Met But Not Destined Quotes

I was suffering the easily foreseeable consequences. Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something you never dared to admit you wanted-an emotional speedball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with a hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is witheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy, and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore-- despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have 'that thing' even one more time. Meanwhile, the object of your adoration has now become repulsed by you. He looks at you like you're someone he's never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is,you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a pathetic mess,unrecognizable even to your own eyes. So that's it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination-- the complete and merciless devaluation of self." - pg 20-21

Pumpkin, I’m always serious when it comes to you. Even when I’m messing around, I’m still serious as shit. Whatever you need, whatever I have to do. It’s been that way since we met. Haven’t you noticed yet? We’re fucking destined or something. I can’t help myself. It’s pathetic, really.

Mystics are not themselves. They do not exist in selves. They move as they are moved, talk as words come, see with sight that enters their eyes. I met a woman once and asked her where love had led her. Fool, there's no destination to arrive at. Loved one and lover and love are infinite.

Long before they had ever met, I think this destiny awaited them. They were not like ships passing in the night. It wasn't like they didn't understand each other. They understood each other better than anyone else, and each was focused solely on the other.

At times, it almost felt like I was destined to take the trip, like all the people I met had somehow been waiting for me

He was thirty-one now, not too old, but old enough to be lonely. He hadn't dated since he'd been back here, hadn't met anyone who remotely interested him. It was his own fault, he knew. There was something that kept a distance between him and any woman who started to get close, something he wasn't sure he could change even if he tried. And sometimes in the moments right before sleep came, he wondered if he was destined to be alone forever.

Kitty got up to fetch a table, and, as she passed, her eyes met Levin's. She felt for him with her whole heart, the more because she was pitying him for a suffering of which she was herself the cause. "If you can forgive me, forgive me," said her eyes, "I am so happy." "I hate them all, and you, and myself," his eyes responded, and he took up his hat. But he was not destined to escape. Just as they were arranging themselves round the table, and Levin was on the point of retiring, the old Prince came in, and, after greeting the ladies, addressed Levin.

One night I had a frightful dream in which I met my grandmother under the sea. She lived in a phosphorescent palace of many terraces, with gardens of strange leprous corals and grotesque brachiate efflorescences, and welcomed me with a warmth that may have been sardonic. She had changed - as those who take to the water change - and told me she had never died. Instead, she had gone to a spot her dead son had learned about, and had leaped to a realm whose wonders - destined for him as well - he had spurned with a smoking pistol. This was to be my realm, too - I could not escape it. I would never die, but would live with those who had lived since before man ever walked the earth.

Parfois, quand la symphonie de la ville frappe à ma porte au petit matin, je descends dans la rue et me mets en chemin, enveloppé dans mon manteau noir, le long des avenues bondées de la rive droite. Ce sont ces sombres jours d’hiver où le spleen de Paris tourmente les âmes et incite les esprits libres à une longue dérive sans but ni destination.

Edie Sedgwick didn’t really fit in on this planet. She didn’t fit in anywhere. She’d spent years in mental institutions, she took far too many drugs and yet she was destined to make an impression on just about everyone who ever met her, so much so that they wanted to write about her, sing about her, put her photos on album covers and, of course, film her.

Though we met at the same station, we were but passing trains; on parallel lines, destined to never meet.

Fate, with its mysterious and inexorable patience, was slowly bringing together these two beings charged, like thunder-clouds, with electricity, with the latent forces of passion, and destined to meet and mingle in a look as clouds do in a lightning-flash. So much has been made in love-stories of the power of a glance that we have ended by undervaluing it. We scarcely dare say in these days that two persons fell in love because their eyes met. Yet that is how one falls in love and in no other way. What remains is simply what remains, and it comes later. Nothing is more real than the shock two beings sustain when that spark flies between them.

What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked. She looked nervously down at the papers in her hand even though I knew for a fact she had memorized every word. “When I was eleven I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when the recruiters came to see me. They showed me brochures and told me they were impressed by my test scores and asked if I was ready to be challenged. And I said yes. Because that was what a Gallagher Girl was to me then, a student at the toughest school in the world.” She took a deep breath and talked on. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked again. “When I was thirteen I thought I knew the answer to that question. That was when Dr. Fibs allowed me to start doing my own experiments in the lab. I could go anywhere—make anything. Do anything my mind could dream up. Because I was a Gallagher Girl. And, to me, that meant I was the future.” Liz took another deep breath. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” This time, when Liz asked it, her voice cracked. “When I was seventeen I stood on a dark street in Washington, D.C., and watched one Gallagher Girl literally jump in front of a bullet to save the life of another. I saw a group of women gather around a girl whom they had never met, telling the world that if any harm was to come to their sister, it had to go through them first.” Liz straightened. She no longer had to look down at her paper as she said, “What is a Gallagher Girl? I’m eighteen now, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t really know the answer to that question. Maybe she is destined to be our first international graduate and take her rightful place among Her Majesty’s Secret Service with MI6.” I glanced to my right and, call me crazy, but I could have sworn Rebecca Baxter was crying. “Maybe she is someone who chooses to give back, to serve her life protecting others just as someone once protected her.” Macey smirked but didn’t cry. I got the feeling that Macey McHenry might never cry again. “Who knows?” Liz asked. “Maybe she’s an undercover journalist.” I glanced at Tina Walters. “An FBI agent.” Eva Alvarez beamed. “A code breaker.” Kim Lee smiled. “A queen.” I thought of little Amirah and knew somehow that she’d be okay. “Maybe she’s even a college student.” Liz looked right at me. “Or maybe she’s so much more.” Then Liz went quiet for a moment. She too looked up at the place where the mansion used to stand. “You know, there was a time when I thought that the Gallagher Academy was made of stone and wood, Grand Halls and high-tech labs. When I thought it was bulletproof, hack-proof, and…yes…fireproof. And I stand before you today happy for the reminder that none of those things are true. Yes, I really am. Because I know now that a Gallagher Girl is not someone who draws her power from that building. I know now with scientific certainty that it is the other way around.” A hushed awe descended over the already quiet crowd as she said this. Maybe it was the gravity of her words and what they meant, but for me personally, I like to think it was Gilly looking down, smiling at us all. “What is a Gallagher Girl?” Liz asked one final time. “She’s a genius, a scientist, a heroine, a spy. And now we are at the end of our time at school, and the one thing I know for certain is this: A Gallagher Girl is whatever she wants to be.” Thunderous, raucous applause filled the student section. Liz smiled and wiped her eyes. She leaned close to the microphone. “And, most of all, she is my sister.

Once upon a time there was a small-town girl who lived in a small world. She was perfectly happy, or at least she told herself she was. Like many girls, she loved to try different looks, to be someone she wasn't. But, like too many girls, life had chipped away at her until, instead of finding what truly suited her, she camouflaged herself, hid the bits that made her different. For a while she let the world bruise her until she decided it was safer not to be herself at all. There are so many versions of ourselves we can choose to be. Once, my life was destined to be measured out in the most ordinary of steps. I learnt differently from a man who refused to accept the version of himself he'd been left with, and an old lady who saw, conversely, that she could transform herself, right up to a point when many people would have said there was nothing left to be done. I had a choice. I was Louisa Clark from New York, or Stortfold. Or there might be a whole other Louisa I hadn't met yet. The key was making sure that anyone you allowed to walk beside you didn't get to decide which you were, and pin you down like a butterfly in a case. The key was to know that you could always somehow find a way to reinvent yourself again.

As a business traveler, you'll likely be met at your destination by someone who asks, "So, how was your flight?" This, as if there are interesting variations and you might answer, "The live orchestra was a nice touch," or "The first half was great, but then they let a baby take over the controls and it got all bumpy." In fact, there are only two kinds of flights: ones in which you die and ones in which you do not.

People with green eyes were close to the fairies, we were told; they were just here for a little while, looking for a human child they could take away. If we ever met anyone with one green and one brown eye we were to cross ourselves, for that was a human child that had been taken over by the fairies. The brown eye was the sign it had been human. When it died, it would go into the fairy mounds that lay behind the Donegal mountains, not to heaven, purgatory, limbo or hell like the rest of us. These strange destinations excited me, especially when a priest came to the house of a dying person to give the last rites, the sacrament of Extreme Unction. That was to stop the person going to hell. Hell was a deep place. You fell into it, turning over and over in mid-air until the blackness sucked you into a great whirlpool of flames and you disappeared forever.

Whatever you need, whatever I have to do. It’s been that way since we met. Haven’t you noticed yet? We’re fucking destined or something. I can’t help myself. It’s pathetic really.

Becoming drunk is a journey that generally elates him in the early stages—he's good company, expansive, mischievous and fun, the famous old poet, almost as happy listening as talking. But once the destination is met, once established up there on that unsunny plateau, a fully qualified drunk, the nastier muses, the goblins of aggression, paranoia, self-pity take control. The expectation now is that an evening with John will go bad somehow, unless everyone around is prepared to toil at humouring and flattering and hours of frozen-faced listening. No one will be.

