Mater Quotes

My alma mater was books, a good library.... I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying my curiosity.

Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment.

...if anything matters then everything matters. Because you are important, everything you do is important. Every time you forgive, the universe changes; every time you reach out and touch a heart or a life, the world changes; with every kindness and service, seen or unseen, my purposes are accomplished and nothing will be the same again.

Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a mater of opportunity.

Do not give them a candle to light the way, teach them how to make fire instead. That is the meaning of enlightenment.

An English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions. One was, ‘What’s your alma mater?’ I told him, ‘Books.

I certainly wasn't seeking any degree, the way a college confers a status symbol upon its students. My homemade education gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness and blindness that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me, asking questions. One was, "What's your alma mater?" I told him, "Books.

Sex makes monkeys out of all of us. If you don’t give in to it, you wind up a cold, unfeeling bastard. If you do, you spend the rest of your life picking up the pieces. . . .

Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions. One was "What's your alma mater?" I told him, "Books." You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which I'm not studying something I feel might be able to help the black man.

Santo Rita Meata Mater Ringo Jonah Tito Marlin Jack Latoya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer! Santo Rita Meata Mater Ringo Jonah Tito Marlin Jack Latoya Janet Michael Dumbledora the Explorer! I've summoned you from the depths of Hell. Show yourself!" (Britain) "You kolled?" (Russia) "I wasn't calling you!" (Britain) -Britain and Russia

I think the reason I choose the comic approach so often is because it's harder, therefore affording me the opportunity to show off.

What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are small maters to what lies within us.

Read to your children all of the time Novels and nursery rhymes Autobiographies, even the newspaper It doesn't mater; it's quality time Because once upon a time We grew up on stories in the voices in which they were told We need words to hold us and the world to behold us For us to truly know our souls

Tweet others the way you want to be tweeted.

Freedom of Speech doesn't justify online bullying. Words have power, be careful how you use them.

A library, no mater how humble or grand, is a series of sacred gateways. You pass through them and leave your own city behind; you journey through time and space; and for a little while, you escape the confines of your own circumstances. Each of us who are readers gets to live through a multiplicity of eras; we get to tiptoe through, to borrow Jorge Luis Borge’s phrase, ‘a growing, dizzying net of divergent, convergent, and parallel times.

Gregory: Well, Dane, you could share your impression with my alma mater instead. Dane: It's a challenge. Gregory: Glad to hear that hasn't changed. And which part do you find the most challenging? Dane: Living up to your reputation.

Nisi ti loš, nego su te zaveli. Upa si u loše društvo. Naplaćuješ struju ljudima. A je li ti ikad palo na pamet, dok si čoviku naplaćiva struju, da bi on moga bit tvoj ćaća? Ili tvoja mater? Znadu li ti ćaća i mater šta ti radiš, Nenade? Jesu te oni tako odgajali, da naplaćivaš struju? Znadu li oni di si ti sad razbojniče?

I don't believe it matters to me- that they're going to destroy it. Maybe it hurts so much that I don't even know I'm hurt. But I don't think so. If you want to carry it for my sake, don't carry more than I do. I'm not capable of suffering completely. I never have. It goes only down to a certain point and then it stops. As long as there is that untouched point, it's not really pain. Where does it stop? Where I can think of nothing and feel nothing except that I designed that temple. I built it. Nothing else can seem very important. You shouldn't have built it. You shouldn't have delivered it to the sort of thing they're doing. That doesn't mater. Not even that they'll destroy it. Only that it had existed.

If your employees, including your CEO, wish to give to their alma maters or other institutions to which they feel a personal attachment, we believe they should use their own money, not yours.

If I were to believe in God enough to call him a murderer, then I might also believe enough that he, as a spirit, exists beyond death; and therefore only he could do it righteously. For the physical being kills a man and hatefully sends him away, whereas God, the spiritual being, kills a man and lovingly draws him nigh.

One big bonus: e-mail! Just like the days back on Hermes, I get data dumps. Of course, they relay e-mail from friends and family, but NASA also sends along choice messages from the public. I’ve gotten e-mail from rock stars, athletes, actors and actresses, and even the President. One of them was from my alma mater, the University of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially “colonized” it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong!

I have often reflected upon the new vistas that reading opened to me. I knew right there, in prison, that reading had changed forever the course of my life. As I see it today, the ability to read awoke inside me some long dormant craving to be mentally alive. I certainly wasn’t seeking any degree, the way a college confers a status symbol upon its students. My home made education gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness, and blindness that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London asking questions. One was, “What’s your alma mater?” I told him, “Books.” You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which I’m not studying something I feel might be able to help the black man.

War is not two great armies meeting in the clash and frenzy of battle. War is a boy being carried on a stretcher, looking up at God’s blue sky with bewildered eyes that are soon to close; war is a woman carrying a child that has been injured by a shell; war is spirited horses tied in burning buildings and waiting for death; war is the flower of a race, battered, hungry, bleeding, up to its knees in filthy water; war is an old woman burning a candle before the Mater Dolorsa for the son she has given.

Ave maria, gratia plena, get him out of this war, and if you gotta take someone then take me, because I've got nothing real to go home to but he's got a girl now and I can see the hope written all over his face when he sees her. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, pray for us sinners, but don't spend too much time on my immortal soul, because not even divine intervention can help me now. I know when to walk away from a fight and trying my damnedest not to need him was a losing battle. I won't be in the history book; that's for you. But I loved you first. As long as they get that right., I don't care what they say.

Now we, if not in the spirit, have been caught up to see our earth, our mother, Gaia Mater, set like a jewel in space. We have no excuse now for supposing her riches inexhaustible nor the area we have to live on limitless because unbounded. We are the children of that great blue white jewel. Through our mother we are part of the solar system and part through that of the whole universe. In the blazing poetry of the fact we are children of the stars.

It's a question of how we regard our situations, how we look and see where we are, and how we choose, if we can, when we are seeing undeceivedly, not to despair and, at the same time, how best to act. Hope is exactly that, that's all it is, a mater of how we deal with the negative acts towards human beings by other human beings in the world, remembering that they and we are all human, that nothing human is alien to us, the foul and the fair, and that most important of all we're here for a mere blink of the eyes, that's all.

I have changed my definition of tragedy. I now think tragedy is not foul deeds done to a person (usually noble in some manner) but rather that tragedy is irresolvable conflict.

Learning to Read”: I told the Englishman that my alma mater was books.

My Alma mater is the Chicago Public Library.

Ah, Elsa. You got a wrong picture of yourself. Even if that is true, what does a person do about it? The things your parents say and the things your husband doesn't say become a mirror, don't they? You see yourself as they see you. and no mater how far you come, you bring that mirror with you. Break it, Jean said. How? With a gosh dang rock. Jean leaned forward. I'm a mirror too, Elsa. You remember that.

Life is the people who love you. No one will ever choose to stay alive for an iPhone. It's the people we reach via the iPhone that mater.

Non est salvatori salvator, neque defensori dominus, nec pater nec mater, nihil supernum.

I guess any calling, no mater what it is, is a kind of unresolved ache," I said, giving in to knowing more than him. "It's a problem that you can't fix, but there is some relief in knowing you will commit your whole life to trying. Every second you have is somehow for it.

Physics explains everything, which we know because anything physics cannot explain does not exist, which we know because whatever exists must be explicable by physics, which we know because physics explains everything. There is something here of the mystical.

One of them was from my alma mater, the University of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially “colonized” it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong!

Hail to St. Aegolius Our Alma Mater. Hail, our song we raise in praise of thee Long in the memory of every loyal owl Thy splendid banner emblazoned be. Now to thy golden talons Homage we're bringing. Guiding symbol of our hopes and fears Hark to the cries of eternal praises ringing Long may we triumph in the coming years. - The Owls of St. Aegolius

Nora Ephron explained in a 1996 commencement address at her alma mater, Wellesley College, about her own graduating class of 1962: “We weren’t meant to have futures, we were meant to marry them. We weren’t meant to have politics, or careers that mattered, or opinions or lives; we were meant to marry them. If you wanted to be an architect, you married an architect.” Both

Lord Peter Wimsey: Facts, Bunter, must have facts. When I was a small boy, I always hated facts. Thought they were nasty, hard things, all nobs. Mervyn Bunter: Yes, my lord. My old mother always used to say... Lord Peter Wimsey: Your mother, Bunter? Oh, I never knew you had one. I always thought you just sort of came along already-made, so it were. Oh, excuse me. How infernally rude of me. Beg pardon, I'm sure. Mervyn Bunter: That's all right, my lord. Lord Peter Wimsey: Thank you. Mervyn Bunter: Yes indeed, I was one of seven. Lord Peter Wimsey: That is pure invention, Bunter, I know better. You are unique. But you were going to tell me about your mater. Mervyn Bunter: Oh yes, my lord. My old mother always used to say that facts are like cows. If you stare them in the face hard enough, and they generally run away. Lord Peter Wimsey: By Jove, that's courageous, Bunter. What a splendid person she must be. Mervyn Bunter: I think so, my lord.

To me, that's what makes college so great and unique, as opposed to the pros. This is your alma mater. This is a part of you.

They are mistaken. Can we explain?" "It would not mater. You cannot change the minds of those who do not want to be proven wrong.

Here beneath the towering pines, by the river blue Farragut will ever stand, alma mater true

The magna mater!” a ghost wailed in despair. “The big mother!

Chaos is mater, origin, source, mother; materia, the substance from which all things are made.

Самотата го обгръща и обвива все по-заплашителна, тя го души все повече и стяга по-силно сърцето му, онази страшна богиня и mater saeva cupidinum, ала кой знае днес какво е самота?...

I would not care whether people thought I was special, if my life was truly special. It would not mater to me that people could see me as pious, if I could truly live as a woman scholar of piety. I want to be what I seem to be. I act as if I am specially holy, a special girl; but this is what I really want to be. I really do.

I'm overwhelmed by a melancholic ache- and I want the past back, no mater the cost. It doesn't matter that it won't come back, that it never even actually existed as I remember it- I want it back. I want things to be like they were, or like I remember them having been: Whole.

...lovers, even those who are married, always exist autonomously of one another, no matter how close they are or how long they've known each other. That's why jealously can flare in even the most intimate relationships. Because you know that at some basic level this person exists separately from you. No mater how close you are, the landscape of their life is always tinted a different hue than your own." - Hunter to Joanna

Take for example the commencement address he [James Garfield] delivered at his alma mater Hiram College in the summer of 1880. ... The only thing stopping this address from turning into a slacker parable is the absence of the word 'dude'.

Why would you family think about it?" "Oh, my mother's the only one that counts, and she likes you very much from what she's seen of you." "So you had me inspected?" "No-dash it all, I seem to be saying all the wrong things today. I was absolutely stunned that first day in court, and I rushed off to my mater, who's an absolute dear, and the kind of person who really understands things, and I said, 'Look here! here's the absolutely one and only woman, and she's being put through a simply ghastly awful business and for God's sake come and hold my hand!' You simply don't know how foul it was.

Maybe each time, though, no mater how many loves you'd had before, maybe each time you had to learn again. In that way love was a lot like writing.

I earned a mater's degree in journalism and took the first job offered, as a sports writer. Instead of chasing my own fame, I wrote about famous athletes chasing theirs.

