Massey Quotes

They must find it difficult, those who have taken authority as truth, rather than truth as authority.

Were you born this infuriating?" "It's taken me years of practice.

I often have the fantasy that curly girls are mermaids who have had to adapt to life on dry land. We come from the sea. The ocean is in our blood. It sings through our heart and lungs, our skin and hair. Our curls require the nourishment only a watery environment can provide. Both ocean waves and curly hair are forces of nature that can't be tamed. We can only accept and admire their power and beauty.

Remember this! It is never an entire people who is cruel; it is merely individuals who exert their will on others.

Crockery broke and fabric frayed. The delicate things I cared about perished, while the hard things like swords survived.

Christianity was neither original nor unique, but that the roots of much of the Judeo/ Christian tradition lay in the prevailing Kamite (ancient Egyptian) culture of the region. We are faced with the inescapable realisation that if Jesus had been able to read the documents of old Egypt, he would have been amazed to find his own biography already substantially written some four or five thousand years previously.

I decided that being called “crazy” by a man was not an insult but a challenge. It gives the woman an opportunity to say, “Crazy? Oh, I’ll show you fucking crazy.

The problem is he thinks he and Eli could be good for each other. Really good. Under different circumstances. In a different life. Or maybe, if he was just a little braver, in this one.

We worship differently, but we are not so far apart in our hearts,

I’ve come to see “Bitches be crazy” as less a statement by men that women are crazy or even a reappropriated statement by women defending their own madness. Instead, I see the phrase and imagine a colon after “bitches,” rendering it a command to other women, a battle cry. It is a way of saying, “We took back ‘bitch’ already. And now we have come for ‘crazy.

Curly Girl: It's more than just hair, it's an attitude.

Once I put it down I couldn't pick it back up.

Sometimes he felt as if he'd been born in the wrong century. The people of this time were all wrong for him, and he was all wrong for them. But he refused to become something he wasn't just for society's approval.

This document outlines our plan to perpetrate insurance fraud, insider trading, and character assassination. ...hopefully tripling our paycheck on this job. Okay, see? Those words I understand just fine. Use them more often. -Lieutenant Massey Reynstein & Captain Tagon

Going to open a quaint little bookshop and have a niche section called "Men's Interests" where we shelve the Western Cannon.

Calculus is homophobic,” Eli mutters. “What?” Alex says. “How?” “I’m gay, and it inconveniences me.

She had been meant to die, yet she’d cut her way out of that fate and back to the world she loved.

Do you think two exclamation marks are excessive?” he asks. “Oh, yeah,” Jeff says. “He’ll for sure know you’re in love with him now.

It is, in the words of Alana Massey’s essay “Against Chill,” a “laid-back attitude, an absence of neurosis.” It “presides over the funeral of reasonable expectations.” It “takes and never gives.

Sylvia was an early literary manifestation of a young woman who takes endless selfies and posts them with vicious captions calling herself fat and ugly. She is at once her own documentarian and the reflexive voice that says she is unworthy of documentation. She sends her image into the world to be seen, discussed, and devoured, proclaiming that the ordinariness or ugliness of her existence does not remove her right to have it.

Boys often have permission to become men without the forfeiture of their desirability. And so these men write stories that grasp at girls who are ghosts twice over: first by being dead and second by being shallow shadows of actual girls, the assorted fragments of men's aging imaginations rather than the deep and dimensioned creatures that real girls are.

The boundaries communities drew around themselves seemed to narrow their lives—whether it was women and men, Hindus and Muslims, or Parsis and everyone else.

This misery of a gig called life is just a dream from which we all eventually awaken, he said. Nobody gets left behind. Even the most horrible dreams end.

They know too well the violent hypnosis of those who hope to possess them-- men who can smell the blood on the places where a woman is breaking.

They must find it hard to take Truth for authority who have so long mistaken Authority for Truth.

Whence did the wond'rous mystic art arise, Of painting speech, and speaking to the eyes? That we by tracing magic lines are taught How to embody, and to colour thought?

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.” I struggle to think of any line of thinking more linked to being a socialized female than to consider the declaration of simply existing to feel like a form of bragging. But that, of course, is the plight of the feeling girl: to be told again and again that her very existence is something not worth declaring.

Even mercy can be cruel.

Why didn't I ask him for his number, address, e-mail — anything? Why? Because I'm in a sodding war zone, that's why. And I'm a soldier. And this wasn't supposed to happen.