They should never have met, they were destined for each other, he would make her life and destroy her life and she would make her life in spite of his life, he would be an inexhaustible source of love and friendship for her for the next thirty-five years, he would madden her, he would win her and lose her and win her, she would be the one person he cared to see to the end, and to her immense surprise only after his death would she discover within herself the one thing she had never expected: a crack in the cup of life that opened into a desolation that was utter and inconsolable.

Niccolo Machiavelli folded his arms across his chest and looked at the alchemyst. “I always knew we would meet again,” he said in French. “Though I never imagined it would be in these circumstances,” he added with a smile. “I was certain I’d get you in Paris last Saturday.” He bowed, an old-fashioned courtly gesture as Perenelle joined her husband. “Mistress Perenelle, it seems we are forever destined to meet on islands.” “The last time we met you had poisoned my husband and attempted to kill me,” Perenelle reminded him, speaking in Italian. Over three thousand years previously, the Sorceress and the Italian had fought at the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily. Although Perenelle had defeated Machiavelli, the energies they unleashed caused the ancient volcano to erupt. Lava flowed for five weeks after the battle and destroyed ten villages. “Forgive me. I was younger then, and foolish. And you emerged the victor of the encounter. I carry the scars to this day.” “Let us try and not blow up this island,” she said with a smile. Then she stretched out her hand. “I saw you try to save me earlier. There is no longer any enmity between us.” Machiavelli took her fingers in his and bent over them. “Thank you. That pleases me.

I’m saying,” Rachel replies, “that purpose matters more than contentment. You had a ton of career goals, which gave you purpose. One by one, you met them. Et voilà: no purpose.” “So I need new goals.” She nods emphatically. “I read this article about it. Apparently the completion of long-term goals often leads to depression. It’s the journey, not the destination, babe, and whatever the fuck else those throw pillows say.

I believe this "crossing at a ford" occurs often in a man's lifetime. It means setting sail even though your friends stay in harbor, knowing the route, knowing the soundness of your ship and the favor of the day. When all the conditions are met, and there is perhaps a favorable wind, or a tailwind, then set sail. If the wind changes within a few miles of your destination, you must row across the remaining distance without sail.

The joy of travel does not lie in reaching the destination, but in the companions met with on the journey, the changing scenery through which the traveller passes, and even the inconveniences that break up the monotony of the ordinary routine life.

He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and their voices.

I’m sorry for making you feel bad when I should’ve done the opposite. I lost the ability to feel love when I was a boy, but you’ve slowly but surely yanked those feelings out of me. You didn’t only yank them out, you also held tight to a part of me I thought was long gone. For you, I want to go back in time and keep that part alive for the moment I met you. In the past, I thought people were destined to leave, so being attached to anyone was useless. And I thought that at some point, you would leave, too. I fought the pull to you. I fought the lure of your rose scent and your breakable softness. But I couldn’t fucking last. Not when I craved your presence the moment you were out of sight. Not when my thoughts of breaking your purity turned to a need to protect it. I told you how different my love is, how dark it can get, but I do love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. I don’t only need you; I also genuinely cannot live without you and the light you bring to my darkness. I know you deserve better, but I’m unable to let you go, so I’ll try my best to be worthy of you, Lenochka.

I played Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time and recognized myself for the first time in the game’s wordless, androgynous protagonist Link. He didn’t speak, and didn’t belong in the community of childlike elves he’d been raised in. His difference was what marked him as special and destined to save the world. Link was brave, strong, and softly pretty, all at the same time. He was clueless and ineffectual in most social situations, but that didn’t keep him from doing important things or from being met with gratitude and affection everywhere he went. I loved absolutely everything about Link, and modeled my own style after him for many years.

He was constitutionally condemned to suffer all kinds of anxieties, but fated to abandon them all. I never met a more extraordinary man. He had abdicated everything to which he was by nature destined, but not out of any kind of asceticism. Though naturally ambitious, he savored the pleasure of having no ambitions at all.

Encounter w/ strange man June 3, approx. 2 a.m. White, 5'9", slightly scruffy, shaggy brown hair. Ripped T-shirt, jeans, no shoes. Origin and destination unknown, believed to be night wanderer. I chewed on the end of the pen, wondering if I should include any other details. It had been too dark to tell what color his eyes were. His voice had been deep, with a rasp, almost... but I couldn't write that. If my body was found in the woods behind the house, and investigators were competent enough to do a forensic analysis of this notebook, I didn't want editorializing words complicating the narrative. Words like compelling, or god forbid, sexy.

refusez l'injonction millénaire de faire à tout prix des enfants. Elle est insupportable et réduit les femmes à un ventre. Dépossédées de tout pouvoir, elles n'ont longtemps eu droit qu'à ce destin : perpétuer l'humanité. Et malheur aux femmes stériles (qu'on ne se privait pas de répudier) ou au choix de la "nullipare" : il était incompréhensible, sinon répréhensible. La "mère" était souveraine. La littérature, les conventions sociales, la publicité, les lois en ont créé un stéréotype, que l'on met sur un piédestal, auréolé de son abnégation et de son oubli d'elle-même. On méprise la femme, mais on vénère la mère, dont l'enfant devient l'ornement.

Claire recalled how some years before they’d met, geneticists had discovered all humans carried a gene shared by just one other person in the world. That person was apparently the one genetically made for you – the person you were destined to fall in love with. They could be of any age, any sex, any religion and in any location.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a ceremony celebrating Blake Hartt and Livia McHugh. Today is not the start of their lives together. It will mark the day we all stood, clapped, and gave good wishes. But their fates were destined for each other long before they even met. True love, the kind that lasts forever, is very rare indeed. It takes compromise, continued growth, and trust.” Cole paused to look from Blake to Livia and back again. “Livia and Blake have a head start on all those things,” he continued. “Time has tested them already, asking a fresh love to face terrifying and life-changing tasks. These two had to find and hold onto their love, even when it felt like all was lost.

He was a miracle to her. A reward after struggle. Safety after fear. Tenderness after disappointment. And ever since the first moment she'd met him, she felt as though Erik was the person the world had intended for her, for whom she was destined; the cool, doubting cynic whom she was somehow able to help transform into the warm, tender romantic who held her as he slept beside her.

When they reached their destination, old Mr. Tisdale was introduced to Uncle Ned. So great was the captain's ability for making friends that within a short time the two men were chatting as if they had known each other for years. Captain Dana won Mr. Tisdale's heart at once by sympathizing with him in his illnesses and by inviting him to describe his various ailments. He then volunteered an account of an operation he had once undergone. Mr. Tisdale, highly delighted, came back with the story of his operation. Uncle Ned then of- fered an account of a siege of rheumatism, and Mr. Tisdale traded an attack of asthma for it, both at considerable length. Within ten minutes it was obvious that Mr. Tisdale regarded the sea captain as the most interesting and sympathetic man he had ever met.

I wish I could answer your question. All I can say is that all of us, humans, witches, bears, are engaged in a war already, although not all of us know it. Whether you find danger on Svalbard or whether you fly off unharmed, you are a recruit, under arms, a soldier." "Well, that seems kinda precipitate. Seems to me a man should have a choice whether to take up arms or not." "We have no more choice in that than in whether or not to be born." "Oh, I like choice, though," he said. "I like choosing the jobs I take and the places I go and the food I eat and the companions I sit and yarn with. Don't you wish for a choice once in a while ?" She considered, and then said, "Perhaps we don't mean the same thing by choice, Mr. Scoresby. Witches own nothing, so we're not interested in preserving value or making profits, and as for the choice between one thing and another, when you live for many hundreds of years, you know that every opportunity will come again. We have different needs. You have to repair your balloon and keep it in good condition, and that takes time and trouble, I see that; but for us to fly, all we have to do is tear off a branch of cloud-pine; any will do, and there are plenty more. We don't feel cold, so we need no warm clothes. We have no means of exchange apart from mutual aid. If a witch needs something, another witch will give it to her. If there is a war to be fought, we don't consider cost one of the factors in deciding whether or not it is right to fight. Nor do we have any notion of honor, as bears do, for instance. An insult to a bear is a deadly thing. To us... inconceivable. How could you insult a witch? What would it matter if you did?" "Well, I'm kinda with you on that. Sticks and stones, I'll break yer bones, but names ain't worth a quarrel. But ma'am, you see my dilemma, I hope. I'm a simple aeronaut, and I'd like to end my days in comfort. Buy a little farm, a few head of cattle, some horses...Nothing grand, you notice. No palace or slaves or heaps of gold. Just the evening wind over the sage, and a ceegar, and a glass of bourbon whiskey. Now the trouble is, that costs money. So I do my flying in exchange for cash, and after every job I send some gold back to the Wells Fargo Bank, and when I've got enough, ma'am, I'm gonna sell this balloon and book me a passage on a steamer to Port Galveston, and I'll never leave the ground again." "There's another difference between us, Mr. Scoresby. A witch would no sooner give up flying than give up breathing. To fly is to be perfectly ourselves." "I see that, ma'am, and I envy you; but I ain't got your sources of satisfaction. Flying is just a job to me, and I'm just a technician. I might as well be adjusting valves in a gas engine or wiring up anbaric circuits. But I chose it, you see. It was my own free choice. Which is why I find this notion of a war I ain't been told nothing about kinda troubling." "lorek Byrnison's quarrel with his king is part of it too," said the witch. "This child is destined to play a part in that." "You speak of destiny," he said, "as if it was fixed. And I ain't sure I like that any more than a war I'm enlisted in without knowing about it. Where's my free will, if you please? And this child seems to me to have more free will than anyone I ever met. Are you telling me that she's just some kind of clockwork toy wound up and set going on a course she can't change?" "We are all subject to the fates. But we must all act as if we are not, or die of despair. There is a curious prophecy about this child: she is destined to bring about the end of destiny. But she must do so without knowing what she is doing, as if it were her nature and not her destiny to do it. If she's told what she must do, it will all fail; death will sweep through all the worlds; it will be the triumph of despair, forever. The universes will all become nothing more than interlocking machines, blind and empty of thought, feeling, life...