My alma mater implored me to send them a donation. If anything, I should write them an equal invitation.

But where we see trash, God sees potential. The Mater Artist, with His tender touch, can rework our suffering into a pattern of good.

Atque metum tantum concepit tunc mea mater. Ut pareret geminos, meque metumque simul.

Chaos, the eternal feminine, is also the crushing force of sexual selection. Women are choosy maters (unlike female chimps, their closest animal counterparts). Most men do not meet female human standards. It is for this reason that women on dating sites rate 85 percent of men as below average in attractiveness. It is for this reason that we all have twice as many female ancestors as male (imagine that all the women who have ever lived have averaged one child. Now imagine that half the men who have ever lived have fathered two children, if they had any, while the other half fathered none).41 It is Woman as Nature who looks at half of all men and says, “No!” For the men, that’s a direct encounter with chaos, and it occurs with devastating force every time they are turned down for a date. Human female choosiness is also why we are very different from the common ancestor we shared with our chimpanzee cousins, while the latter are very much the same. Women’s proclivity to say no, more than any other force, has shaped our evolution into the creative, industrious, upright, large-brained (competitive, aggressive, domineering) creatures that we are.42 It is Nature as Woman who says, “Well, bucko, you’re good enough for a friend, but my experience of you so far has not indicated the suitability of your genetic material for continued propagation.

The forces of blind life that work across this hilltop are as irresistible as she said they were, they work by a principle more potent than fission. But I can’t look upon them as just life, impartial and eternal and in flux, an unceasing interchange of protein. And I can’t find proofs of the crawl toward perfection that she believed in. Maybe what we call evil is only as she told me that first day we met, what conflicts with our interests; but maybe there are such realities as ignorance, selfishness, jealousy, malice, criminal carelessness, and maybe these things are evil no mater whose interests they serve or conflict with.

I cannot help but find it telling that she successfully felled two grown men in a single day.” Mater’s eyes slid to Corbin’s bruised face. “If I had to guess, I would say she has experience defending herself physically against men. Not a very comforting thought.

In this sense, the methodological form that comes into play here is ultimately quite simple: Scripture is interpreted by Scripture. Scripture interprets itself. Attentive listening to Scripture’s own internal self-interpretation is very characteristic of Redemptoris Mater.

What is important is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding, and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty. No mater what we may be doing at a given moment, we must not forget that it has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.

I thought mothering would just be changing diapers and cuddling a baby. Instead it too me to the edge of that it means to be human. It tested my empathy to the limit, it challenged me intellectually, it required me to answer and ask questions constantly, to consider metaphysics and the origins of mater.

Don't worry about whether God is saying 'Yes' or 'No' to your (prayer) request. Don't be downcast when the answer is not in sight. Quick thinking of faith formulas and methods. Just commit every prayer to Jesus and go about your business with confidence that He will not be one moment early or late in answering. And, if the answer you seek is not forthcoming, say to your heart, 'He is all I need. If I need more, He will not withhold it. He will do it in His time, in His way; and, if He does not fulfill my request, He must have a perfect reason for not doing so. No mater what happens, I will always have faith in His faithfulness.

College was an experience I'll always cherish. Now I fund a scholarship at my alma mater in my late father's name—he'd laugh to know that it's a science scholarship, when I can barely do math! I also fund a nursing scholarship at the Oglala Lakota College in Kyle, South Dakota, in the name of my mother, who was a nurse.

J’écris donc d’ici, de chez les invendues, les tordues, celles qui ont le crâne rasée, celles qui ne savent pas s’habiller, celles qui ont peur de puer, celles qui ont les chicots pourris, celles qui ne savent pas s’y prendre, celles à qui les hommes ne font pas de cadeau, celles qui baiseraient n’importe qui voulant bien d’elles, les grosses putes, les petites salopes, les femmes à chatte toujours sèche, celles qui ont un gros bides, celles qui voudraient être des hommes, celles qui se prennent pour des hommes, celles qui rêvent de faire hardeuses, celles qui n’en ont rien à foutre des mecs mais que leurs copines intéressent, celles qui ont un gros cul, celles qui ont les poils drus et bien noirs et qui ne vont pas se faire épiler, les femmes brutales, bruyantes, celles qui cassent tout sur leur passage, celles qui n’aiment pas les parfumeries, celles qui se mettent du rouge trop rouge, celles qui sont trop mal foutues pour pouvoir se saper comme des chaudasses mais qui en crèvent d’envie, celles qui veulent porter des fringues d’hommes et la barbe dans la rue, celles qui veulent tout montrer, celles qui sont pudiques par complexe, celles qui ne savent pas dire non, celles qu’on enferme pour les mater, celles qui font peur, celles qui font pitié, celles qui ne font pas envie, celles qui ont la peau flasque, des rides plein la face, celles qui rêvent de se faire lifter, liposucer, péter le nez pour le refaire mais qui n’ont pas l’argent pour le faire, celles qui ne ressemblent à rien, celles qui ne comptent que sur elles-mêmes pour se protéger, celles qui ne savent pas être rassurantes, celles qui s’en foutent de leurs enfants, celles qui aiment boire jusqu’à se vautrer par terre dans les bars, celles qui ne savent pas se tenir.

have you ever seen an actual human brain? It’s built in two parts—an outer part called the dura mater and an inner part called the pia mater. These two parts are separated by the arachnoid—a veil of weblike tissue.” Langdon cocked his head in surprise. Gently, she reached up and touched Langdon’s temple. “There’s a reason they call this your temple, Robert.

Something about absolutes, the cultish nature of them, made her wary of unconditional loyalty to sports teams, politicians, alma maters, never mind nation.

What are you thanking me for?" "For being you, and it doesn't mater what name anyone calls you. I love you." His lips quirk."But I like how Amy Stone sounds. I like it alot.

what you are doesn't mater. Because what you are doesn't change who you are

Nik by neriekol, že ste mater a syn. Tak čudno akosi zaobchodíte jedno s druhým.

Live your life... No mater where you live it :)

I was sent out of county to Mater Misericordiæ, an orphanage run by Catholic nuns in Phoenix.

Thus in Sanskrit, ‘mother’ is ‘matar’, in Latin it is ‘mater’, and in Old Celtic it is ‘mathir

Ne da bi premaknila glavo, me pogledaš, tako kot matere pogledajo vsako stvar: s predolgim pogledom.

Konuştuğun zaman sadece bildiklerini tekrar edersin; dinlersen, yeni şeyler öğrenebilirsin.

No sane paleontologist would ever claim that he or she had discovered "The Ancestor." Think about it this way: What is the chance that while walking through any random cemetery on our planet I would discover an actual ancestor of mine? Diminishingly small. What I would discover is that all people buried in these cemeteries-- no mater whether that cemetery is in China, Botswana, or Italy-- are related to me to different degrees. I can find this out by looking at their DNA with many of the forensic techniques in use in crime labs today. I'd see that some of the denizens of the cemeteries are distantly related to me, others are related more closely. This tree would be a very powerful window into my past and my family history. It would also have a practical application because I could use this tree to understand my predilection to get certain diseases and other facts of my biology. The same is true when we infer relationship among species.

One of them was from my alma mater, the Universe of Chicago. They say once you grow crops somewhere, you have officially "colonized" it. So technically, I colonized Mars. In your face, Neil Armstrong!

Show us. Show us how. It was said so mater of factly it took me a second to realize she was praying. More and more the distinction between prayer and the rest of life seemed to be vanishing for Betsie.

For we thought all the time that we were passing through time when we really weren't, when we never have. We've just been moving along with time. We said, there's another second gone, there's another minute and another hour and another day, when, as a mater of fact the second or the minute or the hour was never gone. It was the same one all the time. It had just moved along and we have moved with it.

This work will only mater if it's sustained. To sustain it, people have to believe that the myriad small, incremental actions matter. That they matter even when the consequences aren't immediate or obvious. They must remember that often when you fail at your immediate objective—to block a nominee or a pipeline or to pass a bill—that, even then, you may have changed the whole framework in ways that make broader change more possible. You may change the story or the rules, give tools, templates, or encouragements to future activists, and make it possible for those around you to persist in their efforts.

Ave Maria Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ. Amen.

hoćete kovrčave, crnomanjaste, brkate mediteranske zavodnike, naviknite se da oni mrki i šutljivi, s mrežicama zakosu, istom oko podneva izlaze iz spavaćih soba i ne íao bog da im mater nije popeglala košuliu.

Ah, Elsa. You got a wrong picture of yourself." "Even if that is true, what does a person do about it? The things your parents say and the things your husband doesn't say become a mirror, don't they? You see yourself as they see you, and no mater how far you come, you bring that mirror with you." "Break it", Jean said. "How?" "With a gosh dang rock." Jean leaned forward. "I'm a mirror too, Elsa. You remember that.

Where did this whole thing begin? If what we think of as reality is just a pattern that somebody brought Outside, and the universe just popped into bring, then whoever it was is probably still wandering around giving off universes wherever she goes So where did she come from? And what was there before she started doing it? And how did Outside come to exist, for that matter?” That's Inspace thinking,” said Olhado. “That's the way you conceive of things when you still believe in space and time as absolutes. You think of everything starting and stopping, of things having origins, because that's the way it is in the observable universe. The thing is, Outside there's no rules like that at all. Outside was always there and always will be there. The number of philotes there is infinite, and all of them always existed. No mater how many of them you pull out and put into organized universes, there'll be just as many left as there always were” But somebody had to start making universes.” Why?” asked Olhado. Because-because I-“ Nobody ever started. It's always been going on. I mean, if it weren’t already going on, it couldn’t start. Outside where there weren’t any patterns, it would be impossible to conceive of a pattern. They can’t act, by definition, because they literally can’t even find themselves.” But how could it have always been going on?” Think of it as this moment in time, the reality we live in at this moment, this condition of the entire universe-of all the universes-” You mean now.” Right. Think of it as if now were the surface of a sphere. Time is moving forward through the chaos of Outside like the surface of an expanding sphere, a balloon inflating. On the outside, chaos. On the inside, reality. Always growing-like you said, Valentine. Popping up new universes all the time.” But where did this balloon come from?” OK, you’ve got the balloon. The expanding sphere. Only now think of it as a sphere with an infinite radius.” Valentine tried to think of what that would mean. “The surface would be completely flat.” That’s right” And you could never go all the way around it” That’s right, too. Infinitely large. Impossible even to count all the universes that exist on the reality side. And now, starting from the edge, you get on a starship and start heading inward toward the center. The farther in you go, the older everything is. All the old universes back and back. When do you get to the first one?” You don’t” said Valentine. “Not it you’re traveling at a finate rate.” You don’t reach the center of a sphere on infinite radius, if you’re starting at the surface, because no matter how far you go, no matter how quickly, the center, the beginning, is always infinitely far away.” And that’s where the universe began.

Word of advice, sister mine. If you want to keep your papers private, don't write 'Private' on the cover. It set the mater right off. It was all I could do to stop her sniffing around like some great sniffing thing.

Study after study has proven than only a small percentage of charitable donations from wealthy donors reach poor individuals. Most of it tends to go to alma maters or cultural institutions frequented by the wealthy.

you may be wondering how it was physically possible for us to drink more than we already did, but here is the thing about drinking: one can always drink more, if one is truly committed. It's just a mater of discipline, really.