Apparently, Alex doesn't know how to handle emotions, and he's a dumpster fire of a human being.

Is this idea of yours to help the Cuttingmasters, or is it really to advance your career?” With a knowing smile, she said, “Is there any reason I can’t do both? That is what you have been doing all your life. Ambition is not a dirty word for men.

She turned her attention from Maharani Putlabai to Mirabai. Why was the younger queen on a chair and not a cushion? Perhaps it was a statement of her middling position—that she was not high enough for the zenana throne, but she was respected enough not to be somewhat elevated.

I was deeply embedded in a fat cake of lies

He made a sound that was halfway between a fart and giving me strawberries.

She was taking her own liberties with him. Was this liberation?

You are not a monster! You are a prince. My prince.

And Damien has fucked him up with his casual touching and easy affection because his first instinct is to hug her. He gives her a fist bump instead. “Hey,” he says.

In fact, is the idea of a serious comparison of American musicals and opera really so outrageous?

It was an odd habit, I thought, this insistence on driving a car in cities with public transportation.

I hate you,” Rome says, slamming the passenger door. “Don’t play,” Damien says. “You love me.” He might. It’s sort of becoming a problem.

Go fuck yourself,” Damien says genially. “Fuck me yourself, you coward.” Damien trips on his skates. “Oh shit,” Rome says. “Are you okay?

Love is supposed to be a reckless thing. But all I’m made of is caution.

Because there’s definitely something there, he thinks. Something between them.

he’s pretty sure he’s in love, and it’s terrible.

Next time you face a Fomorian, don’t offer parley. We don’t negotiate for surrender.

They fit together like a habit. Like an inevitability. Like a gift. Like a death sentence.

The feelings I have for you are not gross.” And that—is a lot more than he meant to say. Shit. Shit. Shit. Rome is startled enough to look up at him. “All feelings are gross,” he says.

She’d started out the morning hating all young men. Then she’d become so angry with her law professor that she’d quit school. Finally, she’d gone to eat rice with a man she didn’t know.

off. Next I moved on to scrutinize the aged plaster walls near the desk. Beside a museum calendar featuring old woodblock prints was a taped-up paper that looked like a printed reproduction of an

Briggs was living in Toronto at the time and had started a studio called Thunder Sound. He recorded the Massey Hall show. He thought this live show should have come out right away and was disappointed and disagreed with my decision to instead put out Harvest-he thought it was not as good as the Massey Hall recording. "It's great, Neil," Briggs said. "Put it out there." But that was not to be. When I heard the show thirty-four years later while reviewing tapes for my archive performance series, I was a little shocked-I agreed with David. After listening, I felt his frustration. This was better than Harvest. It meant more. He was right. I had missed it. He understood it. David was usually right, and when I disagreed with him, I was usually wrong. Every time I go into the studio or onstage, he is missed.

Most moving of all was Raymond Massey’s voice, the voice that portrayed Lincoln in Bob Sherwood’s Abe Lincoln in Illinois, reading Stephen Vincent Benét’s Prayer for United Nations,2 which the President himself had once recited on Flag Day: “God of the Free, we pledge our lives and hearts today to the cause of all free mankind…. Grant us brotherhood in hope and union, not only for the space of this bitter war, but for the days to come which shall and must unite all the children of earth.

Though the boys never admit it as much, it is crucial the Lisbon sisters are all thin and beautiful within reason. There are a handful of imperfect features among them but nothing that would make the sum of each one's parts less than desirable. In the safety of being attractive, their eccentricities are as precious as their bodies. Their bodies protect all eccentricity from becoming "strange" or "gross" in the way similar predilections are characterized when possessed by heavier or uglier girls.

It all adds up: the interesting face; the long, wiry frame; the taut, fight-ready stance – to create a body that casting directors for edgy photoshoots would salivate over. The sort of photoshoots that, if they involve teeth, it isn't because people are smiling

No. I am retired from the post office for the last ten years. Most afternoons, it is my daily routine to arrive at three and leave at six.” “Your routine seems very pleasant.” Perveen imagined what her life might be like when she was alone and in her seventies.

The thing is, he wants to be touched, now. He thinks he might even deserve it. But trying to reevaluate the various ways that his past has fucked up his understanding of interpersonal relationships is hard. Does he like Damien’s hand on his neck because it’s Damien’s hand? Or because it’s a modicum of physical kindness?