He [Karl Deutsch] recommended abandoning the old concept that power was sovereign, which had too long been the essence of politics. To govern would become a rational coordination of the flows of information and decisions that circulate through the social body. Three conditions would need to be met, he said: an ensemble of 'capturers' would have to be installed so that no information originating from the “subjects” would be lost; information handling by correlation and association; and a proximity to every living community. The cybernetic modernization of power and the expired forms of social authority thus can be seen as the visible production of what Adam Smith called the “invisible hand,” which until then had served as the mystical keystone of liberal experimentation. The communications system would be the nerve system of societies, the source and destination of all power. The cybernetic hypothesis thus expresses no more or less than the politics of the “end of politics.” It represents at the same time both a paradigm and a technique of government. Its study shows that the police is not just an organ of power, but also a way of thinking.

Looking back, I feel as if God had to break me, in a way: He had to let me feel the results of my stubbornness so that I could understand the beauty and potential of life. I had to be convinced that I wasn’t destined to be a loner, that I needed to walk through this life with a partner. “It doesn’t matter what he looks like,” I said. My prayers have always been very personal and specific. “It doesn’t matter what he does for a living. Just please, God, send me someone nice.” If I had to have someone in my life, let him be good. A few weeks later, I met Chris. And he was the nicest person I ever met.

A few magical practitioners claimed that they first met their familiars in fairyland, or at the sabbath; however, a greater number claimed that their journey to these places had been initiated by the familiar’s invitation. Nairnshire witch Isobel Gowdie ( 1662 ) , for example, first met the Devil as she was ‘goeing betwix the townes of Drumdewin and the Headis’ where she ‘promeisit to me it him, in the night time, in the Kirk of Aulderne; quhilk I did’. Bessie Dunlop claimed that on one occasion Tom Reid 'tuke hir be the aproun, and wald haif had hir gangand [go} with him to Elfame’, and that on another, she met a group of 'gude wychtis that wynnit in the Court of Elfame; quha come thair to desyre hir to go with thame’. Scattered throughout encounter-narratives from Southern England, where descriptions of sabbath and fairyland experiences are seldom found, we still find references to familiars attempting to lure magical practitioners to 'go with them’, although the destination- is not specified. Huntingdonshire witch Ellen Shepheard ( 1646), for example, claimed that 'a Spirit, somewhat like a Rat, but not fully so big, of an iron-grey colour … said you must goe with me’ , whilst nearly seventy years earlier Essex witch Elizabeth Bennett maintained that a familiar spirit in the form of a black dog asked her to 'go with it

I have only to think of a day spent with any poor European artist—and how many I have known!—to realize that the American is incapable even of enjoying the little which is permitted him…. I mean, his physical wealth. His car may take him wherever he wishes to go, but what is he met with on arriving at his destination? If it is a restaurant, the food is usually unpalatable; if it is a theater, the spectacle bores him; if it is a resort, there is nothing to do but drink. If he remains at home with his friends, the conversation soon degenerates into a ridiculous argument, such as schoolboys enjoy, or peters out. The art of living alone, or with one’s neighbor, is unknown.

For the disciples, Jesus is not a mere prophet heralding the latest divine message. Jesus is a revolution. Note the very first verse of John’s Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” These three simple statements carry hitherto unknown and inconceivable ideas about God that are destined to change the world. As a good Jew, John certainly knows the first verse in the Hebrew Bible: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”2 But John has met Jesus, and “saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father.”3 While John certainly agrees that God created all things, he cannot leave it at that, for he has seen something that has changed his understanding of everything. Note the parallel

Clouds carried me forward from there. Others were in the church--I knew that logically--but I saw no one. No one but Marlboro Man and his black tuxedo and his white formal tie, and the new black cowboy boots he’d bought especially for the occasion. His short hair, which was the color of pewter. His gentle smile. He was a vision--strong, solid, perfect. But it was the smile that propelled me forward, the reassuring look on his face. It wasn’t a smug, overconfident smile. It was a smile loaded with emotion--thoughts of our history, perhaps. Of the story that brought us to that moment. Relief that we’d finally reached our destined end, which was actually a beautiful beginning. Gratefulness that we’d met by chance and had wound up finding love. And suddenly, I was beside him. My arm in his. My heart entirely in his hands.

While Agrippa never ruled in his own right his genes were intermingled in the blood of the Domus Augusta and it was his descendants who were destined for prominence. His daughter Vipsania Agrippina married Augustus’ step-son Tiberius, and through her Agrippa was grandfather to Drusus the Younger. As son-in-law to Augustus, his other daughter, Agrippina the Elder, married Germanicus, the son of Drusus the Elder (Nero Claudius Drusus), and through her Agrippa was the grandfather both of the future emperor Caligula and Agrippina the Younger, the mother of Emperor Nero – Agrippa’s great-grandson. Iulia also bore Agrippa three sons who were adopted by Augustus himself as his heirs, all of whom met tragic ends while still young men. Had they lived, and one of these succeeded him as emperor, the story of the Roman Empire may have taken a very different course.

Mina: for centuries, I have been alone. I have nearly perished from loneliness, and yet I could not die. I have longed to meet a woman I could truly love: a kindred spirit who shared my dreams, my interests, my passions. When I saw your photograph and read your letters, I had an uncanny premonition that you were destined for me; and once we met, I knew it with a certainty." His eyes and voice blazed with such passion that all the fear and rancor that had built up within me began to fade away, evaporating like the very mist which had brought him here. He went on: "From the moment I set eyes on you on that first day at Whitby, I have wanted you- needed you- loved you. But I did not just want you for your blood: I wanted all of you: your mind, your heart, your body, your soul. I wanted you to want me; to become mine of your own free will. The time we shared in Whitby was the sweetest of my existence.

I have only to think of a day spent with any poor European artist—and how many I have known!—to realize that the American is incapable even of enjoying the little which is permitted him…. I mean, his physical wealth. His car may take him wherever he wishes to go, but what is he met with on arriving at his destination? If it is a restaurant, the food is usually unpalatable; if it is a theater, the spectacle bores him; if it is a resort, there is nothing to do but drink. If he remains at home with his friends, the conversation soon degenerates into a ridiculous argument, such as schoolboys enjoy, or peters out. The art of living alone, or with one’s neighbor, is unknown. The American is an unsocial being who seems to find enjoyment only in the bottle or with his machines. He worships success, but on attaining it he is more miserable than ever. At the height of his powers he finds himself morally and spiritually bankrupt; a cough is enough to finish him off.