The danger, as Nietzsche sees, lies in isolation within oneself: Solitude surrounds and encircles him, ever more threatening, ever more constricting, ever more heart-strangling, that terrible goddess and Mater saeva cupidinum,9

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So what will happen to your consciousness? Your consciousness, yours, not anyone else's. Well, what are you? There's the point. Let's try to find out. What is it about you that you have always known as yourself? What are you conscious of in yourself? Your kidneys? Your liver? Your blood vessels? No. However far back you go in your memory, it is always in some external active manifestation of yourself that you come across your identity—in the work of your hands, in your family, in other people. And now listen carefully. You in others—this is your soul. This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life—your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. And what does it mater to you if later on that is called your memory? This will be you—the you that enters the future and becomes a part of it.

The mother cried out and sank to the ground and was lifted up and helped away wailing. Stabat Mater Dolorosa. Remember her hair in the morning before it was pinned, black, rampant, savage with loveliness. As if she slept in perpetual storm.

The looming threat of blowback should we voice an opinion or idea that challenges our bunker maters keeps us anxious. When all that binds us is what we believe rather than who we are, changing our mind or challenging the collective ideology is risky.

Дарбата, която притежавам, е проста, проста. Един лудешки, чудноват ум, пълен с форми, фигури, образи, предмети, идеи, явления, импулси, асоциации. Те се зачеват в утробата на паметта, развиват се в лоното на pia mater и се раждат с назряването на случая.

A young filly is leading her mater in. They’re both wearing green wellies, and there’s something so indefinably horsey about them that I have to pinch myself and remember that were-ponies do not exist outside the pages of a certain bestselling kid-lit series.

If I'd been the author, I would've stopped thinking about my microbiome. I would've told Daisy how much I liked her idea for Mychal's art project, and I would've told her that I did remember Davis Pickett, that I remembered being eleven and carrying a vague but constant fear. I would've told her that I remembered once at camp lying next to Davis on the edge of a dock, our legs dangling over, our backs against the rough-hewn planks of wood, staring together up at a cloudless summer sky. I wouldv'e told her that Davis and I never talked much, or even looked at each other, but it didn't mater, because we were looking at the same sky together, which is maybe more intimate than eye contact anyway. Anybody can look at you. It's quite rare to find someone who sees the same world you see.

(...) a malo poviše njih, u zajedničkoj grobnici bez ikakva natpisa, ispod kamene ploče prekrivene žutim i bijelim pečatima lišajeva, počiva njihova mater Marijeta. (...) Meni nije jasno kako to da se zaslužni mještani pokapaju bezimeno. Mogli su stavit bar neku vazu, a ne praznu teglu od cikle.

Mom said that has been true for her - that being a woman has meant being someone who gets talked over in conversations or ignored; someone who gets judged as a body instead of as a sentient soul; someone who, no mater who you are or what you are doing, always has to be on guard, lest someone else decided that you're going to be his victim.

I ran my fingers around the interior of the skull getting the last few clumps of brain mater and sucked them from my fingers like icing from a mixing bowl. Desperately not wanting to wipe my mouth, I straightened and moved to the surviving gun man, crouched and did a quick pat down to make sure he didn't have another gun on him. No weapons but I did find a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his shirt pocket. Grinning down at him I pulled the cigarette out and stuck it between my bloody lips and lit it, even allowed myself one sweet drag. Just one, didn't want to waste too many brains. But damn the moment called for it. I was reformed but I'd never be perfect. And that was okay with me.

Why did you just leave? If its your country you have to love it to live in it and not leave it. You have to fight for it no mater what, to make it right. Tell me, do you abandon your house because it's burning or do you find water to put out the fire? And if you leave it burning, do you expect the flames to turn into water and put themselves out?

Yale was notorious for its politics. Afterwards, one fierce Loyalist, Thomas Jones, recalled bitterly of his alma mater that it was nothing but “a nursery of sedition, of faction, and republicanism,” while General Thomas Gage, commander of the British forces in North America, branded the place “a seminary of democracy” full of “pretended patriots.

Although certain to be contradicted by every pious churchman, a heretic must insist on thinking that the Mater Dolorosa was the logical Virgin of the Church, and that the Trinity would never have raised her from the foot of the Cross, had not the Virgin of Majesty been imposed, by necessity and public unanimity, on a creed which was meant to be complete without her.

El caos, lo desconocido, se asocia simbólicamente con lo femenino. Eso se debe en parte a que todas las cosas que hemos ido conociendo nacieron en un primer momento de lo desconocido, de la misma forma que todos los seres con los que nos hemos encontrado nacieron de madres. El caos es mater, origen, fuente, madre; materia, la sustancia de la que están hechas las cosas.

Within two years Jones published his observations on the Sanskrit language, which pioneered the science of comparative linguistics. In his publications Jones pointed out surprising similarities between Sanskrit, an ancient Indian language that became the sacred tongue of Hindu ritual, and the Greek and Latin languages, as well as similarities between all these languages and Gothic, Celtic, Old Persian, German, French and English. Thus in Sanskrit, ‘mother’ is ‘matar’, in Latin it is ‘mater’, and in Old Celtic it is ‘mathir’. Jones surmised that all these languages must share a common origin, developing from a now-forgotten ancient ancestor. He was thus the first to identify what later came to be called the Indo-European family of languages.

Once day when the final trumpet sounds and my life is over...It won't matter anymore if I Rich or Poor, Democratic or Republican, Catholic or Protestant. What will mater will be my spiritual relationship with God and out of love & reverence for him that I did all I could to help those in need and in despair. Bringing HOPE to the HOPELESS is the Greatest Badge I can Ever Wear!

It didn't help that I was never allowed to study anything remotely contemporary until the last year of university: there was never any sense of that leading to this. If anything, my education gave me the opposite impression, of an end to cultural history round about the time that Forster wrote A Passage to India. The quickest way to kill all love for the classics, I can see now, is to tell young people that nothing else maters, because then all they can do is look at them in a museum of literature, through glass cases. Don't touch! And don't think for a moment that they want to live in the same world as you! And so a lot of adult life -- if your hunger and curiosity haven't been squelched by your education -- is learning to join up the dots that you didn't even know were there.

Bože moj, kako su bile velike naše matere! One su imale praosnovne, čvrste, proste principe koji su ispisani u svakom bukvaru, a držale su ih visoko, s pouzdanjem i malo koketnim ponosom, kao vitez svoga dobroga sokola. Nije bilo nikakvog pitanja ni zadatka života, ma kako on bio težak, a da ga one odmah lako i prosto ne reše. Nad apsolutnim teškoćama uzdizale su se svojim visokim i istinskim religioznim osećanjem.

U mene ti sa djecom ovako hoda: Ha su počeli svoje živote živjet’ prest’o sam se brinut’. Što sam im`o dao sam `im, što sam znao rek’o sam i što sam umio pokaz’o sam `im. Sad je do njih. Nek’ i oni deveraju k`o što smo mi deverali, jer svak’ ima pravo na svoj dever, k`o što ima pravo i na svoju sreću. Kako je kome suđeno i kako se ko potrudi, bezbeli.. Matere su drugačije, njih briga ne popušća, meščini, dok god dišu.

All over England loving hands are packing trunks and tuck-boxes for the young gentlemen of Narkover, who reassemble today. Eager young voices are heard shouting, 'Mater! Don't forget to put in that pack of cards with the nicked aces,' or 'Auntie Frances, where have you put my dud half-crowns?' From many a home the father is, alas, temporarily absent, behind bars, but the lonely mother has the consolation of seeing her boy develop in the way his father would have wished.

Can we not upset every standard? and is good perhaps evil? and God only an invention and a subtlety of the devil? Is everything, in the last resort, false? And if we are dupes are we not on that very account dupers also? must we not be dupers also?" Such reflections lead and mislead him, ever further on, ever further away. Solitude, that dread goddess and mater saeva cupidinum, encircles and besets him, ever more threatening, more violent, more heart breaking—but who to-day knows what solitude is?

after a quarter of an hour the bug-eyed Marie-Louise had sensed her mater’s approval and settled I would be her Prince Charming. She asked this: “Mr. Frobisher, are you well acquainted with Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street?” Well, thought I, the day might not be a complete wreck. A girl with a taste for irony must conceal some depths. But Marie-Louise was serious! A congenital dunce. No, I replied, I didn’t know Mr. Holmes personally, but he and David Copperfield could be seen playing billiards at my club every Wednesday.

Cybele, or the Great Mother—Magna Mater. This Cybele was supposed to have conceived a passion for a young man named Atys, and when Atys failed to respond to her advances, she became jealous. When she caught him having it off with someone else, she drove him so mad that he castrated himself. I am afraid that respectable young Londoners had celebrated their devotion to Magna Mater by doing the same—and we know this for sure because the river near London Bridge has also yielded a fearful set of serrated forceps, adorned with the heads of Eastern divinities.

How has my industry raised prices at this rate without improving the product? At a few elite institutions, including NYU, we’ve leveraged scarcity. More than a business strategy, it’s become a fetish—believing you are a luxury brand instead of a public servant. Ivy Leagues have acceptance rates of 4–10%. A university president bragging about rejecting 90% of applicants is tantamount to a homeless shelter taking pride in turning away 90% of the needy that arrive each night. And this is not about standards or brand dilution. In an essay explaining his decision to stop conducting application interviews for his alma mater, Princeton, journalist Bryan Walsh observed, “The secret of elite college admissions is that far more students deserve to attend these colleges than are admitted, and there is virtually no discernible difference between those who make it and the many more who just miss out.” In support, he offered this statement from Princeton’s own dean of admissions: “We could have admitted five or six classes to Princeton from the [applicant] pool.”4 So, with a $26 billion endowment, the question becomes, Why wouldn’t you?

Eric' continues to work willingly with us, but he still balks at even the slightest hint about mater. assistance. We once gave him more than he asked to cover his expenses. He was displeased by this and said that lie suspects we want to give him a certain kind of help. He asked us to give up any such thoughts once and for all. In such circumstances, we fear that any gift from us as a token of appreciation for his work will make a negative impression. `Eric' is completely selfless in his work with us and extremely scrupulous when it conies to anything that could be seen as `payment' for his work.

It was a superb spectacle while it lasted, and I was able to understand what people meant when they spoke of the Church Militant. A good deal to my regret it did not last long. Spode was full of the will to win, but Stinker had the science. It was not for nothing that he had added a Boxing Blue to his Football Blue when at the old Alma Mater. There was a brief mix-up, and the next thing one observed was Spode on the ground, looking like a corpse which had been in the water several days. His left eye was swelling visibly, and a referee could have counted a hundred over him without eliciting a response.

C'est un retour sans joie. Le monde que nous avons laissé derrière nous n'existe plus. L'Indochine française s'est effacée. Le Royaume du Laos a basculé. Une république communiste s'est emparée des terres et des esprits. Nous avons rompu avec ce système-là. Notre pays imaginaire te hante, je le sais. Par mon ignorance, je suis préservée de son emprise. Moi, je n'ai que des hypothèses. Mes fictions claudicantes sont bien inoffensives. Elles ne génèrent aucun regret, aucun sentiment coupable. C'est mon amnésie que tu nommes ingratitude et que tu tentes de mater par ton "toujours une Vietnamienne". ~ p 29

Many white children in this city never set foot in a public school. They follow in the footsteps of their parents and grandparents, attending private schools from the moment they hit kindergarten. This private school pipeline contributes to the racial disparity of the public schools, the same way my alma mater does in Farmville. Richmonders, like many in Prince Edward and around the country, have effectively given up on public school education. And the abandonment of Richmond's public schools by white and middle-income parents creates a self-fulfilling prophecy of schools that continue to perform poorly.