Lincoln Highway offered the kind of dramatic stories usually reserved for prime time, and thus began a trend toward quality programming on Saturday mornings. The stories were of people scattered along the 3,000–mile length of U.S. Route 30, which stretched from Philadelphia to Portland and was popularly known as the Lincoln Highway. Most surprising, even to radio insiders, was the long line of top performers willing to appear at that time of day. Listeners could rise on days off and hear Burgess Meredith portraying a young man who flees the city for farm life, or Raymond Massey as the owner of a trailer camp somewhere in middle America.

There was a rhythm to the process. First, a pot of equal parts water and milk was put on the hob. To this, Camellia added a few spoons of Assamese tea, two slices of ginger, and a fistful of fresh lemongrass leaves and mint. After arriving at a gentle boil, a tablespoon of sugar went in, and the brew cooked for five minutes.

But before the friends settled on a wrought-iron bench with distance from others, they stopped to buy their kulfi. Alice took pistachio, and Perveen had plain cardamom. There was a brief squabble about paying the vendor, which Perveen won. The cold, sweet ice cream was a most comforting taste after all the tension of the day.

You know, your story is not all that unique in the supernatural world. Many a were-creature has had a similar experience the first time they turned. And, similar to your predicament, many therianthropes have tried to commit suicide in the midst of their grief and self-loathing, only to wake up the next day with one less round in their gun.

Damien rests his elbows on the railing next to Rome, and Rome leans into him. Like it’s natural. Like they do this, together, all the time. Maybe it’s because Rome is cold. Maybe it’s because he wants to thank Damien for coming with him to the hearing, and the contact between them is the only way he knows to express appreciation. Maybe it’s because he wants to.

After a few months, I decided to do one more leg of the Le Noise tour and film the last show with Jonathan Demme in Toronto's Massey Hall/ It turned out to be a great night. Everyone was very happy because we had captured it. During a review of the digital files, we realized that the resolution was not full, it was a stepped down quality, not the best it could be. My own team's excuses were not adequate, because I was not informed of the decision to go to a lesser quality. Lesser quality is so accepted as normal now that even I had used it unknowingly. I went back to Massey Hall and set up a PA system like the one I used at the show, played back the mixes through the PA, and rerecorded the house sound at the highest resolution. I did the best I could with a bad situation. It does sound great now. Thankfully, the PA mix was only one step down from the highest resolution, so when it resonated in the hall and was rerecorded at the highest level, a high resolution hall sound was captured.

Those who accuse these women of fraud in their image craft seem not to have heard of David Bowie's successful alter ego Ziggy Stardust or even Bob Dylan, the folksy creation of a genius named Robert Allen Zimmerman. There is a tradition of male artists taking on personae that are understood to be part of their art. It is as though there is so much genius within them that it must be split between these mortal men and the characters they create. Women who venture to do the same are ridiculed as fakers and try-hards.

In the lower-brow selection of tabloids that report on the weight of celebrities, one statement that follows women struggling with their weight around more than any other is "She got her body back." Here you'll find near-constant Britney coverage. But barring any transcendent out-of-body experiences, these women were never separated from their bodies. They've occupied them across various weights. This phrase is not about a woman getting back something she lost as much as it as about our approval that she has returned to something we want her to be. What is meant by this phrase is "We got her body back." We got the body we felt entitled to.

The ordinary woman had perhaps been so busy that the veiled newspaper warnings of famine had not penetrated to her; but perhaps that was natural when the authorities kept repeating, “There is plenty of rice. Plenty of rice.” Perhaps there was plenty of rice, but in that case, who, women were beginning to ask, who were these people flocking into the towns and the city? Men and women and unclothed children, all with scarecrow legs and arms and ribs, and strange sunk eyes and swollen stomachs? Why did they settle in swarms on the pavements, round the rubbish bins, sleeping there through the nights, covering the streets with filth and cess? Why did no one come to move away? Why, rather did more and more come every day?