I’m simply telling you that you mustn’t keep pussyfooting around, Eleanor.” She sighed. “Life is all about taking decisive action, darling. Whatever you want to do, do it—whatever you want to take, grab it. Whatever you want to bring to an end, END IT. And live with the consequences.” She started to talk quietly, speaking so softly that I could hardly hear her. This, I knew from experience, did not bode well. “This man . . .” she murmured. “This man sounds as if he has some potential, but, like most people, he’ll be weak. That means that you have to be strong, Eleanor. Strength conquers weakness—that’s a simple fact of life, isn’t it?” “I suppose so,” I said sullenly, pulling a face. Childish, I know, but Mummy does tend to bring out the worst in me. The musician was very handsome and very talented. I knew, as soon as I set eyes on him, that we were destined to be together. Fate would see to that. I didn’t need to take any more . . . decisive action, apart from ensuring that our paths crossed again—once we met properly, the rest was, surely, already written in the stars. I suspected

Vivien (spelled the same way as Vivien Leigh, lucky thing) was quite possibly the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. She had a heart-shaped face, deep brown hair that gleamed in its Victory roll, and full curled lips painted scarlet. Her eyes were wide set and framed by dramatic arched brows just like Rita Hayworth's or Gene Tierney's, but it was more than that which made her beautiful. It wasn't the fine skirts and blouses she wore, it was the way she wore them, easily, casually; it was the strings of pearls strung airily around her neck, the brown Bentley she used to drive before it was handed over like a pair of boots to the Ambulance Service. It was the tragic history Dolly had learned in dribs and drabs- orphaned as a child, raised by an uncle, married to a handsome, wealthy author named Henry Jenkins, who held an important position with the Ministry of Information. "Dorothy? Come and put my sheets to rights and fetch my sleep mask." Ordinarily, Dolly might've been a bit envious to have a woman of that description living at such close quarters, but with Vivien it was different. All her life, Dolly had longed for a friend like her. Someone who really understood her (not like dull old Caitlin or silly frivolous Kitty), someone with whom she could stroll arm in arm down Bond Street, elegant and buoyant, as people turned to look at them, gossiping behind their hands about the dark leggy beauties, their careless charm. And now, finally, she'd found Vivien. From the very first time they'd passed each other walking up the Grove, when their eyes had met and they'd exchanged that smile- secretive, knowing, complicit- it had been clear to both of them that they were two of a kind and destined to be the very best of friends.

[Vitellius's] sins were luxury and cruelty. He divided his feasts into three, sometimes into four a day, breakfast,​ luncheon, dinner, and a drinking bout; and he was readily able to do justice to all of them through his habit of inducing vomiting. ... When his mother died, he was suspected of having forbidden her being given food when she was ill, because a woman of the Chatti, in whom he believed as he would in an oracle, prophesied that he would rule securely and for a long time, but only if he should survive his parent. .... He declared from the steps of the Palace before his assembled soldiers, that he withdrew from the rule which had been given him against his will; but when all cried out against this, he postponed the matter, and after a night had passed, went at daybreak to the rostra in mourning garb and with many tears made the same declaration, but from a written document. When the people and soldiers again interrupted him and besought him not to lose heart, vying with one another in promising him all their efforts in his behalf, he by a sudden onslaught drove Sabinus and the rest of the Flavians, into the Capitol. Then he set fire to the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and destroyed them, viewing the battle and the fire from the house of Tiberius, where he was feasting. ... At last on the Stairs of Wailing​ he was tortured for a long time and then despatched and dragged off with a hook to the Tiber. He met his death, along with his brother and his son, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, fulfilling the prediction of those who had declared from an omen which befell him at Vienna, as we have stated,​ that he was destined to fall into the power of some man of Gaul. For he was slain by Antonius Primus, a leader of the opposing faction, who was born at Tolouse and in his youth bore the surname Becco, which means a rooster's beak.

Germany’s rearmament was first met with a “supine”134 response from its future adversaries, who showed “little immediate recognition of danger.”135 Despite Winston Churchill’s dire and repeated warnings that Germany “fears no one” and was “arming in a manner which has never been seen in German history,” Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain saw Hitler as merely trying to right the wrongs of Versailles, and acquiesced to the German annexation of the Sudetenland at Munich in September 1938.136 Yet Chamberlain’s anxiety grew as Hitler’s decision to occupy the remainder of Czechoslovakia in March 1939 indicated his broader aims. Chamberlain asked rhetorically: “Is this the end of an old adventure, or is it the beginning of a new? Is this the last attack upon a small State, or is it to be followed by others? Is this, in fact, a step in the direction of an attempt to dominate the world by force?”137 France, meanwhile, as Henry Kissinger explains, “had become so dispirited that it could not bring itself to act.”138 Stalin decided his interests were best served by a non-aggression pact signed with Germany, which included a secret protocol for the division of Eastern Europe.139 One week after agreeing to the pact with Stalin, Hitler invaded Poland, triggering the British and French to declare war on September 3, 1939. The Second World War had begun. Within a year, Hitler occupied France, along with much of Western Europe and Scandinavia. Britain was defeated on the Continent, although it fought off German air assaults. In June 1941, Hitler betrayed Stalin and invaded the Soviet Union. By the time Germany was defeated four years later, much of the European continent had been destroyed, and its eastern half would be under Soviet domination for the next forty years. Western Europe could not have been liberated without the United States, on whose military power it would continue to rely. The war Hitler unleashed was the bloodiest the world had ever seen.

C'est de là-haut qu'il les aperçoit, au fond de la combe Nerre, écrasés par la perspective : deux insectes minuscules, l'un portant l'autre à travers l'un des endroits les plus inhospitaliers des Causses. Il en oublie la chevrette et, retrouvant l'agilité de ses vingt ans, se laisse glisser d'éboulis en barres rocheuses jusqu'à les surplomber d'une vingtaine de mètres. Deux enfants. Un garçon épuisé, couvert d'écorchures, qui continue à avancer bien qu'à bout de forces, ses jambes menaçant à tout moment de flancher sous lui, tremblant de fatigue et de froid. Une fille, ce doit être une fille même si elle n'a plus un cheveu sur le crâne, immobile dans les bras du garçon. Inanimée. Ces deux-là ont souffert, souffrent encore. Maximilien le sent, il sent ces choses-là. Alors, quand le garçon dépose la fille à l'abri d'un rocher, quand il quitte son tee-shirt déchiré pour l'en envelopper, quand il se penche pour lui murmurer une prière à l'oreille, alors Maximilien oublie sa promesse de se tenir loin des hommes. Il descend vers eux. Le garçon esquisse un geste de défense, mais Maximilien le rassure en lui montrant ses mains vides. Des mains calleuses, puissantes malgré l'âge. Il se baisse, prend la fille dans ses bras. Un frisson de colère le parcourt. Elle est dans un état effroyable, le corps décharné, la peau diaphane, une cicatrice récente zigzague sur son flanc. Dans une imprécation silencieuse, Maximilien maudit la folie des hommes, leur cruauté et leur ignorance. Il se met en route, suivi par le garçon qui n'a pas prononcé un mot. Il ne sait pas encore ce qu'il va faire d'eux. Faire d'elle. La soigner, certes, mais ensuite ? Tout en pensant, il marche à grands pas. Tout en marchant, il réfléchit à grands traits. Il atteint Ombre Blanche au moment où le soleil bascule derrière l'horizon, teintant les Causses d'une somptueuse lumière orangée. Un frémissement dans ses bras lui fait baisser la tête. La fille a bougé. Elle ouvre les yeux. Échange fugace. Échange parfait. Maximilien se noie dans le violet de son regard et en ressort grandi. Le dernier des Caussenards a trouvé son destin.

It is the purpose of both God and the devil to provide you with the answers to these key questions.  If Satan is able to establish his images of identity and destiny in your life, he then has set up a system of governing your life that more or less runs itself and requires very little maintenance or service on his part. It is an effective scheme of destruction in your life. I believe that it has always been God’s intention to impart, especially at specific junctures in life, His message of identity and destiny.  He has appointed special agents on this earth to ensure that His message of identity and destiny is revealed.  These agents are called PARENTS.  Their primary job is to make sure that children receive God’s message of identity and destiny throughout their growing-up years. Satan’s purpose is to access these very agents of God, the parents, and to impart his message of identity and destiny.  Many times parents are unwittingly used to impart the devil’s message rather than God’s. SATAN’S MESSAGE VS. GOD’S MESSAGE What type of message does the devil want to reveal regarding identity and destiny?  His message is something along these lines.  IDENTITY: “You are worthless.  You aren’t even supposed to be here.  You are a mistake.  Something is drastically wrong with you.  You are a ‘nobody.’” DESTINY: “You have no purpose.  You are a total failure.  You’ll never be a success.  You are inadequate.  You are not equipped to accomplish the job.  Nothing ever works out for you, etc..” I once heard a woman say, “It’s as if someone dropped me off on the planet forty some years ago, and I’ve been trying to make my way the best I could ever since.  But deep inside, I don’t feel as though I belong here, and I’ve been waiting for that someone to come back and pick me up.”  God never intended for anyone to feel that he doesn’t belong.  That is Satan’s message. God's message of identity and destiny is something like this:  IDENTITY:  “To Me you are very valuable and are worth the life of Jesus Christ.  You are a `somebody.’  You do belong here.  Before the foundation of the earth, I planned for you.  You were no mistake.” DESTINY:  “You are destined to a great purpose on this earth.  I placed you here for a purpose.  You are a success as a person and are completely adequate and suited to carry out My purpose.  Set your vision high, and allow Me to complete great accomplishments in your life.” JOE’S STORY Joe was a well dressed, successful business man in his late thirties when I first met him.  He had come to a weekend “FROM CURSE TO BLESSING” seminar.  As we moved into the small-group ministry time, Joe began to share, somewhat sheepishly, about the tremendous problem that anger had caused him in his life.  “Anger causes me to embarrass myself, and

When we met, it was the trail of our love, we parted ways... But our destination was still one. You were with me on my excruciating journey like a shadow. You are the one who encouraged me at every step. When we met, God blessed me with his grace. Filled with sorrows... my heart was filled with sorrows. Without you, my heart was filled with sorrows.