In his publications Jones pointed out surprising similarities between Sanskrit, an ancient Indian language that became the sacred tongue of Hindu ritual, and the Greek and Latin languages, as well as similarities between all these languages and Gothic, Celtic, Old Persian, German, French and English. Thus in Sanskrit, ‘mother’ is ‘matar’, in Latin it is ‘mater’, and in Old Celtic it is ‘mathir’. Jones surmised that all these languages must share a common origin, developing from a now-forgotten ancient ancestor. He was thus the first to identify what later came to be called the Indo-European family of languages.

The libido that is withdrawn so unwillingly from the “mother” turns into a threatening serpent, symbolizing the fear of death—for the relation to the mother must cease, must die, and this is almost the same as dying oneself. That is to say, the violence of the separation is proportionate to the strength of the bond uniting the son with the mother, and the stronger this broken bond was in the first place, the more dangerously does the “mother” approach him in the guise of the unconscious. This is indeed the Mater saeva cupidinum, ‘savage mother of desire,’ who in another form now threatens to devour the erstwhile fugitive.

Outside the study hall the next fall, the fall of our senior year, the Nabisco plant baked sweet white bread twice a week. If I sharpened a pencil at the back of the room I could smell the baking bread and the cedar shavings from the pencil.... Pretty soon all twenty of us - our class - would be leaving. A core of my classmates had been together since kindergarten. I'd been there eight years. We twenty knew by bored heart the very weave of each other's socks.... The poems I loved were in French, or translated from the Chinese, Portuguese, Arabic, Sanskrit, Greek. I murmured their heartbreaking sylllables. I knew almost nothing of the diverse and energetic city I lived in. The poems whispered in my ear the password phrase, and I memorized it behind enemy lines: There is a world. There is another world. I knew already that I would go to Hollins College in Virginia; our headmistress sent all her problems there, to her alma mater. "For the English department," she told me.... But, "To smooth off her rough edges," she had told my parents. They repeated the phrase to me, vividly. I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface, and exit through it. Would I be ground, instead, to a nub? Would they send me home, an ornament to my breed, in a jewelry bag?

O, jadna moja Marjeta, počela je odma plakati stara Marjetina mater, jer se Marjeta nije to jutro vratila s ispaše, a cijele je noći grmilo. Kad u nas grmi, ljudi se sklone pod koji zaklon i čekaju jutro pa se u selo vrate tek ujutro. A dogodilo se, ne jednom, da ih grom pokosi na tom našem brdu, pa se nikad ne vrate. Brda su ovdje kod nas gola, nema stabla, sve samo sitno grmlje, i kad hodaš tuda po oluji, grom nema koga nego tebe pogoditi. Zato se u ovom kraju uvijek puno vjerovalo u boga i imalo jedan poseban odnos s bogom. Pred bogom se ništa nije skrivalo i uvijek mu se glasno molilo. Jer nema puno mjesta gdje bog tako često i tako precizno pogađa sve koji su mu nevjerni.

Naš narod teško zaboravlja stare bogove. Kad mu nešto uđe pod kožu, sklon je s tim otići i u grob, bez da i trenutka dopusti sebi misao da možda nema pravo. I džabe mu pametni ljudi govorili drukčije, džabe mu knjige pisali, džabe mu zdrav razum i dvije tisuće godina povijesti ukazivalo na suprotno - ne! On to ništa ne prizna, nego je onako kako on kaže da jest. Zašto? Zato što je tako njega njegova mater naučila i zato što je to tako. I nema tu razuma koji mu se može približiti ni pokolebati ga, za njega je to tako i gotovo. Nikad neće preispitivati svoje stavove, nikad neće razmišljati o njima, nego će gurati po svom, ako treba staviti i ruku na sablju, ma, ako treba, staviti glavu na panj, stavit će, ali će u toj tupoj glavi biti po njegovom i nikako drukčije.

traveled in those days with a cheap tape recorder. (I had written to my alma mater, Columbia University, which had an oral history project, suggesting that they take time off from interviewing ex–generals and ex–secretaries of state and send someone south to record the history being made every day by obscure people. One of the nation’s richest universities wrote back saying something like, “An excellent idea. We don’t really have the resources.”) I recorded Gregory’s performance with my little machine. He spoke for two hours, lashing out at white Southern society with passion and with his extraordinary wit. Never in the history of this area had a black man stood like this on a public platform ridiculing and denouncing white officials to their faces. The crowd loved it and applauded

Ugasite televizor, bacite novine koje govore o bračnome brodolomu filmske dive od koje vas dijeli Velika Bara, pošaljite u vražju mater križaljku koja od vas traži da navedete selendru na jugoistoku Pakistana. Pogledajte stranca koji pokraj vas sjedi, s kojim se iznjedrilo čudo zvano djeca. Pitajte ga može li sažvakati i ispljunuti tugu, može li još uopće govoriti. Pozdravite susjeda. Pokušajte od djece napraviti ljude koji će jednog dana možda moći pričati i sanjati o sreći. Nahranite nekog jednom lijepom riječju, napojite žednoga pogledom, nemojte šutnuti psa zato što je šugav. Pogledajte oblak! Onaj tamo! Onu bijelu kovrču vlage na koju bi vaši snovi možda htjeli zasjesti prije nego što se pretvore u noćnu moru. Život je lijep. Život je… sve ono što zaboravljamo zaboravljajući druge…

Ta ne proglasi meni valj'da ovo Zeus, Nit Pravda, vjerna druga donjih bogova, Ovakvih zakona ti ljudma postavi; Nit tvoj je, mišljah, proglas taj toliko jak, Te ti ko smrtnik dići bi se mogao Nad božje, nepisane, stalne zakone. Od danas nijesu ni odjučer, od vijeka Pa dovijek živu, nitko ne zna, otkad se Pojaviše. A rad njih kazan ne htjedoh Od bogova da trpim, volje s' čovjeka Pobojav ma kog. da ću mrijet, to znala sam -Ta kako ne? - pa da i ne proglasi ti. A prije reda l' umrem, držim za dobit. Tko živi, ko što ja, u bijedi velikoj, Ej kako neće od koristi biti mu smrt? Pa tako i ja žalit neću, snađe l' me Ovakva kob. No trup da sina matere Ja rođene bez groba pustit odolim, To peklo bi je, - ali ovo ne žalim. Al' misliš li, da ludo to uradih ja, A ono lud me, bit će, krivi s ludosti.

The impulse to sacrifice proceeds in the above instance from the mater saeva cupidinum, who drives the son to madness and self-mutilation. As a primal being the mother represents the unconscious; hence the myths tell us that the impulse to sacrifice comes from the unconscious. This is to be understood in the sense that regression is inimical to life and disrupts the instinctual foundations of the personality, and is consequently followed by a compensatory reaction taking the form of violent suppression and elimination of the incompatible tendency. It is a natural, unconscious process, a collision between instinctive tendencies, which the conscious ego experiences in most cases passively because it is not normally aware of these libido movements and does not consciously participate in them.

They are encumbered with secret pregnancies that never come to term. There are no terms, you don’t see. They drag their swollen brains about with them everywhere; hidden in pleats and drapes and cunning pouches; and the unbearable keep kicking, kicking under the dura mater. It is no bloody wonder they have headaches. Hold them to your ear, lumpy as they are, and pale; that roar you hear is the surge of the damned unspeakable being kept back. Stone will not dilate will not stretch will not tear— it shivers. Cleaves. Moves uneasily. At its core the burgundy lava simmers, making room. There are volcanoes at the bottom of the sea. Those pretty green things swaying are their false hair. Deliver us? Ram inward the forceps of the patriarchal paradigm and your infernal medicine and bring forth the ancient offspring with their missing mouths? I think not. Not bloody likely. (20th

My parents have always worried that I’d take Amy too personally — they always tell not to read too much into her, And yet I can’t fail to notice that whenever I screw something up, Amy does it right: When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book. (“Sheesh, violin can be hard work, but handwork is the only way to get better!”) When I blew off the junior championship at age sixteen to do a beach weekend with friends, Amy recommitted to the game. (“Sheesh, I know it’s fun to spend time with friends, but I’d be letting myself and everyone else down if I didn’t show up for the tournament.”) This used to drive me mad, but after I wend off to Harvard (and Amy correct those my parents’ alma mater), I decided it was all too ridiculous to think about. That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.

But sometimes...sometimes I wake with a mad thought in my head: What if that boy's life mattered as much as anyone else's, even Caesar's? What if I were offered a choice: to doom that boy to the misery of his fate, or to spare him, and by doing so, to wreck all Caesar's ambitions? I'm haunted by that thought - which is ridiculous! It's self-evident that Caesar matters infinitely more than that Gaulish boy; one stands poised to rule the world, and the other is a miserable slae, if he even still lives. Some men are great, others are insignificant, and it behooves those of us who are in-between to ally ourselves with the greatest and to despise the smallest. To even begin to imagine that the Gaulish boy maters as much as Caesar is to presume that some mystical quality resides in every man and makes his life equal to that of any other, and surely the lesson life teaches us is quite the opposite! In stength and intellect, men are anything but equal, and the gods lavish their attention on some more than on others.

We should probably be able to learn something from the repetition of history, repetitio est mater studiorum, but despite the fact that history stubbornly repeats itself, we are bad learners, and History, brazen and stubborn, does not desist, it goes right on repeating and repeating itself, I will repeat myself until I faint, it says, I will repeat myself to spite you, it says, until you finally come to your senses, it says, yet we do not come to our senses, we just grow our hair, hide and lie and feign innocence. Besides, for some of us, those of us who like Santa Claus lug sacks on our backs, sacks brimming with the sins of our ancestors, History has no need to return, History is in our marrow, and here, in our bones, it drills rheumatically and no medicine can cure that. History is in our blood and in our blood it flows quietly and destructively, while on the outside there's nothing, on the outside all is calm and ordinary, until one day, History, our History, the History in our blood, in our bones, goes mad and starts eroding the miserable, crumbling ramparts of our immunity, which we have been cautiously raising for decades.

It is significant that Gnostic philosophy found its continuation in alchemy.29 “Mater Alchimia” is one of the mothers of modern science, and modern science has given us an unparalleled knowledge of the “dark” side of matter. It has also penetrated into the secrets of physiology and evolution, and made the very roots of life itself an object of investigation. In this way the human mind has sunk deep into the sublunary world of matter, thus repeating the Gnostic myth of the Nous, who, beholding his reflection in the depths below, plunged down and was swallowed in the embrace of Physis. The climax of this development was marked in the eighteenth century by the French Revolution, in the nineteenth century by scientific materialism, and in the twentieth century by political and social “realism,” which has turned the wheel of history back a full two thousand years and seen the recrudescence of the despotism, the lack of individual rights, the cruelty, indignity, and slavery of the pre-Christian world, whose “labour problem” was solved by the “ergastulum” (convict-camp). The “transvaluation of all values” is being enacted before our eyes.