One day Lot went into Sodom, took office, tried to reform the evil city, succeeded in vexing his righteous, but unspiritual soul with the filthy conversation of the wicked, got down to the level of the natural man, lost his testimony and seemed to his friends and intimates like a madman or the most excuselessly inconsistent trifler when he attempted to take up once more his damaged testimony. Then there was a night when God’s angels came and snatched him out of the doomed city. The next morning the fire of God fell and Lot “saved so as by fire” looked on at the blaze and the burning of all his works of righteousness as wood hay and stubble, big in bulk but rejected of God. Looking forward to His Second Coming and backward for an illustration the Son of God declared as it was in the days of Lot so should it be when the Son of man should come again. There are good and righteous Christians—righteous enough but wholly unspiritual who are seeking to make spotless town of a world God has judged and doomed, failing to see the cross is not only the judgment of the individual, but equally the judgment of the world; that not only does the cross reveal the end of all flesh but the end in God’s sight of that system of things which men call the world; that on the cross the world is crucified to the Christian and the Christian to the world; and failing to see this, failing to get the mind of God are daily descending to the plane of the natural man, are losing and in many cases deliberately setting aside the testimony once for all delivered to the saints. Without warning, they will be snatched away to meet a descending Lord (if they be real and regenerated Christians) and this alone because their faith be it never so small holds them securely in the bonds of the covenant. After that the Lord will be revealed in flaming fire to execute judgment on the world and all the works of misguided social reformers because these works are built, not upon the righteousness of God, but the righteousness of man.

The Jardin Massey looked dismal today, rain lashed and deserted. She watched a bedraggled pigeon, feathers puffed out, sheltering beneath a branch.She'd never made a will, never considered whether she'd rather her body was buried or burnt to grey powder. And where would she want to be buried - in a French graveyard, gaudy with plastic flowers? If she made a will, could she state an aversion to plastic?

The number of hands that have been wrung and fingers that have been wagged at girls who dare give voice name to their interior lives suggests that the written history of the world is absolutely awash with the stuff. But the female voice, and the girl’s voice especially, is characterized mostly by the deafening silence it emits from the canon... As brightly as these girls shine, there remain wet blankets around every corner attempting to extinguish the flames in their hearts. They are dismissed as excessively feminine and juvenile, two words that mean the same thing in the hearts and minds of critics who would sooner praise a six-volume gaze at a Norwegian man’s navel than consider the possibility that there are treasures in the hearts of girls.

And they know they are not drawn to the bulb at the back of the oven, but by the flare signals sent out by their fellow travelers. They are flashes of light and recognition, momentary reflections of the sun onto a shred of glitter. But they are something vital nonetheless.

If you try going silver and don’t like it, you are just one box of hair color or one salon appointment away from dyeing it back again.

The best that I could come up with is this: There may not always be a plausible scientific explanation for why humans do what they do. Not everything can be plugged into an equation or reduced to the lowest common denominator. Not everything can be summed up by a letter grade on a report card or a check in a box. Not everything has a formula, and sometimes things just happen for no reason at all, good or bad, logical or illogical. Ms. Bixby would probably say there actually is a reason—we just don’t always understand it at the time. Father Massey would probably say the same thing. I suppose there is some strange comfort in it—this idea that the numbers are sometimes wrong, that there are still mysteries in the universe, and that you don’t always have to know why you do the things you do. Sometimes, despite all evidence to the contrary, things can go your way.

King Aenys himself. His scorn drove others to offer their swords. The names of the four Maegor chose are writ large in the history of Westeros: Ser Bramm of Blackhull, a hedge knight; Ser Rayford Rosby; Ser Guy Lothston, called Guy the Glutton; and Ser Lucifer Massey, Lord of Stonedance. The names of the seven Warrior’s Sons have likewise come down to us. They were: Ser Damon Morrigen, called Damon the Devout, Grand Captain of the Warrior’s Sons; Ser Lyle Bracken; Ser Harys Horpe, called Death’s Head Harry; Ser Aegon Ambrose; Ser Dickon Flowers, the Bastard of Beesbury; Ser Willam the Wanderer; and Ser Garibald of the Seven Stars, the septon knight. [Dick Bean] F&B

Eventually I knew what hair wanted; it wanted to be itself . . . to be left alone by anyone, including me, who did not love it as it was.” —ALICE WALKER

You’re a pagan, you don’t believe in sin.” “Hah!” he countered. “Who do you think invented the concept, long before the first missionaries set foot on my fair isle? Just because we didn’t worship the Christian deity, it doesn’t mean we didn’t have morals.