Why are you stupefied at all this? The subtle unity of the phenomenal world is not hidden from true yogis. I instantly see and converse with my disciples in distant Calcutta. They can similarly transcend at will every obstacle of gross matter.” It was probably in an effort to stir spiritual ardour in my young breast that the swami had condescended to tell me of his powers of astral radio and television. But instead of enthusiasm, I experienced only an awe-stricken fear. Inasmuch as I was destined to undertake my divine search through one particular guru—Sri Yukteswar, whom I had not yet met—I felt no inclination to accept Pranabananda as my teacher. I glanced at him doubtfully, wondering if it were he or his counterpart before me.

Where to?” Max asked as she climbed in. “I assume that you had some destination in mind when you cooked up that nonsense about needing your bags.” “I want to join Dom.” She stared him down, daring him to gainsay her. She’d take a hackney if she had to. “He’s probably still at Manton’s Investigations, so let’s start there.” Though a smile tugged at the duke’s lips, he merely gave the order to the coachman. As soon as they set off, however, he said, “You do realize that Dom is going to throttle me for helping you.” “I don’t see why,” she said lightly. “You are head of the Duke’s Men, aren’t you? Surely you can go wherever you please and involve yourself as much as you like.” As Lisette burst into laughter, Max shook his head. “My brother-in-law doesn’t exactly like having his agency called ‘the Duke’s Men.’ I’d keep that appellation under your hat, if I were you.” “Oh, that sounds so much like Dom,” Jane muttered, “not to appreciate a fellow who showed faith in him and was willing to use him to find his own cousin, not to mention invest in his business concern.” Lisette laughed even harder now, which only made Max wince. “What?” Jane asked. “What is it?” A flush spread over Max’s face. “Let’s just say that my part in…er…’the Duke’s Men’ has been greatly exaggerated by the papers. Rather tangential, really.” “In other words,” Lisette teased, “he pretty much did nothing. He didn’t even come up with the name, and he certainly didn’t hire Dom to find Victor. Tristan stumbled across Victor himself, and then…” Lisette spun out the story of how she had met Max and how Dom had become involved. How Max had made a grand gesture for the press to protect Tristan from George. “Oh, Lord,” Jane breathed. “That’s why you were all at George’s house that day.” The day she’d first seen Dom after nearly eleven years apart. “Exactly. I mean, Max does what he can to recommend the agency, and certainly Dom benefits from the excellent press he received as a result of Tristan’s finding Victor. But beyond that, Max has nothing to do with it. He has tried to invest in it, but Dom gets all hot under the collar every time he suggests it.” “What a shock,” Jane said sarcastically. She thought of Dom the Almighty, having his hard work and keen investigative sense attributed to some duke who’d simply taken up with his sister, and began to laugh. Then Lisette joined her, and eventually, Max. They laughed until tears rolled down Jane’s cheeks and Lisette was holding her sides. “Poor Dom,” Jane gasped, when she’d finally gained control of herself. “No matter how carefully he plans, someone always comes along to muck things up. We must all be quite a trial to him.” “Oh, indeed, we are,” Lisette said, sobering. “But honestly, he takes himself far too seriously, so it’s good for him.” She smiled at Jane. “You’re good for him. He needs a woman who stands firm when he tries to dictate how the world must be, a woman who will teach him that it’s all right if plans go awry. He needs to learn that he can pick up the pieces and still be happy, as long as he does it with the right person.” “I only hope he agrees with you,” Jane said. “I really do.” Because if she could be that woman for Dom--if he could let her be that woman for him--then they might have a chance, after all.

As a business traveler, you’ll likely be met at your destination by someone who asks, “So, how was your flight?” This, as if there are interesting variations and you might answer, “The live orchestra was a nice touch,” or “The first half was great, but then they let a baby take over the controls and it got all bumpy.” In fact, there are only two kinds of flights: ones in which you die and ones in which you do not.

Time traveller He calls himself a time traveller, He travels anywhere and anytime, He is a very adept traveller, Who knows how to bypass time, We once met suddenly, When the traveller was travelling the highway of life, He was pacing very efficiently, And that day I happened to be on the same highway of life, As I was about to cross a junction, He stopped there too, And enquired if I knew how this highway of life did function? “I may not know that better than you,” Was my polite and slow answer, “Ah haa, you appear to be a stranger on this highway, Come let me introduce you to few tricks old and quite a few newer, So, come let us go this way.” Said the traveller as we both stepped on the highway, And paced towards a destination of his choosing, It was a beautiful experience anyway, Though his few ways were very amusing, Then we stopped at a far away corner, And he pulled something from his bag, He was smart but this thing seemed smarter, He opened it and removed the safety tag, Now he turned to me and said, “Look at the sky, what do you see?” And I without being reticent said, “The sky, the Sun, that is all I see,” Looking at me he replied, “I thought so, and here is the fact, You see the sky and just the Sun, But you miss the real act, Time invested cannot be undone, You see I am a time traveller and I travel with it, Today on this highway, tomorrow on another, But I never miss the destination even by a bit, And as we were walking together, I asked you what you see when you look at the sky, You should have said, nothing, I have no time for it, Because the Sun will be there, so will be the sky, Being the time travellers we are not allowed to sit, We have to keep on moving and always seeking, Until we reach our destiny, Now this for you is my lesson worth heeding, If you are to find your final destiny, So let the Sun be, let the stars shine, and let the sky spread its magical blue, You keep travelling, moving, from one destination to another, Then you shall be a time traveller too, Like none other, like none other, So we switched lanes on the highway, He rode in a direction new, And now I was a lone rider on my life’s highway, Having realised what is known to just a few, That to be the time traveller, We should not wander but travel with a fixed aim, Because a true traveller is like a true lover, Who knows love and destiny are not a game, So for the real time traveller, it is always one destiny and one love, Though crossing many destinations is a part of it all, But the passion for love and to love, Supercedes the lure of destinations all! Now I often see the time traveller on the highways that I cross, We just bow our heads and move ahead, Because we have a destination to cross, To reach the final destiny of love, and in this pursuit we shall always stay ahead!

Le philosophe ne dit pas qu’un dépassement final des contradictions humaines soit possible et que l’homme total nous attende dans l’avenir : comme tout le monde, il n’en sait rien. Il dit, - et c’est tout autre chose, - que le monde commence, que nous n’avons pas à juger de son avenir par ce qu’a été son passé, que l’idée d’un destin dans les choses n’est pas une idée, mais un vertige, que nos rapports avec la nature ne sont pas fixés une fois pour toutes, que personne ne peut savoir ce que la liberté peut faire, ni imaginer ce que seraient les moeurs et les rapports humains dans une civilisation qui ne serait plus hantée par la compétition et la nécessité. Il ne met son espoir dans aucun destin, même favorable, mais justement dans ce qui en nous n’est pas destin, dans la contingence de notre histoire, et c’est sa négation qui est position. Faut-il même dire que le philosophe est humaniste ? Non, si l’on entend par homme un principe explicatif qu’il s’agirait de substituer à d’autres. On n’explique rien par l’homme, puisqu’il n’est pas une force, mais une faiblesse au coeur de l’être, un facteur cosmologique, mais le lieu où tous les facteurs cosmologiques, par une mutation qui n’est jamais finie, changent de sens et deviennent histoire. […] La philosophie nous éveille à ce que l’existence du monde et la nôtre ont de problématique en soi, à tel point que nous soyons à jamais guéris de chercher, comme disait Bergson, une solution dans le cahier du maître.

I was destined to love her up close and then eventually from a distance, and she’d never know it or love me back. It stole the air from my lungs. It stole the strength in my arms and legs. It made me weak with disappointment and hopelessness, and I knew I would always carry the ache I felt in this moment. Briana was a catastrophic life event. A thing that changed everything. And I wouldn’t be the same after this. All the women I’d ever met and all the women I ever would fell away beneath her.

92 The National Poetry Contest had come down to two, a Yale graduate and a redneck from Texas. They were given a word, then allowed two minutes to study the word and come up with a poem that contained the word. The word they were given was "Timbuktu." First to recite his poem was the Yale graduate. He stepped to the microphone and said: Slowly across the desert sand Trekked a lonely caravan; Men on camels, two by two Destination Timbuktu. The crowd went crazy! No way could the redneck top that, they thought. The redneck calmly made his way to the microphone and recited: Me and Tim a huntin' went. Met three whores in a pop up tent. They was three, and we was two, So I bucked one, and Timbuktu. The redneck won hands down!