He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t count on his loyalty any more than the Urgals’.” The third man spoke up again: “Have you noticed, he’s always freshly shaven, no mater how early in the morning we break camp?” “He must use magic for a razor.” “Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being tossed around nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians kill each other off without any interference from us.” “I don’t seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of tongs to remove that arrow from your shoulder.” “Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren’t for Galbatorix. And it’s him and his magic that’s caused this whole mess.” Someone snorted. “True enough, but I’d bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or no, you still would’ve ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You’re too mean to do anything other than fight.” “Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know,” said Svern. “Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I’ll have you scrubbing pots for a week.” “Well, he did…

That Sunday night of Elena's third birthday, I wept beside her in bed. For her, but more, I believe, for myself: for a resilience I never knew I had, and that I believe all mothers possess, however they choose to express it. We are not soft, docile icons, mute and passive virgins: we are fucking fierce. Motherhood requires a tremendous bravery that I never recognized or celebrated before I was forced to come into it, shaking and stunned. It leads women to march, to protest, to fight, to enact change, to persevere at great risk to themselves, to challenge the very foundation of society. After the placenta had been buried, we set the rock atop it, and we all walked back to the house. Elena jumped on a mini trampoline, my niece went to recover from all the overqrought midlife emotion on the couch, my parents made lunch. I washed the blood from my hands, thinking about the oak, the rock, the placenta. Buried there is the truth of what it feels like to be so susceptible and broken-open, and also to say: I can do this. I will do this. I contain this, thirty-two miles of capillaries, a new tree of life. Mutter, madre, mater, material, moeder, modder: the mud, the material, the making at the heart of everything.

I have fallen in love within the last month with a Romagnuola Countess from Ravenna--the Spouse of a year of Count Guiccioli--who is sixty--the Girl twenty--he has eighty thousand ducats of rent--and has had two wives before--but he is Sixty--he is the first of Ravenna Nobles--but he is sixty--She is fair as Sunrise--and warm as Noon--we had but ten days--to manage all our little matters in beginning middle and end. & we managed them;--and I have done my duty--with the proper consummation.--But She is young--and was not content with what she had done--unless it was to be turned to the advantage of the public--and so She made an eclat which rather astonished even the Venetians--and electrified the Conversazioni of the Benzone--the Albrizzi--& the Michelli--and made her husband look embarrassed.--They have been gone back to Ravenna--some time--but they return in the Winter.--She is the queerest woman I ever met with--for in general they cost one something in one way or other--whereas by an odd combination of circumstances--I have proved an experience to HER--which is not my custom,--but an accident--however it don't mater.--She is a sort of an Italian Caroline Lamb, except that She is much prettier, and not so savage.--But She has the same red-hot head--the same noble disdain of public opinion--with the superstructure of all that Italy can add to such natural dispositions.--To by sure they may go much further here with impunity--as her husband's rank ensured their reception at all societies including the Court--and as it was her first outbreak since Marriage--the Sympathizing world was liberal.--She is also of the Ravenna noblesse--educated in a convent--sacrifice to Wealth--filial duty and all that.--I am damnably in love--but they are gone--gone--for many months--and nothing but Hope--keeps me alive seriously.

Damn, Mari, it’s cold!” Carrow chafed her arms. “I dig the whole Narnian vibe you’ve got going on, I do. And I’ve been dutifully keeping an eye out for talking beavers wearing armor—but come on, this is getting ridiculous! If you miss the Scot so much, then just break free.” Elianna said, “Do you know he’s bought the property just next door to Andoain so he can scent you the minute you come home. And, well, because his house got blown up.” “Look, Mari, you have to come out of this and do something,” Carrow said. “Put him out of his misery—or—allow me to make him fall in love with dryer lint. You decide.” She shrugged. “I know you’d worried about Bowen not wanting to come near the coven, but we can’t get him to leave. Apparently, some of the witches admitted to him that you’re on a different plane—he can be really dogged with the questions—and now he’s determined to reach you here. Interestingly, he believes the information about the plane’s existence—but not about the fact that he can’t travel to it.” “He returns to Adoain daily, sometimes hourly, researching witchery,” Elianna said. Carrow glared, “Well, maybe if you and the others would stop sneakily setting out food for him, he wouldn’t keep coming back!” Crossing her arms over her chest, Elianna said in a mulish tone, “He wouldn’t eat otherwise.” “Whatever. But seriously, Mari, he’s having such a hard time with all this that even Regin feels sorry for what he’s been through.” Elianna added, “He’s watched your graduation video so many times, I’m sure he’s memorized your school’s alma mater.” “I don’t know what he does with the videos of your college cheerleading he brings back to his place”—Carrow waggled her eyebrows—“but I have suspicions.” Elianna coughed delicately. “Now that you’ve done what you were Awaited to do—well, part one at least—everyone’s grasping about for a new name for you,” Carrow said. “If you don’t kick this enthrallment, then I’m going to campaign for Mariketa the Glass Witch, or ‘Glitch.’ Come kick my ass if you don’t like it, otherwise . . .” Elianna squinted at Mari and sighed. “I think she wants to be called Mariketa MacRieve.

We danced to John Michael Montgomery’s “I Swear.” We cut the seven-tiered cake, electing not to take the smear-it-on-our-faces route. We visited and laughed and toasted. We held hands and mingled. But after a while, I began to notice that I hadn’t seen any of the tuxedo-clad groomsmen--particularly Marlboro Man’s friends from college--for quite some time. “What happened to all the guys?” I asked. “Oh,” he said. “They’re down in the men’s locker room.” “Oh, really?” I asked. “Are they smoking cigars or something?” “Well…” He hesitated, grinning. “They’re watching a football game.” I laughed. “What game are they watching?” It had to be a good one. “It’s…ASU is playing Nebraska,” he answered. ASU? His alma mater? Playing Nebraska? Defending national champions? How had I missed this? Marlboro Man hadn’t said a word. He was such a rabid college football fan, I couldn’t believe such a monumental game hadn’t been cause to reschedule the wedding date. Aside from ranching, football had always been Marlboro Man’s primary interest in life. He’d played in high school and part of college. He watched every televised ASU game religiously--for the nontelevised games, he relied on live reporting from Tony, his best friend, who attended every game in person. “I didn’t even know they were playing!” I said. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have known. It was September, after all. But it just hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d been a little on the busy side, I guess, getting ready to change my entire life and all. “How come you’re not down there watching it?” I asked. “I didn’t want to leave you,” he said. “You might get hit on.” He chuckled his sweet, sexy chuckle. I laughed. I could just see it--a drunk old guest scooting down the bar, eyeing my poufy white dress and spouting off pickup lines: You live around here? I sure like what you’re wearing… So…you married? Marlboro Man wasn’t in any immediate danger. Of that I was absolutely certain. “Go watch the game!” I insisted, motioning downstairs. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t need to.” He wanted to watch the game so badly I could see it in the air. “No, seriously!” I said. “I need to go hang with the girls anyway. Go. Now.” I turned my back and walked away, refusing even to look back. I wanted to make it easy on him. I wouldn’t see him for over an hour. Poor Marlboro Man. Unsure of the protocol for grooms watching college football during their wedding receptions, he’d darted in and out of the locker room for the entire first half. The agony he must have felt. The deep, sustained agony. I was so glad he’d finally joined the guys.

Deinde pervenimus in Boemiam, de qua absens fueramus undecim annis. Invenimus autem, quod aliquot annis ante mater nostra dicta Elyzabeth mortua erat. Ipsa vero vivente soror nostra secundogenita, filia sua, nomine Guta, missa erat in Franciam et copulata Iohanni, filio primogenito Philippi, regis Franciae, cuius sororem, nomine Blancam, habebamus in uxorem. Tertia vero soror nostra et ultima nomine Anna erat apud dictam sororem nostram in Francia temporibus illis. et sic cum venissemus in Bohemiam, non invenimus nec patrem nec matrem nec fratrem nec sorores nec aliquem notum. Idioma quoque Bohemicum ex toto oblivioni tradideramus, quod post redicimus, ut loqueremur et intellegeremus ut alter Bohemus. Et divina autem gratia non solum Boemicum, sed Gallicum, Lombardicum, Teutonicum et Latinum ita loqui, scribere et legere scivimus, ut una lingua istarum sicut altera ad scribendum, legendum, loquendum et intelligendum nobis erat apta. Tunc pater noster procedens versus comitatum Luczemburgensem propter quandam guerram, quam gerebat cum duce Bravancie ipse et college sui, videlicet Leodiensis episcopus, Juliacensis marchio, Gerlenensis comes et quam plures alii, commisit nobis auctoritatem suam temporibus absencie sue in Boemia. Quod regnum invenimus ita desolatum, quod nec unum castrum invenimus liberum, quod non esset obligatum cum omnibus bonis regalibus, ita quod non habebamus ubi manere, nisi in domibus civitatum sicut alter civis. Castrum vero Pragense ita desolatum, destructum ac comminutum fuit, quod a tempore Ottogari regis totum prostratum fuit usque ad terram. Ubi de novo palatium magnum et pulchrum cum magnis sumptibus aedificari procuravimus, prout hodierna die apparet intuentibus.

inglés, como auténticos comisarios de la justicia departamental. Contra el parecer de Napoleón, que confiaba en el «sexto sentido», a saber, la conciencia del pueblo llano, el Consejo de Estado limitó la capacidad del jurado para decidir a quién se encausaba. Otro aspecto esencial que marcará la «época napoleónica» es, desde luego, el sistema educativo. Como es sabido, en el Antiguo Régimen gran parte del peso de la enseñanza primaria recaía sobre el clero. Con la Revolución, los curas fueron separados de esta función en su mayor parte, pero nunca hubo dinero suficiente para que el Estado cubriese esta necesidad esencial de formar a la población en los rudimentos mínimos de una educación que mereciese tal nombre. Prácticamente no existían escuelas primarias; sí había «escuelas centrales» de secundaria, de buen nivel, pero muy escasas. Junto a ello, pervivían colegios privados de pago, destinados a formar a los hijos de las élites sociales. Las universidades llevaban años clausuradas… En suma, al acceder Napoleón al consulado no existía en Francia un sistema educativo vertebrado, estatal y eficaz. Como primera medida, Bonaparte abrió nuevamente las escuelas elementales, permitiendo el regreso de los sacerdotes católicos a ellas. A la vez, fundó más de trescientos colegios de educación secundaria, entre ellos treinta y nueve liceos, alma mater de la educación

UC Santa Cruz, home of the Fightin' Banana Slugs, was my alma mater. Sure, we had athletics and cheerleaders, but we were also Division 183 or something. So sports: yay?

2. Maria viveu sua vida no anonimato, motivo pelo qual é chamada de Alma Mater pela Igreja e pelo Espírito Santo: Mãe escondida e secreta. Sua humildade foi tão profunda que ela não teve neste mundo pretensão mais poderosa e mais contínua do que a de esconder-se a si mesma e a toda criatura, para ser conhecida unicamente por Deus.

Christianity took humanity as a species in itself and sought to convert it into a species for itself. Thus, the defining characteristic of Christianity was its universalism. It aimed to create a single human society, a society composed, that is, of individuals rather than tribes, clans or castes. The fundamental relationship between the individual and his or her God provides the crucial test, in Christianity, of what really maters. It is, by definition, a test which applies to all equally. Hence the deep individualism of Christianity was simply the reverse side of its universalism. The Christian conception of God became the means of creating the brotherhood of man, of bringing to self-consciousness the human species, by leading each of its members to see him- or herself as having, at least potentially, a relationship with the deepest reality - viz., God - that both required and justified the equal moral standing of all humans.