Luther had become heavily involved in the gay and lesbian community in the last several decades. And just why would a three-hundred-year-old vampire choose to blend in among the LGBTQ community? Well, to put it in Luther’s words, “Honey, nobody screws with the Velvet Mafia. No one. I’m a gay black man, and a vampire. That gets me a lot of enemies. But for the first time in history I can live a public life, and not have to worry about being singled out for being gay or found out for being a vamp.

Leannán sídhe meant “fairy lover,” but they were anything but. That kind were a sort of psychic vampire, similar to succubi. Their magic caused humans to fall madly and deeply in love with them, at which point the leannán sídhe would drain their life energies bit by bit, until their lover withered away and died of seemingly natural causes. In some cases, they’d even abandon their lovers out of spite, just to see them die of grief and loneliness.

Rule one—you take love where you can find it, if it’s real. Rule two—when it’s time to go, you always leave your lover better off than when you found them. And rule three? You never break a young girl’s heart. Not if you can help it.

Still, place good intentions in one hand and shit in the other, and what are you left with? A handful of shit.

Sociologist Douglas Massey has shown that as racial segregation has diminished, class-based segregation has increased in America.

That was when you knew for sure that you had rocked a man’s world: when he rose the next morning and cooked for you.

Um, Colin? When you’re done playing with your shaft, you might want to deal with the big mean-looking fella over there.

I was already going to have nightmares for months over seeing those nasty, poisonous grandma tits flapping in the wind.

If I don’t die before I get over there, I swear I’m going to punch you right in the baby maker.” Fallyn chuckled.

So what you’re saying is, embrace the

So what you’re saying is, embrace the suck

The Celtic pantheon never seemed to be much interested in being worshipped; they were too busy fighting and getting laid.

For a consultative site, you cannot talk only about your company and its products. You must talk about how your visitors can solve their problems and the problems of the stakeholders they report to.

Roman,” I say, slapping the table in front of him. “You gonna look up from that thing and weigh in on this conversation, or what?” He keeps his eyes on his phone and his fingers moving over the keyboard. “You mean the one where Massey is whining about ruining his girlish figure?

Catherine Cookson’s Books NOVELS Colour Blind Maggie Rowan Rooney The Menagerie Fanny McBride Fenwick Houses The Garment The Blind Miller The Wingless Bird Hannah Massey The Long Corridor The Unbaited Trap Slinky Jane Katie Mulholland The Round Tower

It might take decades or even centuries for their return, but as creatures made more of magic than flesh, you could never rid the world of their presence for good.

Nope, it was the hunter’s life for me, and Jesse felt the same way. We’d bonded over that first kill, and as we’d matured we’d become more than just friends and partners.

always took point because I was so protective of her, and she let me, even though it was slightly chauvinistic and completely unnecessary

Unfortunately, just hours earlier, the nastiest witch who ever walked the earth had cast a curse on me that would turn my world upside down and destroy everything I held dear.

Cognoscenti Therapy Associates, Austin, TX—Six Months Later I sat across from Dr. Larsen in her office, which was located in a hip, upscale business complex in a newly gentrified area of East Austin, just a few blocks from the downtown district.

She was very pretty, with fine Roman features and the kind of olive skin you couldn’t get from a tanning bed or spray booth. She had dark, thick hair, lush, but not quite full lips, and the body of a runway model. I noted this all in a sort of detached, clinical manner, because it distracted me from the topic of discussion.

The business was a cover for what we really did behind the scenes, before Finn became an addict. Anyway, Maureen was a half-kelpie who’d been handling Finn’s affairs for several centuries.

And you still blame yourself.” A statement, not a question. I flew out of the chair and roared at her. “Of course I blame myself! I remember everything—everything! Every moment of madness as the curse kicked in. It was like the real me stepped outside myself, and another me—a darker part of me—took over. I was just a passenger as I watched it all happen. And there was nothing, nothing I could do about it!” I slumped back down into the chair, feeling defeated and drained just by that simple admission of guilt and shame.

And a witch she is, in every sense of the word. She was a sorceress among the Tuatha Dé Danann, these old-school Irish deities who were eventually defeated by mankind and forced underground, and who would later become known as the sidhe—faery folk.

How many times do I have to tell you fae, I’m not a druid? I’m a rígfénnid, damn it.

Animals loved that guy, especially dogs, who didn’t hold grudges and didn’t care how screwed up a human was. They’d ignore your faults and love you just the same.

When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.