Had you not come,’ Cyrus asked now in nearly a whisper, ‘do you think we would still be here now?’ It was a simple query. Had they not met that night in the theater, would they have met the next day on the street or the next year in the market—or would they still now be strangers? In other words, were they destined to come together or was this between them the result of random chance?

capital expenditures required in Clean Technology are so incredibly high,” says Pritzker, “that I didn’t feel that I could do anything to make an impact, so I became interested in digital media, and established General Assembly in January 2010, along with Jake Schwartz, Brad Hargreaves and Matthew Brimer.” In less than two years GA had to double its space. In June 2012, they opened a second office in a nearby building. Since then, GA’s courses been attended by 15,000 students, the school has 70 full-time employees in New York, and it has begun to export its formula abroad—first to London and Berlin—with the ambitious goal of creating a global network of campuses “for technology, business and design.” In each location, Pritzker and his associates seek cooperation from the municipal administration, “because the projects need to be understood and supported also by the local authorities in a public-private partnership.” In fact, the New York launch was awarded a $200,000 grant from Mayor Bloomberg. “The humanistic education that we get in our universities teaches people to think critically and creatively, but it does not provide the skills to thrive in the work force in the 21st century,” continues Pritzker. “It’s also true that the college experience is valuable. The majority of your learning does not happen in the classroom. It happens in your dorm room or at dinner with friends. Even geniuses such as Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates, who both left Harvard to start their companies, came up with their ideas and met their co-founders in college.” Just as a college campus, GA has classrooms, whiteboard walls, a library, open spaces for casual meetings and discussions, bicycle parking, and lockers for personal belongings. But the emphasis is on “learning by doing” and gaining knowledge from those who are already working. Lectures can run the gamut from a single evening to a 16-week course, on subjects covering every conceivable matter relevant to technology startups— from how to create a web site to how to draw a logo, from seeking funding to hiring employees. But adjacent to the lecture halls, there is an area that hosts about 30 active startups in their infancy. “This is the core of our community,” says Pritzker, showing the open space that houses the startups. “Statistically, not all of these companies are going to do well. I do believe, though, that all these people will. The cost of building technology is dropping so low that people can actually afford to take the risk to learn by doing something that, in our minds, is a much more effective way to learn than anything else. It’s entrepreneurs who are in the field, learning by doing, putting journey before destination.” “Studying and working side by side is important, because from the interaction among people and the exchange of ideas, even informal, you learn, and other ideas are born,” Pritzker emphasizes: “The Internet has not rendered in-person meetings obsolete and useless. We chose these offices just to be easily accessible by all—close to Union Square where almost every subway line stops—in particular those coming from Brooklyn, where many of our students live.

Virtually everything of any value in North Korea originates in China, and it mostly reaches the DPRK via Dandong. North Korean officials and businessmen, like the men I met on the train from Beijing, coming cap in hand on state-sponsored shopping trips are everywhere. Easily spotted by their badges proclaiming their loyalty to the various Kims, at night they haunt the Korean restaurants and karaoke bars within view of the DPRK itself. During the day, they congregate on the street by the border post beneath the bridge that leads to North Korea. From the early morning to the late afternoon, the line of trucks waiting to cross into the DPRK tails back down the road. There are warehouses and wholesale shops all along it and a constant procession of North Koreans going in and out of them. They buy spark plugs and coils of wire, generators and tyres, household appliances and kitchenware. The goods are destined for North Korea’s armed forces, more than a million strong, for the few industrial concerns still working, or for the Pyongyang elite.

Nor was this the last time the two riders were seen. Travelers on the road between Salisbury and Charlotte often saw the riders. Sometimes they were traveling away from their destination. One stagecoach driver said he had “given them directions so many times that he was beginning to resent the delays every time he met them.” Particularly wherever the road forked, the forms of the two couriers were often seen huddled together looking at their map to decide which fork to take. And anyone who chanced by was always hailed and asked the way to Charlottesburg. “We must be there by morning,” one of the men would invariably say. Drivers of the stagecoaches found that their horses became fidgety and nervous when approaching the riders, as if they sensed the two shadowy figures no longer belonged to the natural world. —The King’s Messengers

She knocked at the door and was admitted by Corporal Pierce, the good-looking, dark-haired young man who worked in Colonel Tibbet’s office and had leave time coming up soon. He smiled broadly and ran one hand over his slicked-back hair. “Hello, Miss Lily,” he said, and he made a great business out of helping Lily off with her cloak, as if she hadn’t removed it on her own a thousand times. “Would you like some punch and cake?” Lily cast a surreptitious glance around the crowded parlor and saw Caleb standing on the far side of the room, a cup of punch in his hand, speaking with Sandra’s friend, Lieutenant Costner. He met Lily’s look, as quick as it was, but there was time enough for her to see the lack of interest in his eyes. “Yes, please,” she said brightly to Corporal Pierce, who was still standing attentively at her side. “Punch and cake would be very nice, thank you.” While the corporal hurried off to the refreshment table Lily scanned the room again, this time slowly, her gaze deliberately skirting Caleb. Despite her cool demeanor, however, she felt bruised. Just a day before he’d brought her candy and demanded that she come and live with him. Now he didn’t seem aware of her existence. “My first name is Wilbur, ma’am,” the corporal confided, returning with a plate of cake and a cup brimming with pink punch. Lily spotted a nearby chair and wended her way toward it. Reaching her destination, she sat down, balancing her cake plate on her knees, and gazed up at her new friend with her most devastating smile. “Wilbur,” she echoed, saying the name as though it were somehow Olympian and anyone bearing it would surely have wings upon his feet. Wilbur crouched beside her. “I know those rumors aren’t true,” he said earnestly. “About your washing business, I mean.” Lily might have choked on her first bite of cake if she hadn’t seen out of the corner of her eye that Caleb was watching her. She set her punch on the figurine-cluttered table beside her chair and patted Wilbur’s cheek affectionately. “Thank you, Wilbur,” she said softly. The young man fairly beamed. “I’ll bring, my wash over tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.” Lily risked a glance at Caleb and found that he was concentrating on a conversation with a plump blond woman wearing a blue sateen dress. “That’ll be fine,” she answered distractedly. “Of course, if it’s raining again, everything will take longer.” Before

Looking incredibly dashing as he bent his head toward the oh-so-fashionable Miss Kasson was none other than Mr. Edgar Wanamaker—her best friend from childhood, and . . . the very first gentleman to ever offer her a proposal of marriage. She and Edgar had met when they’d been little more than infants, that circumstance brought about because their parents owned adjacent summer cottages on Long Island. Wilhelmina had spent every childhood summer with Edgar by her side, enjoying the sandy beaches and chilly water of the Atlantic from the moment the sun rose in the morning until it set in the evening. Even when Edgar had been away at school, being a few years older than Wilhelmina, they’d spent every possible minute they could with each other during the holidays. He’d even made certain to be in the city the night of her debut ball, waiting for her at the bottom of her family’s Park Avenue mansion as she’d descended the grand staircase on her father’s arm. As she’d stepped to the highly polished parquet floor, she’d caught his gaze, the intensity of that gaze causing her heart to fill with fondness for her oldest and dearest friend. That fondness, however, had disappeared a few hours later when Edgar had gone and ruined everything by asking her to marry him. She’d been all of seventeen years old the night of her debut—seventeen years old with the world spread out at her feet. Add in the notion that the whispers stirring around the ballroom were claiming she was destined to be a diamond of the first water, and the last thing she’d wanted that particular evening was a marriage proposal extended to her from her very best friend. Edgar, no matter the affection she held for him, was only a second son. Paired with the pesky fact he’d had no idea as to what he’d wanted to do with the rest of his life—except, evidently, to marry her—and she’d been less than impressed by his offer. What

Never Put These Ten Words in Your Pitch Deck Take a close look at your standard pitch deck, the “about us” section on your corporate home page, or your PR material. Highlight every instance of the words “leading,” “unique,” “solution,” or “innovative.” In particular, go find all instances of the phrase “We work to understand our customers’ unique needs and then build custom solutions to meet those needs.” Then hit the delete key. Because every time you use one of those buzzwords, you are telling your customers, “We are exactly the same as everyone else.” Ironically, the more we try to play up our differences, the more things sound the same. Public relations expert Adam Sherk recently analyzed the terms used in company communications, and the results are devastating. Here are the top ten: By definition, there can be only one leader in any industry—and 161,000 companies each think they’re it. More than 75,000 companies think they’re the “best” or the “top”; 30,400 think they’re “unique.” “Solution” also makes an appearance at number seven—so if you think that calling your offering a “solution” differentiates you, think again. If everyone’s saying they offer the “leading solution,” what’s the customer to think? We can tell you what their response will be: “Great—give me 10 percent off.” We don’t mean to be unsympathetic here. You’ll find it’s hard to avoid these terms—heck, we call our own consulting arm “SEC Solutions”! In all of our time at the Council, we have never once met a member who doesn’t think her company’s value proposition beats the socks off the competitors’. And it’s understandable. After all, why would we want to work for a company whose product is second-rate—especially when our job is to sell that product? But what the utter sameness of language here tells us is that, ironically, a strategy of more precisely describing our products’ advantages over the competition’s is destined to have the exact opposite effect—we simply end up sounding like everyone else.