Pietà Peccata mundi Mater Dolorosa Rebordosa Mitocondrial Sangue menstrual Stigmata Puta non grata Virgem prenha Maria das Couves Maria das Dores Maria da Penha Medusa Messalina Divas doidivanas Papisa Joana Pitonisas Fêmea da raça Ela e sua vagina Na menina que vem Na menina que passa Pietà, uh lá lá lá Tende piedade de nós Filhas, mães e avós

La Iglesia —decía el papa Juan xxiii— es Mater et Magistra. Como maestra tiene el deber de ser clara; como madre es exigente, pero tierna e indulgente.

I have often reflected upon the new vistas that reading opened to me. I knew right there in prison that reading had changed forever the course of my life. As I see it today, the ability to read awoke inside me some long dormant craving to be mentally alive. I certainly wasn’t seeking any degree, the way a college confers a status symbol upon its students. My homemade education gave me, with every additional book that I read, a little bit more sensitivity to the deafness, dumbness, and blindness that was afflicting the black race in America. Not long ago, an English writer telephoned me from London, asking questions. One was, “What’s your alma mater?” I told him, “Books.” You will never catch me with a free fifteen minutes in which I’m not studying something I feel might be able to help the black man.

«Veo por la carta de Mariví que la carta privada para los provinciales de Latinoamérica y que ha sido publicada a los cuatro vientos (¡hoy ya no hay secreto!), también ha sido interpretada por algunos en un sentido demagógico que no tiene: es sencillamente una aplicación de la Mater et Magistra a nuestras provincias latinoamericanas… En fin, se ve que el Señor dispone las cosas a su modo, que para nosotros es a veces doloroso, pero que sin duda es el mejor»[23].

That we, who would speak for Christ, should pray constantly that God will put and keep in our hearts a sense of His greatness and glory, and of the joy of fellowship with Him, and of the dreadfulness of spending time and eternity without Him, and then that God will enable us to speak honestly straightforwardly and just as we feel about these maters. Then we shall be really natural in presenting the gospel and really serious too.

un eclesiástico un forúnculo una avispa un riñón flotante una caballeriza de hipódromo un hijo indigno dos frailes dominicos tres langostas un traspuntín dos rameras un tío Cipriano una Mater Dolorosa tres curas chochos dos cabras del señor ... un hombre de mundo dos cirujanos tres vegetarianos un caníbal ... una hormiga dos piedras de encendedor diecisiete elefantes un juez de instrucción en vacaciones sentado en una silla plegable un paisaje con mucha hierba verde dentro una vaca un toro dos bellos amores tres grandes órganos un ternero en pepitoria un sol de Austerlitz ... diez años de buenos y leales servicios siete pecados capitales dos dedos de la mano diez gotas antes de cada comida treinta días de prisión quince de ellos en calabozo cinco minutos de entreacto y...   muchas ratas de albañal.

They saw this and thought she was okay, she was grieving, moving forward. They thought she was simmering, cooling. But they didn't know. They couldn't see. That it didn't mater. That already, she was sitting on fire.

The Roman Church maintains that it was not so much the seed of the woman, as the woman herself, that was to bruise the head of the serpent. In defiance of all grammar, she renders the Divine denunciation against the serpent thus: "She shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise her heel." The same was held by the ancient Babylonians, and symbolically represented in their temples. In the uppermost storey of the tower of Babel, or temple of Belus, Diodorus Siculus tells us there stood three images of the great divinities of Babylon; and one of these was of a woman grasping a serpent's head. Among the Greeks the same thing was symbolised; for Diana, whose real character was originally the same as that of the great Babylonian goddess, was represented as bearing in one of her hands a serpent deprived of its head. As time wore away, and the facts of Simiramis's history became obscured, her son's birth was boldly declared to be miraculous: and therefore she was called "Alma Mater," "the Virgin Mother." That the birth of the Great Deliverer was to be miraculous, was widely known long before the Christian era.

Salve, Regina Salve, Regina, mater misericordiæ, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus, exsules filii Hevæ. Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle. Eia, ergo, advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte. Et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui, nobis post hoc exsilium ostende. O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria. Amen. V. Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genetrix. R. Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.

Harriet Vane in Gaudy Night dozing in her alma mater’s library after spending nights patrolling for mysterious vandals.

Water is mater Earth on water Water is something Life on water Water is source Rain on water Water is loose Flood on water

The superintendent of the new consolidated school, Emory Huyck, had been recommended for the job by his alma mater, Michigan State Agricultural College.1 He was born in 1894 in Butternut, Michigan, not far from Carson City, one of eleven children, all of whom would outlive him, as would both his parents, William and Mary. After graduating from high school at the top of his class, Emory briefly attended the Ferris Institute in Big Rapids, Michigan. Ferris had been founded in 1884 by future Michigan governor and US senator Woodbridge Nathan Ferris as an “industrial school” meant to provide both practical training and a basic liberal arts education “to all young men and women, regardless of their ages, regardless of their mental attainments, regardless of their present conditions, who desire to make themselves stronger and better.”2 In 1917, while teaching at a school in the Montcalm County village of Pierson, Emory registered for the draft. His registration card suggests that he was not merely willing but was keen to serve his country. To the question “Do you claim exemption from draft?” he answered with an emphatic “I do not,” rather than a simple “no,” as most young men did.3 Stationed at Camp Custer near Battle Creek during the war years, he served as a training officer. He would eventually be commissioned second lieutenant of cavalry in the Officers’ Reserve Corps.4

Lenora was a Fosse girl. She had learned from the mater, the actual master himself. Fosse was a galvanizing choreographer, who fascinated and spoke directly to me for a range of reasons. The first was the fact that the most iconic aspects of his work were inspired by his imperfections. Because he was losing his hair, hats became an integral part of his pageantry. His shoulders were rounded, giving rise to his signature slouch. He didn't like his hands, so gloves made their way into his numbers. He was pigeon-toed and couldn't achieve the kind of turnout expected in ballet, so he developed a style in which the legs are turned in and the feet point at each other. I was intoxicated by the way he had spun his ‘flaws’ into stylistic gold. It felt like a message for me that my own ‘flaws’ and vulnerabilities might actually be arrows pointing straight to the heart of my power as a performer, and – dare I say – my artistry.

Ultimately, the key to making the most of our time on earth is to stay engaged, stay curious, and stay connected to the things that mater most to us. By adopting a mindset of possibility, focusing on what we enjoy, and taking small steps each day, we can create the energy and momentum we need to keep life from passing us by.

Names are not important. It's what lies inside of you that maters.

Repetition also generates experience, making your performance better. This is called “positive learning,” as we saw earlier. Repetition rockets you up the learning curve, making each new iteration better, easier, cheaper, and faster. As the old Latin saying goes, “Repetitio est mater studiorum”—“Repetition is the mother of learning.” Yes, I wrote that in chapter 4. But repetition is the mother of learning.

... but why does our family only ever side with the losers and never the winners? What, you don’t like siding with the weaker folk? Of course not. All we do is get hurt! The wrinkles around his grandmother’s eyes had grown even deeper as she smiled widely and said, ‘It always looks like you’re losing at first, but in the end, the weak are destined to win. It’s just frustrating that it takes so long, is all.’ Then she added, ‘If you live long enough, you figure this all out. Everyone else knows it, too. They just don’t like to show it.

Vem, Noite antiquíssima e idêntica, Noite Rainha nascida destronada, Noite igual por dentro ao silêncio. Noite Com as estrelas lantejoulas rápidas No teu vestido franjado de Infinito. Vem, vagamente, Vem, levemente, Vem sozinha, solene, com as mãos caídas Ao teu lado, vem E traz os montes longínquos para o pé das árvores próximas. Funde num campo teu todos os campos que vejo, Faze da montanha um bloco só do teu corpo, Apaga-lhe todas as diferenças que de longe vejo. Todas as estradas que a sobem, Todas as várias árvores que a fazem verde-escuro ao longe. Todas as casas brancas e com fumo entre as árvores, E deixa só uma luz e outra luz e mais outra, Na distância imprecisa e vagamente perturbadora. Na distância subitamente impossível de percorrer. Nossa Senhora Das coisas impossíveis que procuramos em vão, Dos sonhos que vêm ter connosco ao crepúsculo, à janela. Dos propósitos que nos acariciam Nos grandes terraços dos hotéis cosmopolitas Ao som europeu das músicas e das vozes longe e perto. E que doem por sabermos que nunca os realizaremos... Vem, e embala-nos, Vem e afaga-nos. Beija-nos silenciosamente na fronte, Tão levemente na fronte que não saibamos que nos beijam Senão por uma diferença na alma. E um vago soluço partindo melodiosamente Do antiquíssimo de nós Onde têm raiz todas essas árvores de maravilha Cujos frutos são os sonhos que afagamos e amamos Porque os sabemos fora de relação com o que há na vida. Vem soleníssima, Soleníssima e cheia De uma oculta vontade de soluçar, Talvez porque a alma é grande e a vida pequena. E todos os gestos não saem do nosso corpo E só alcançamos onde o nosso braço chega, E só vemos até onde chega o nosso olhar. Vem, dolorosa, Mater-Dolorosa das Angústias dos Tímidos, Turris-Eburnea das Tristezas dos Desprezados, Mão fresca sobre a testa em febre dos humildes. Sabor de água sobre os lábios secos dos Cansados. Vem, lá do fundo Do horizonte lívido, Vem e arranca-me Do solo de angústia e de inutilidade Onde vicejo. Apanha-me do meu solo, malmequer esquecido, Folha a folha lê em mim não sei que sina E desfolha-me para teu agrado, Para teu agrado silencioso e fresco. Uma folha de mim lança para o Norte, Onde estão as cidades de Hoje que eu tanto amei; Outra folha de mim lança para o Sul, Onde estão os mares que os Navegadores abriram; Outra folha minha atira ao Ocidente, Onde arde ao rubro tudo o que talvez seja o Futuro, Que eu sem conhecer adoro; E a outra, as outras, o resto de mim Atira ao Oriente, Ao Oriente donde vem tudo, o dia e a fé, Ao Oriente pomposo e fanático e quente, Ao Oriente excessivo que eu nunca verei, Ao Oriente budista, bramânico, sintoísta, Ao Oriente que tudo o que nós não temos. Que tudo o que nós não somos, Ao Oriente onde — quem sabe? — Cristo talvez ainda hoje viva, Onde Deus talvez exista realmente e mandando tudo... Vem sobre os mares, Sobre os mares maiores, Sobre os mares sem horizontes precisos, Vem e passa a mão pelo dorso da fera, E acalma-o misteriosamente, Ó domadora hipnótica das coisas que se agitam muito! Vem, cuidadosa, Vem, maternal, Pé antepé enfermeira antiquíssima, que te sentaste À cabeceira dos deuses das fés já perdidas, E que viste nascer Jeová e Júpiter, E sorriste porque tudo te é falso e inútil. Vem, Noite silenciosa e extática, Vem envolver na noite manto branco O meu coração... Serenamente como uma brisa na tarde leve, Tranquilamente com um gesto materno afagando. Com as estrelas luzindo nas tuas mãos E a lua máscara misteriosa sobre a tua face. Todos os sons soam de outra maneira Quando tu vens. Quando tu entras baixam todas as vozes, Ninguém te vê entrar. Ninguém sabe quando entraste, Senão de repente, vendo que tudo se recolhe, Que tudo perde as arestas e as cores, E que no alto céu ainda claramente azul Já crescente nítido, ou círculo branco, ou mera luz nova que vem, A lua começa a ser real.

