been shot in the head. That all happened one hundred and ten years ago. Since then, not one drop of rain has fallen on Green Lake. You make the decision: Whom did God punish?

Manuel sighs happily and sits back in his hammock chair. “So many friends. All gathered here together, just because they care about what I have to say.” The chair spins so he is facing the window. “What a life.” “None of us wants to be here, Manuel,” says Marie.

Once we’re all set and no one is killing anyone, Mari and Yaz finish bringing the dinner in.

Love isn’t always shown in grand gestures,” she said. “Sometimes it’s the simple acts that mean the most.

That was it? As easy as that? Life hadn’t even resisted. There was no fight, no scream, nothing to mark it. The line between being alive and being dead was so narrow it was almost imperceptible.

If we've learned anything from our past, Alessandra, it is not to make assumptions.

„You’re right. A lot has changed in ten years. You’ve turned into a bitter asshole. Good-bye, Hudson.

„That is so romantic, like Romeo and Juliet,” Harper said. “You do know they died in the end, don’t you?

You have to let me go, Hudson. Release me.

The man standing in front of her, looking unbelievably sexy in dark jeans, a black leather jacket, and perfectly mussed hair, wanted to take her home and fuck her senseless and she was negotiating shopping time?

As much as she loved when he was gentle and romantic, she couldn't deny the effect it had on her when Hudson took total control. When he was like this he was the ultimate bad boy, every dirty fantasy brought to life.

His stare shifted to the Prada-wearing prick whose fingers were caressing her wrist. Hudson was already in a foul mood, and the more Mr. Touchy got feely, the more he wanted to cut the guy’s hand off with a butter knife. Slowly. Painfully. Hudson’s body warmed and he grounded his weight to keep from hurdling over the tables to do just that. Christ, he was acting like a jealous boyfriend.

Hudson was Allie’s past. Julian was her future. They might not share the same blazing passion she felt when she was with Hudson, but it was safe. It was smart. And there was certainly nothing about being with Hudson Chase that was safe. Or smart. The feelings he’d awoken in her ten years ago had been like a wildfire, hot and all-consuming. But in the end she’d been burned and no high was worth that low. Calm and steady had suited her just fine since then, and that was exactly what she had with Julian. They were compatible, they were content. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Hudson Chase doing the walk of shame. That was a first.

If we can hear them, then... that means they heard..." Hudson's blue eyes gleamed as he nodded slowly. Allie felt her face heat. "This is mortifying." He dipped his head to press a soft kiss to her shoulder "Perhaps they just think you're very religious." She felt him smile against her skin as his lips drifted up her neck. "All those shouts to God and whatnot." He chuckled.

IN CLOSING, LET’S TAKE a brief look back at where we began: with 10 children who developed type 1 diabetes in 24 months within two miles of one another in the upscale suburbs of Boston. Rather than bemoan their fate, parents there organized and asked for an investigation to be conducted by the state, which is ongoing. Among those who have participated in organizing meetings are Ray Allen, the Celtics star, and his wife, Shannon, whose son, Walker, was the seventh child diagnosed there. “Shannon and Ray have turned out to be the most incredible advocates,” Ann Marie Kreft recently told me. “We have fabulous people on board who are spending inordinate amounts of their time on advocacy.” I asked her what they are advocating for. “I think we all agree that mandatory case reporting would be the ideal,” she said. “That would be the dream come true. I think we may be building up to that.” Rather than have to design a special survey every time an apparent cluster of type 1 cases emerges, mandatory case reporting, on a national level, would permit the CDC to automatically track cases as they emerge, to see not only the big national picture, but also local variations that could prove crucial in unraveling the riddle of why type 1 diabetes continues to rise, each and every year, by 3 percent. Presently, however, no national organization is advocating for mandated case reporting of type 1. Where is the line of protesters holding placards, marching outside the Atlanta offices of the CDC? Perhaps we need to look farther back, to the period before the diabetes pandemic began. In 1866, you might recall, the death rate from diabetes in New York City was 1.3 per 100,000 residents. If that rate held today for the 306 million residents of the United States, there would be 4,284 deaths due to diabetes each year. Instead, in 2006, there were 72,507 death certificates on which diabetes was listed as the underlying cause. The official national death rate from diabetes now stands at 23.3 per 100,000, according to the CDC — nearly 19 times higher than it was following the Civil War. And that doesn’t count the additional 200,000 or so deaths each year for which diabetes is listed as a “contributing” cause.

You've lost a lost these past few weeks, but Hudson doesn't have to be part of that list. Can't you give him another chance?

Hudson Chase had clearly taken Chicago by storm. It was only a matter of time until he'd turned the country's third-largest city into his own personal Monopoly board.