We came close, yet the distances never reduced. our story remained incomplete.. it is not necessary that the earth always goes to meet sky.. there were colors, there was light, when you were near me. this world was like heaven.. on the sand of time, you left something like my name written.. the true love is the one that does not get a destination.. our incomplete story, our incomplete story.. I ran into your fragrances like that only.. see, walking, where have we come.. if there are heavens here only, why can’t I see you here.. the moon and the sun, everything is here only.. I have been waiting for you for centuries.. why is our incomplete story sitting here, thirsty.. his journey of thirst will get over, that which seemed incomplete will be completed, the sky has bowed, and the two worlds have met.. everywhere there is season of meeting.. there are palanquins ready, there are fragrances everywhere, even God himself came here to read..our incomplete story, our incomplete story..

Sometimes I feel “happiness” is overrated. Sure, we need happiness in our life, but it’s just a part of what we are. We also need sadness, and anger, and fear, and anxiety, and mistakes to be able to grow. We need multiple facets to be closer to completeness. I am thankful for the good people I have met in my life, but I am also thankful for the toxic and destructive people I have known. The toxic ones have offered me the greatest growth, and offered me the greatest lessons in my life. I am grateful for all the little accomplishments I have achieved so far, but I am also glad that I have had bad days too. Sometimes I win, but sometimes I learn. So if you are having a bad day, take a shower. Take five showers. And remember, “happiness” is not the ultimate destination. You are not supposed to be “happy” all the time. And when you feel the whole spectrum of emotions, and experience the positives and negatives alike, you are just getting closer to completeness, you are getting closer to being more “human” human.

Remember when I said I was a bit scattered? It wasn’t just when it came to jobs. I had a slew of strange ex-boyfriends, too. There was George, who liked to wear my underwear . . . everyday. Not just to prance around in—he wore them under his Levi’s at work. As a construction worker. That didn’t go over well with his co-workers once they found out. He works at Jamba Juice now. I don’t think anyone cares about what kind of underwear he wears at Jamba Juice. Then there was Curtis. He had an irrational fear of El Caminos. Yes, the car. He just hated them so much that he became really fearful of seeing one. He’d say, “I don’t understand, is it a car or a truck?” The confusion would bring him to tears. When we were walking on the street together, I had to lead him like a blind person because he didn’t want to open his eyes and spot an El Camino. If he did, it would completely ruin his day. He would cry out, “There’s another one. Why, God?” And then he would have to blink seven times and say four Hail Marys facing in a southerly direction. I don’t know what happened to Curtis. He’s probably in his house playing video games and collecting disability. After Curtis came Randall, who will never be forgotten. He was an expert sign spinner. You know those people who stand on the corner spinning signs? Randall had made a career of it. He was proud and protective of his title as best spinner in LA. I met him when he was spinning signs for Jesus Christ Bail Bonds on Fifth Street. He was skillfully flipping a giant arrow that said, “Let God Free You!” and his enthusiasm struck me. I smiled at him from the turn lane. He set the sign down, waved me over, and asked for my phone number. We started dating immediately. He called himself an Arrow Advertising executive when people would ask what he did for a living. He could spin, kick, and toss that sign like it weighed nothing. But when he’d put his bright-red Beats by Dre headphones on, he could break, krump, jerk, turf, float, pop, lock, crip-walk, and b-boy around that six-foot arrow like nobody’s business. He was the best around and I really liked him, but he dumped me for Alicia, who worked at Liberty Tax in the same strip mall. She would stand on the opposite corner, wearing a Statue of Liberty outfit, and dance to the National Anthem. They were destined for each other. After Randall was Paul. Ugh, Paul. That, I will admit, was completely my fault.

to slow her beautiful car and began the tedious task of leaving the glorious open countryside behind and instead navigating the increasingly frustrating, suffocating banality that was the twenty-first century urban environment. Finally, she pulled into one of her favourite waiting spots, not far from where he lived, and turned off the purring engine. Her heart was now beating so fast that she could hear it pounding in her ears. How soon before he came by and she could watch him approach? As she waited with the patience of a spider in the car, with the people passing by still casting admiring and envious glances at the Jaguar as they did so, she thought how funny life could be sometimes. When she’d been younger and far more foolish than today, she’d been so in love with Michael that she thought it might kill her. But in the end, he’d let her down, leaving her broken-hearted and bewildered. Why had he abandoned her? Why hadn’t her love been enough? How many weeks after he’d broken up with her did she torment herself with such questions? How long had she watched him, trailing after him in her less-conspicuous car, wanting and willing him to relent and take her back? Looking back on herself at that point in time, she could feel only pity and perhaps a little scorn for her old self. But she could forgive herself too. She’d been desperately, crazily, whole-heartedly in love with him, and love made fools of everyone, didn’t it? Odd to think, now, that if she hadn’t met Michael, she’d never have met the man who was destined to be her real love, her one true soulmate. Even more astonishing to realize that, when she’d first met him, she hadn’t been able to stand him! Mia shook her head now in remembrance of her own folly. To think, in the beginning, she’d been

Our worlds were too distant, our goals too aligned with each other’s destruction. If we ever met on a battlefield, surely it was destined to be as enemies, not allies.

To Erin, Julia, Sara, Tamara, and all of the other women I feel destined to have met. May we know each other in many universes.

La vérité, c’est que je n’ai jamais vraiment cru au destin. Je me suis toujours demandé si ce n’était pas une incitation à se résigner lorsque la vie vous met à l’épreuve et à se complaire lorsqu’on se trouve du côté des puissants. S’il existe bel et bien un grand projet divin, je le soupçonne d’avoir été conçu à une échelle bien trop vaste pour tenir compte de nos tribulations de pauvres mortels ; je pense que les accidents et les hasards qui émaillent le cours de notre existence ont plus d’incidence que nous ne voulons bien l’admettre, et que le mieux que nous puissions faire, c’est de nous efforcer de suivre le chemin qui nous paraît le plus juste, de bâtir une vie qui ait du sens dans un monde insensé, et de jouer à chaque instant, en faisant preuve d’élégance et de courage, avec les cartes que nous avons en main.

Les bergers qui vivent en été sur les sommets de Hășmașul Mare sont témoins, souvent avec effroi, de certaines tempêtes terrifiantes. Nulle part, aussi loin que se portent les regards et aussi loin que va l’imagination à l’intérieur des frontières du pays, il ne pleut, il ne neige et il ne vente tant, et avec autant de fureur, que sur ce colosse de pierre, contre lequel se brisent tous les nuages d’Ardeal. Au bord d’un précipice, un sapin se met à vaciller, jusqu’à ce qu’il touche celui de gauche, ensuite celui de droite, comme s’il faisait ses adieux aux frères avec lesquels il avait passé son enfance, et, d’un saut tragique, il se jette dans le vide. D’autres, emportés par la folie générale, se précipitent à sa suite vers des destinations inconnues et fatales. On les retrouvera plus tard, qui sait où, mordant la poussière et couverts de blessures profondes, comme des soldats tombés au combat. Une seule tempête, qui a fait rage il y a déjà un certain temps sur ce monde dévasté par de violents tremblements d’air a arraché de ses flancs cinquante milliers de sapins, les emportant dans les ravins. On les y aperçoit encore maintenant, tel un amas d’ossements frêles, emmêlés chaotiquement, qui pourrissent au fond des vallées perdues. Même les pics les plus orgueilleux se sentent menacés par les ouragans qui se déchaînent contre eux. Aveugles, brutales, les masses d’air les frappent de plein fouet, essayant de les arracher de leur place. Mais les pics, obstinés, résistent. Face à la puissance brute des éléments, ils opposent la leur, avec des dizaines d’arêtes tranchantes, qui s’entrechoquent violemment. (traduction Dolores Toma)