Quem terra, pontus, aethera colunt, adorant, praedicant, trinam regentem machinam claustrum Mariae baiulat. Cui Luna, Sol, et omnia deserviunt per tempora. perfusa caeli gratia, gestant Puellae viscera. Beata Mater, munere, cuius supernus Artifex, mundum pugillo continens, ventris sub arca clausus est. Beata caeli nuntio, fecunda Sancto Spiritu, desideratus Gentibus, cuius per alvum fusus est. Iesu, Tibi sit gloria, qui natus es de Virgine, cum Patre, et almo Spiritu, in sempiterna saecula. Amen.

mater regis (‘queen mother’),

Stabat mater dolorosa juxta Crucem lacrimosa, dum pendebat Filius.

Mary was born with an end to fulfill, just as I was. She was created to praise, reverence, and serve God, just as I was; created to save her soul, just as I was. And because of her absolute purity, she understood her end perfectly from the first moment of her existence, and followed it always without swerving. While her mother was offering her to God, she with the full use of her reason (as many hold) offered herself to fulfill the end for which she had been created. She did not know what the particular end was to be - God did not reveal to her till the day of the Incarnation, that she was to be the Mother of God - but she offered herself to do what God wished, she put herself at His disposal.

question it is to question a fact as established as the tide. How easily and quickly we slide into our race-pattern unless we keep intact the stiff-necked and blinded pattern of the recent intellectual training. We threw it over, and there wasn’t much to throw over, and we felt good about it. This Lady, of plaster and wood and paint, is one of the strong ecological factors of the town of Loreto, and not to know her and her strength is to fail to know Loreto. One could not ignore a granite monolith in the path of the waves. Such a rock, breaking the rushing waters, would have an effect on animal distribution radiating in circles like a dropped stone in a pool. So has this plaster Lady a powerful effect on the deep black water of the human spirit. She may disappear and her name be lost, as the Magna Mater, as Isis, have disappeared. But something very like her will take her place, and the longings which created her will find somewhere in the world a similar altar on which to pour their force. No matter what her name is, Artemis, or Venus, or a girl behind a Woolworth counter vaguely remembered, she is as eternal as our species, and we will continue to manufacture her as long as we survive.

We need acts of restoration, not only for polluted waters and degraded lands, but also for our relationship to the world. We need to restore honor to the way we live, so that when we walk through the world we don't have to avert our eyes with shame, so that we can hold our heads up high and receive the respectful acknowledgement of the rest of the earth's beings.

He was a rich man but not, by the appearance of his will, an intellectual one. He did not mention any of the possessions typical of a Renaissance humanist: no books, no musical instruments, no maps. He did not remember any writer, though he is said to have associated and collaborated with other writers in the tightly connected world of literary London for more than two decades. For all his wealth, he did not make any bequest to the Stratford grammar school that had allegedly nurtured him, nor any provision for his eight-year-old granddaughter’s education. (Other men of letters often made bequests to their alma maters or provided money for children’s education.)

Desta forma, a Filosofia é a transcendência de todo o saber fragmentário das disciplinas particulares. Cada uma dessas disciplinas interessa-se por um campo, uma região, que é o seu objeto. E onde todas as regiões do saber vem lançar seus raios, é na Filosofia, o saber mater de todos os saberes, a sublime e nunca suficientemente louvada Filosofia, cujo brilho os adversários nunca conseguiram empanar.

And Sophia studied animal science at Mattie’s alma mater, Lowe, having discovered a passion for beef cattle production.

Not to be outdone, in 2021 Billy Graham’s alma mater, Wheaton, held a racially segregated graduation ceremony for minority students,24 calling it a “Racial and Cultural Minority Senior Recognition Ceremony.”25 It also removed a nearly seventy-year-old plaque honoring one of its most famous sons, Jim Elliot, a 1950s missionary who was martyred while witnessing to an Ecuadorean tribe, because the inscription described his murderers as “savage.

I have a complicated spiritual history. Here's the short version: I was born into a Mass-going Roman Catholic family, but my parents left the church when I was in the fifth grade and joined a Southern Baptist church—yes, in Connecticut. I am an alumnus of Wheaton College—Billy Graham's alma mater in Illinois, not the Seven Sisters school in Massachusetts—and the summer between my junior and senior year of (Christian) high school, I spent a couple of months on a missions trip performing in whiteface as a mime-for-the-Lord on the streets of London's West End. Once I left home for Wheaton, I ended up worshiping variously (and when I could haul my lazy tuckus out of bed) at the nondenominational Bible church next to the college, a Christian hippie commune in inner-city Chicago left over from the Jesus Freak movement of the 1960s, and an artsy-fartsy suburban Episcopal parish that ended up splitting over same-sex issues. My husband of more than a decade likes to describe himself as a “collapsed Catholic,” and for more than twenty-five years, I have been a born-again Christian. Groan, I know. But there's really no better term in the current popular lexicon to describe my seminal spiritual experience. It happened in the summer of 1980 when I was about to turn ten years old. My parents had both had born-again experiences themselves about six months earlier, shortly before our family left the Catholic church—much to the shock and dismay of the rest of our extended Irish and/or Italian Catholic family—and started worshiping in a rented public grade school gymnasium with the Southern Baptists. My mother had told me all about what she'd experienced with God and how I needed to give my heart to Jesus so I could spend eternity with him in heaven and not frying in hell. I was an intellectually stubborn and precocious child, so I didn't just kneel down with her and pray the first time she told me about what was going on with her and Daddy and Jesus. If something similar was going to happen to me, it was going to happen in my own sweet time. A few months into our family's new spiritual adventure, after hearing many lectures from Mom and sitting through any number of sermons at the Baptist church—each ending with an altar call and an invitation to make Jesus the Lord of my life—I got up from bed late one Sunday night and went downstairs to the den where my mother was watching television. I couldn't sleep, which was unusual for me as a child. I was a champion snoozer. In hindsight I realize something must have been troubling my spirit. Mom went into the kitchen for a cup of tea and left me alone with the television, which she had tuned to a church service. I don't remember exactly what the preacher said in his impassioned, sweaty sermon, but I do recall three things crystal clearly: The preacher was Jimmy Swaggart; he gave an altar call, inviting the folks in the congregation in front of him and at home in TV land to pray a simple prayer asking Jesus to come into their hearts; and that I prayed that prayer then and there, alone in the den in front of the idiot box. Seriously. That is precisely how I got “saved.” Alone. Watching Jimmy Swaggart on late-night TV. I also spent a painful vacation with my family one summer at Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker's Heritage USA Christian theme park in South Carolina. But that's a whole other book…

Pariz me je zadržao tri nedelje ravno. Da sam se mogao u kesu pouzdati, bih i triput tri meseca. I ovo je ništa : trista godina da živiš, imaš tuda šta gledati. Pet dukata sam dao samo momku koji me je svuda vodio. Svaki božiji dan od jutra do noći tu se sve hodilo. Ručali bi onde gdi nas podne zateče, a pilo bi se gdi se god ožedni. Ko bi rad bio znati šta sam ovde vidio, evo poglaviti uzrok zašto ga u tome ne mogu poslužiti. Tabak jedan naštampati koštuje me dvanaest talira; a za ovi posao hotelo bi se najmanje deset tabaka. Dakle, ko hoće to da zna, a daleko mu se čini poći i viditi, a on, ako ne zna francuski, neka nauči, pak neka kupi knjigu zovomu „opisanije Pariza i Versalja sa svima znamenitim veštma u njima i naokolo“. Ova knjiga ako uskoštuje dva forinta, neće više; to je ništa; i tu će sve naći što sam god ja vidio. Kralja franceskoga Ludovika Šesnaestoga i predivnu kraljicu, blaženejšega vospominanija naše preslavne cesarice i matere, Marije Terezije, kćer i nju sam vidio u Versalju. Ovo ne valja premolčati : novi Luvr, dvorovi kraljeva francuskih, koji je milione koštovao i može se nazvati jedno od sedam čudesa u svetu. Polovina ovog zdanija opredeljena je za biblioteku i za akademije visokih znanja. Evo, ljudi, na svetu gdi carevi svoje dvorove knjigama mudrosti i naukam daju i posvećuju i sebi za visoku vmenjavaju slavu s musama zajedno obitavati. Nek iziđe sad ko da mi kaže šta ja nisam vidio.

А на заднем плане его зуда и блужданий — ибо идёт он беспокойно и бесцельно, словно по пустыне, — стоит вопросительный знак всё более опасного любопытства. «А нельзя ли опрокинуть вверх дном все ценности? И тогда, может быть, добро обернётся злом? А Бог станет всего лишь изобретением и ухищрением дьявола? Может быть, всё в конце концов лживо? И если мы обмануты, то не обманщики ли мы сами именно поэтому? Не обязаны ли мы быть и обманщиками?» — такие мысли вращаются в нём и совращают его, заводя всё дальше прочь, всё дальше в сторону. Одиночество окружает его и обвивает кольцами — оно всё опаснее, оно всё больше душит, стесняет сердце, эта ужасная богиня и mater saeva cupidinum[2]; но кто нынче знает, что это такое — одиночество?...

While one was an undergraduate, one could feel virtuous and indignant at the vices of Oxford, at least at those which one did not indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and money-worship which are our most prevalent and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow it is quite another affair. They become a sore burthen then, enough to break one's heart.

Mastery is not dispensed on the podium of quitters; but purchased on the counter of consistent application of self-willing can do spirit and an outstanding endurance to persevere with persistent endurance till the end!

When the author is not traveling, he works at an L-shaped desk, which affords a view north through a large sunny window. He writes everything on an electric typewriter because "it has to be a book from the first day," he explains. He has no daily routine because of all the traveling he does, but follows a very disciplined writing process. He writes each page six times, then places it in a three-ring binder with a DePauw University cover ("a talisman," he calls this memento from his alma mater). When he feels that he has gotten a page just right, he takes out another 20 words. "After a year, I've come to the end. Then I'll take this first chapter, and without rereading it, I'll throw it away and write the chapter that goes at the beginning. Because the first chapter is the last chapter in disguise." He always hands in a completed manuscript, and his editor is his first reader.