The man was evil. Pure, sexy as hell, evil.

1. You can NEVER read too many romance novels. 2. How are you texting with your hands cuffed to a headboard?

The rules you've lived by, the ones you had no say in creating no longer apply, Alessandra. If you continue to allow people to lead you down a predetermined path, then you're not the woman I think you are.

O, then dear saint, let lips do what hands do; And have my lips . . . around your cock.

I'll be fine. Besides, it will give you a chance to miss me." "I've spent a lifetime missing you." "The you'll survive one more night.

He should let her go. He had to let her go. But he already knew he wasn't going to.

If I want something I get it," she said as she took a grape from her salad and plopped it into her mouth with her fingers. "You want me?" "Didn't say I did. But you seem to think that I've come to get you alone in your house.

Is it fair to say we're just two adults who find the other interesting?" "That's all I would say." "No hidden agenda?" "None" "Have breakfast with me?" "How could I refuse?

I was thinking you could come out here for breakfast. I'll cook. " "You cook?" "Breakfast." "You're bribing me with breakfast to tell you why I left Colorado?" Eric Shrugged. "You're bribing me with lunch just so to get me alone at my house.

Why was it that every time this woman touched him his temperature rose at least ten degrees? And why was it that she made him forget about the crap going on around him for that instant?

I meant it when I said I loved you" "And I meant it in return.

What are you doing?" Her voice stammered. "Taking Your picture." "Why?" She began to reach for the camera, but he took a step back. "Because you're beautiful

Being a maverick traveller, one would like to place oneself in the place of a local; just listen without judgement.

All right, funny man, you’re pushing the cart.” He griped, “Which was a given since you can’t see over it.” “Huh, I actually thought I was helping you out.” He yanked his sunglasses off and knitted his brows. “How?” “I thought maybe you could use it as a walker, that ginormous head of yours must be a back breaker.

Walker studied the small, twitching motions of his

mother, ‘I read somewhere that death comes to a person twice. Once when it happens, and once when everyone who remembers them has gone too.

Jean H. Baker, Mary Todd Lincoln: A Biography (New York: Norton, 1987); Joan E. Cashin, First Lady of the Confederacy: Varina Davis’s Civil War (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006); Catherine Clinton, Mrs. Lincoln: A Life (New York: HarperCollins, 2009); Daniel Mark Epstein, The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage (New York: Ballantine Books, 2008); Jennifer Fleischner, Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Keckly: The Remarkable Story of the Friendship Between a First Lady and a Former Slave (New York: Broadway Books, 2003); Ernest B. Furgurson, Freedom Rising: Washington in the Civil War (New York: Knopf, 2004); Becky Rutberg, Mary Lincoln’s Dressmaker: Elizabeth Keckley’s Remarkable Rise from Slave to White House Confidante (New York: Walker and Company, 1995); Justin G. Turner and Linda Levitt Turner, Mary Todd Lincoln: Her Life and Letters (New York: Knopf, 1972); and John E.

They took the elevator up to the eighth floor. Charbonnel et Walker Chocolate Café was tucked between Ladies' Shoes and the Home and Gifts Department. Bathed in pale pink paint and lit by crystal chandeliers, the enchanted corner was dominated by a counter featuring a conveyor belt that transported plates of croissants, brownies, scones, muffins, and every imaginable truffle under glass domes. Dark and milk chocolate, strawberry, lemon, pink champagne, mint, cappuccino, and buzz fizz with its distinctive orange center. Sparkling glass cabinets temptingly displayed hundreds of the treats lined up in precise rows. They could be consumed on the premises or purchased to take away. A gold seal on the candy boxes signaled that the Queen of England was a fan.

No person is your friend who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow. —Alice Walker

In writing Destiny's Daughter I hoped to convey Mary Walker's philosophy that women think for themselves and recognize their self-worth. Her views parallel the goals of women today.

The final words from Mary at Akita are plain: “If sins increase in number and gravity, there will be no longer pardon for them.

Mama, what kept you moving forward through droughts, wild animals, loneliness? We had no choice. Sadness was as dangerous as panthers and bears. The wilderness needs your whole attention.

Mary decided that flying was a lot like reading: they both made a body feel free as a bird.

They wouldn’t like it if they knew, especially Mari.” “Who gives a damn?” Ken asked. “Mari can fucking well live with it. Asking me to let her do this is bullshit and she knows it.” “Women don’t go for the word ‘allow’ anymore, bro. It’s not politically correct.” Jack kept his back turned as he listened to his brother spit out curses. Mari might look like Briony, but she wasn’t ever going to act like her. Ken had his hands full