«Mater dulcissima, ora scendono le nebbie, il Naviglio urta confusamente sulle dighe, gli alberi si gonfiano d'acqua, bruciano di neve; non sono triste nel Nord: non sono in pace con me, ma non aspetto perdono da nessuno, molti mi devono lacrime da uomo a uomo. So che non stai bene, che vivi come tutte le madri dei poeti, povera e giusta nella misura d'amore per i figli lontani. Oggi sono io che ti scrivo.» - Finalmente, dirai, due parole di quel ragazzo che fuggì di notte con un mantello corto e alcuni versi in tasca. Povero, così pronto di cuore lo uccideranno un giorno in qualche luogo. - «Certo, ricordo, fu da quel grigio scalo di treni lenti che portavano mandorle e arance, alla foce dell'Imera, il fiume pieno di gazze, di sale, d'eucalyptus. Ma ora ti ringrazio, questo voglio, dell'ironia che hai messo sul mio labbro, mite come la tua. Quel sorriso m'ha salvato da pianti e da dolori. E non importa se ora ho qualche lacrima per te, per tutti quelli che come te aspettano, e non sanno che cosa. Ah, gentile morte, non toccare l'orologio in cucina che batte sopra il muro tutta la mia infanzia è passata sullo smalto del suo quadrante, su quei fiori dipinti: non toccare le mani, il cuore dei vecchi. Ma forse qualcuno risponde? O morte di pietà, morte di pudore. Addio, cara, addio, mia dulcissima mater.»

I personally welcomed Summorum Pontificum with confidence, joy, and thanksgiving. It is, so to speak, a sign and a proof that the Church, Mater et Magister (our Mother and Teacher), is still attentive to all her children, taking into account their different sensibilities. Benedict XVI intended to promote the wealth of various spiritual expressions, provided they lead to a real, genuine ecclesial communion and a more luminous radiance of the Church’s sanctity. I

And as writer Nora Ephron explained in a 1996 commencement address at her alma mater, Wellesley College, about her own graduating class of 1962: “We weren’t meant to have futures, we were meant to marry them. We weren’t meant to have politics, or careers that mattered, or opinions or lives; we were meant to marry them. If you wanted to be an architect, you married an architect.” Both

Non est salvatori salvator, neque defensori dominus, nec pater nec mater, nihil supernum.” Нет спасителя у спасителя, нет властителя у защитника, нет ни отца, ни матери, нет никого над ним.

I Do Believe You Ate My Salad Recently, I attended a luncheon at the George Lindsey (Goober of Mayberry fame) Film Festival at my alma mater, the University of North Alabama. Good manners and polite social behavior were at the top of my list, for I know how often business deals get made and people fall in love over meals--my goodness! Seated right next to me was my friend Buddy Killen, a legendary songwriter from Nashville, Tennessee. Everything seemed to be going fine until I looked over and saw that Buddy was eating my salad. I guess he forgot that your salad is always served on the right. Should I have ignored his faux pas? Skipped my salad to avoid making him uncomfortable? What was a Grits girl to do? I’ll tell you what: without a second thought, I turned to Buddy and said straight out, “Excuse me, sir, I do believe you ate my salad!” Never missing a beat, he waved the waiter over and said, “Sir, I’m afraid you forgot Edie’s salad!” With that, I got my salad and all honor was saved. Which just goes to show that being straightforward in a polite manner is never inappropriate. -Edie Hand

To look squarely at the suffering of the ordinary people whose misery is recorded in the transcripts makes me feel that I am not qualified even to be called a “survivor.” It is true that I was one of the last people to leave Tiananmen Square on June 4th, but I did nothing to volunteer myself during the bloody terror of the massacre’s aftermath, nothing to show that a kernel of my humanity had survived. After I left the square, I did not go to Beijing Normal University campus to check on the students from my alma mater who presumably had also left the square. Still less did I consider going out into the streets to minister to dead and wounded whom I did not know. Instead I fled to the relative safety of the foreign diplomatic housing compound. It is no wonder that the ordinary people who lived through the butchery might ask: “When great terror engulfed the city of Beijing, where were all those ‘black hands’ ”? Fifteen

Nora Ephron explained in a 1996 commencement address at her alma mater, Wellesley College, about her own graduating class of 1962: “We weren’t meant to have futures, we were meant to marry them. We weren’t meant to have politics, or careers that mattered, or opinions or lives; we were meant to marry them. If you wanted to be an architect, you married an architect.

I remember the day I jotted down that advice in the sage green notebook I used for my cyberbriefings. At the top I put a gold-and-purple logo sticker from LSU, my alma mater, and at the left corner below, a midnight blue circle with white letters that said VOTE FOR SETH RICH.

Sanskrit, an ancient Indian language that became the sacred tongue of Hindu ritual, and the Greek and Latin languages, as well as similarities between all these languages and Gothic, Celtic, Old Persian, German, French and English. Thus in Sanskrit, ‘mother’ is ‘matar’, in Latin it is ‘mater’, and in Old Celtic it is ‘mathir’. Jones surmised that all these languages must share a common origin, developing from a now-forgotten ancient ancestor. He was thus the first to identify what later came to be called the Indo-European family of languages.

Nije se više mogao naviknuti na ovo ovdje. Čuvaj se propuha obuci papuče navućeš s nogu pokrij bubrege ne idi mokre kose napolje kod nas kad opereš kosu taj dan ne izlaziš iz kuće ko da je granatiranje priča mi juče frajer nema mu dvaespet kaže ima neki tip na Romaniji ili tako nekoj pripizdini travar liječi sve kaže frajer reko da nema propuha ljudi bi živili sto godina pa jebo mater dvaespet ti je šta' ćeš radit u četrdesetoj ako sad o propuhu pričaš i guta košpice pitam ga jel normalan kaže košpice su dobre za prostatu pa zar sa dvaestpet godina ne znaš da je za prostatu najbolje jebavat a za bubrege jebavat s nogu.

... jebo mater ne kontam šta je tim starim ljudima oni bi svi da imaju šesnest pa da zguze nešto mlado evo opet opsova u pičku materinu a zaboravili su da sa šesnest uglavnom drkaš a najbolje je što ima pjesmu kao on konta da je star pa ga odjebe mlađa kokica a on promijenio čaršafe šta je to starim ljudima jel to tako zajebano hranit golubove?

No exterior sounds were audible to dilute the glorious music that emanated from the Rolls-Royce’s top of the range sound system. The London Philharmonic Orchestra Choir were performing a stirring rendition of Thomas Tallis’s Gaude gloriosa Dei Mater. Leeson sipped twenty-four-year-old single malt and sang along in Latin. As the anthem finished he dabbed his watery eyes with an Egyptian cotton handkerchief and thumbed a button on the console to mute the speakers before he was enraptured by more beauteous sound. Tallis made Mozart and Beethoven seem like amateurs.

She was thinking about how her middle-school alma mater was now 75 percent Latino, when in her day it was 80 percent black. Thinking

For pretty much my whole life, I thought I was living to better myself, to create the best life possible. About a year ago, that mindset changed. I now believe I’m here to create the best world possible. This shift from me to everyone is what altered my entire understanding of passion, and my purpose. Ben Horowitz is one of my digital mentors (meaning I follow his blog). I find him very insightful. Whenever he says (or writes about) anything, I inevitably start nodding my head until my neck is sore. Here’s an excerpt from the commencement speech he gave at Columbia, his alma mater: “Following your passion is a very me centered view of the world, and as you go through life, what you’ll find is that what you take out of the world over time—be it…money, cars, stuff, accolades—is much less important than what you put into the world. And so my recommendation would be to follow your contribution. Find the thing that you’re great at, put that into the world, contribute to others, help the world be better. That is the thing to follow." Most of the time, if you follow your contribution, it’s either already a passion, or likely to become one. Doing something you’re good at is intoxicating, as is contributing to the world. Writing and launching The Connection Algorithm was a full year of hard work. It was the result of countless hours of reflection, deeply philosophical thinking, and brutal honesty. Throughout the entire process, I felt driven, passionate, and motivated. At first, I thought this was because I was doing it on my own. But I’ve come to realize it was something else—something far more profound. Shortly after the book was released, I began receiving emails from people who had read the book and been deeply impacted by it. A highschooler in Miami. An entrepreneur in Amsterdam. A small business owner in the midwest. People were also leaving reviews on Amazon—people I didn’t know, saying the book helped them live a better life. And on my Kindle, I could see passages that people were highlighting. People weren’t just reading my book, they were taking notes on useful things to remember. The craft of writing has been unbelievably fulfilling for me. And so I’m continuing the pursuit. My motivation is no longer to make a buck, or “win at life.” Rather, I’m working to improve the world. I think of myself as an inventor, creating a new piece of art for the world to discover. When you make the world better, you get rewarded. So find your craft, and then determine the best contribution you can make with it.

The church that emphasises on miracles are indirectly preaching that merit does not mater.

From the quote of mine with knowledge of impacts:- “Speed dupe the mind and vision” Speed maters in the war and love! Alam Bakshi

Does it really mater whether you are the Chosen One or not?' Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds before responding. 'I don't really know what you mean, Minister.' 'Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously,' said Scrimgeour with a laugh. ' But to the wizarding community at large... it's all perception, isn't it? It's what people believe that's important.

She loves you,” Ryan said. “Part of loving you is being able to accept and love all of your different pieces – even the piece that needs to love men. Do your best to ignore the negative, because no mater what you do it will always be there. Focus on the positive. That's all you can do.

don't mater how rich or how poor you are, I might not be impotent to you but I might be important to some body else.

Vaughn nods. “Starting with our own alma mater.” Twenty years earlier, Philadelphia trial attorney Jim Beasley pledged $ 20 million to Temple University, in return for which the Temple University School of Law became the Temple University Beasley School of Law. More recently, one of Beasley’s protégés, Tom Kline, gifted $ 50 million to Drexel Law School, which became the Drexel University Thomas R. Kline School of Law. “And ending with my boss’s acquisition of the crown jewel.

Just before I left for Long Island and my new life, I got another call, this one from Dr. Ernest Sachs, up at Dartmouth Medical School. He was head of neurology at the time, and he invited me up to give a lecture. I was thrilled. I was to play the role of professor at my old alma mater! It was especially sweet because the very same medical school had rejected my application eleven years earlier, even though I was an undergraduate at Dartmouth and my brother was one of their stellar graduates. It is events like this in one’s past that fall off the story line. What if I had been accepted and gone? There would have been no split-brain work for me. How would that whole story have been different? I believe that things just happen in life, and pretty much after the fact, we make up a story to make it all seem rational. We all like simple stories that suggest a causal chain to life’s events. Yet randomness is ever present.

Tis a ground and principle in the law, said Triptolemus, that things do not ascend, but descend in it; and I make no doubt ’tis for this cause, that however true it is, that the child may be of the blood and seed of its parents — that the parents, nevertheless, are not of the blood and seed of it; inasmuch as the parents are not begot by the child, but the child by the parents — For so they write, Liberi sunt de sanguine patris & matris, sed pater & mater non sunt de sanguine liberorum.

Well, your mater is an ass.

A hard working man, is a good husband who make sure his family is well taken care of it with everything, from shelter to luxury, he make your life joyful happy. A lazy husband make your life miserable, don't mater how any time they say I love you, "Action speak louder than words

Now, it was Steve’s turn. He focused all his thoughts and remembered all his training in Minecraft world. Mater Kung used to say, focus depends on breathing. “Breathe in” while taking aim and “breathe out” while releasing. He did that and took an aim. Bang! Bullseye!

But I am given no choice of color, nor of odor, and so I proudly wear the orange, which after all is one of the trademark colors of my alma mater, the University of Miami. And

this will come with the expectation that you might ask about work hours or salary. This is the perfect time to make the shift and ask them more about themselves, check around for personal things in their office that might need to be asked about; maybe a diploma that reflects their alma mater. Just think of any conversation that you can engage it and will break the ‘mold’ to set you apart from a forest of identical resumes.