What if you have a pen and you can sketch a dream of another's? Sounds beautiful, right? It is even more wonderfully beautiful when you actually do it, for dreams are connected like all of our souls. Dreams are like little stars of our soul, and when you paint one with the stardust of your soul, be it yours or another's, the sky of your soul would always sparkle with the light of a tranquil smile. There is nothing more valuable than holding a hand and telling that person that you believe in that soul and that nothing is truly impossible, after all each and every soul is a reflection of this infinite Universe. There is no treasure richer than a smile of a heart, and when you sprinkle your goodness around and embrace all with the bliss of your own soul, with the love of your heart and the light of your mind, your door of happiness would always be unlocked where you can walk in anytime, and no matter how dark this cave of reality might be, the sky inside that door is always the brightest with a thousand sunshine of an infinite halo of dreams. I know and I have seen that when you are good while most of the people around would embrace you, get inspired and try to walk with you, there would also be a few who would doubt you and even try to pull you down by demotivating or derogatory words but do not let them win over your stardust, rather shine so bright that even their darkness is eaten up by your light. Let your good heart be your strength and walk with courage that God is the ultimate witness and the judge of all. Don't even halt for a second to think if you would help another, no matter how distant that person might be, in fact even if that person hasn't been good to you, or scarred you, you stay true to your path and treat everyone with compassion and love and know that in the book of Life every chapter finds a beginning and an ending, you paint that ending with a smile on the heart of every person you meet, knowing that smiles are the brightest sunshine of this Universe. The world might try to distract you and your mind might try to tell you that it doesn't matter, but then stay focused on this journey of Love and listen to your heart who knows that everything matters at the end of the day, after all nothing goes in waste ever. Help everyone even if that costs you something, because your help might just bring the most needed smile in a heart and every smile shines with a thousand radiance. Go an extra mile, and stay connected with every soul you have met in this voyage of Life because everyone you have come across has shaped your soul and your destination bit by bit. Value friends and family and say thank you and sorry often, not as a formality but as a reminder that every action or thought counts, knowing that relationships bloom like a watered plant. Resonate love and light and stay kind, no matter what falls on your path, because eventually all it takes is an iota of love to declutter a cloud of darkness. Let the goodness of your heart be your guide and keep holding that pen to sketch a dream of another's, because every dream is a painting of a soul in the Infinite canvas of this beautiful Universe. So, I decide to hold the pen and sketch a dream of another's. Do you?

Rachel replies, “that purpose matters more than contentment. You had a ton of career goals, which gave you purpose. One by one, you met them. Et voilà: no purpose.” “So I need new goals.” She nods emphatically. “I read this article about it. Apparently the completion of long-term goals often leads to depression. It’s the journey, not the destination, babe, and whatever the fuck else those throw pillows say.” Her face softens again, becomes the ethereal thing of her most-liked photographs.

smiled, amused by the whole lawful-good thing he had going on. Most guys I met wouldn't blink twice at getting free drinks from a chick who'd just openly announced she wanted to fuck them. "Yeah, but I wanted to get out of there," I replied, vague as fuck. I gave the driver our destination, then turned my attention back to pretty-boy. "What's your name?" I asked on a whim, then immediately gave myself a mental slap. So much for a nameless hook-up.

that purpose matters more than contentment. You had a ton of career goals, which gave you purpose. One by one, you met them. Et voilà: no purpose.” “So I need new goals.” She nods emphatically. “I read this article about it. Apparently the completion of long-term goals often leads to depression. It’s the journey, not the destination, babe, and whatever the fuck else those throw pillows say.

His eyes went on and met the eyes of a man as old as himself, cold, legal eyes.

Was she destined to get into an argument with everyone she met?

The collision with the Hawke affected the Titanic. Not only was a diversion of effort required, but the only speedy way of repairing the damaged propeller was to replace it with one destined for the Titanic. It forced White Star to shift the date of the Titanic’s maiden voyage—as announced in September 1911—from March 20, 1912, to April 10, 1912. If the Hawke and the Olympic had never met, then neither would the iceberg and the Titanic.

Quick-fixes do not work. All lasting inner change requires time and effort. Persistence is the mother of personal change. I’m not saying that it will take years to make profound changes in your life. If you diligently apply the strategies I am sharing with you every day for only one month, you will be astonished at the results. You will begin to tap into the highest levels of your own capacity and enter the realm of the miraculous. But to reach this destination, you must not get hung up on the outcome. Instead, enjoy the process of personal expansion and growth. Ironically, the less you focus on the end result, the quicker it will come.” “How so?” “It’s like that classic story of the young boy who traveled far from his home to study under a great teacher. When he met the wise old man, his first question was, ‘How long will it take me before I am as wise as you?’ “The response came swiftly, ‘Five years.’ “‘This is a very long time,’ the boy replied. ‘How about if I work twice as hard?’ “‘Then it will take ten,’ said the master. “‘Ten! That’s far too long. How about if I studied all day and well into the night, every night?’ “‘Fifteen years,’ said the sage. “‘I don’t understand,’ replied the boy. ‘Every time I promise to devote more energy to my goal, you tell me that it will take longer. Why?’ “‘The answer is simple. With one eye fixed on the destination, there is only one left to guide you along the journey.

After the woman had left, Tamara felt as if she’d met someone with whom she was destined to fall in love.

the young boy who traveled far from his home to study under a great teacher. When he met the wise old man, his first question was, ‘How long will it take me before I am as wise as you?’ “The response came swiftly, ‘Five years.’ “‘This is a very long time,’ the boy replied. ‘How about if I work twice as hard?’ “‘Then it will take ten,’ said the master. “‘Ten! That’s far too long. How about if I studied all day and well into the night, every night?’ “‘Fifteen years,’ said the sage. “‘I don’t understand,’ replied the boy. ‘Every time I promise to devote more energy to my goal, you tell me that it will take longer. Why?’ “‘The answer is simple. With one eye fixed on the destination, there is only one left to guide you along the journey.

A Life of Disappointment When we reached our destination [after our wedding] I was dismayed by what I saw, so different from my home, so backward and dismal. I would escape from it as much as I could. Mama needed me still and insisted I visit her often. In the first years of my marriage, I spent more time with her than in my new home, and was glad of it. I felt I did not fit in with the small talk and mentality of the people who surrounded me. - Alice is a natural talker and her thoughts flow freely through my pen. - It did not take long for me to understand the reality of my situation and become disenchanted, but I loved Louis and made the most of it. I busied myself with unpopular activities, with work deemed unsuitable for a Princess and future Duchess, but I was a rebel by nature, and persevered with Louis' support. He was very good and eager to please me, though he did not understand me. As my rift with my Mother deepened, I got more involved in public work at home and I even met an intellectual Soulmate, someone I could discuss things I could not do with my husband. This gave me fresh energy to invest in my work, but it all came to an end. More changes were on the way. The death of Louis' Father threw more responsibilities on Our shoulders. Little did I know - she adds with a sighs - that my time, too, was running out. - I feel her distress and ask softly: What is that pains you so much, why not let it go? I wish my life had been different, but I do not regret having children, they were a joy to me. I wish I had been a man, more in command of my life. Why do I linger? What is this pain I steel feel? - she asks looking at me - I do not know, perhaps the incompleteness of that Life, unfulfilled, of what it could have been and was not. - Alice whispers, her voice dying down. [30.8.17] Princess Alice of Hesse [Married 1 July 1862]

Who am I kidding? It’s a wonderful feeling to walk into a shop and see your life story on display, even when customers are striding past it in search of the latest Grisham. My mood lightened further when, just about this time, I was summoned to jury duty. Walking into the cavernous room at the DC courthouse where prospective jurors are made to cool their heels, I sat down next to a young woman. After a moment, she gave me a sidelong glance, as strangers in such a situation will do. I peered at the volume she was holding in her lap—Madam Secretary. The young woman did a double take, our eyes met, we bumped fists, and I yearned on the spot to adopt her.

After landing and collecting our bags Santha and I were met groundside by our local connection, Sergey Kurgin. I say “connection” because you have to have one if you’re going to travel in Russia. You can’t just get up and go. Some solid citizen, or business, or tour operator must take responsibility for you and officially invite you, and you must have a prearranged and preplanned itinerary to preapproved destinations or your visa won’t be issued—nor, if you somehow manage to slip through the net, will any hotel accommodate you on your route. Sergey owns a small private travel business called Sibalp, and I’d contacted him on the internet to help set up the trip.

No good can ever come from deviating from the path that you were destined to follow. You will be assailed by varieties of hidden pain. Most often you deviate because of the lure of money, of more immediate prospects of prosperity. Because this does not comply with something deep within you, your interest will lag and eventually the money will not come so easily. You will search for other easy sources of money, moving further and further away from your path. Not seeing clearly ahead of you, you will end up in a dead-end career. Even if your material needs are met, you will feel an emptiness inside that you will need to fill with any kind of belief system, drugs, or diversions. There is no compromise here, no way of escaping the dynamic. You will recognize how far you have deviated by the depth of your pain and frustration. You must listen to the message of this frustration, this pain, and let it guide you…It is a matter of life and death.

<> You know, if you had gone to school in New Jersey, you never would have met Mitch. You wouldn’t have taken a job here. You never would have met me. <> Mitch says he was destined to meet me. He says I could go back and do my whole life over, and I’d still end up marrying him.

La vérité, c'est que je n'ai jamais vraiment cru au destin. Je me suis toujours demandé si ce n'était pas une incitation à se résigner lorsque la vie vous met à l'épreuve et à se complaire lorsqu'on se trouve du côté des puissants. S'il existe bel et bien un grand projet divin, je le soupçonne d'avoir été conçu à une échelle bien trop vaste pour tenir compte de nos tribulations de pauvres mortels ; je pense que les accidents et les hasards qui émaillent le cours de notre existence ont plus d'incidence que nous ne voulons bien l'admettre, et que le mieux que nous puissions faire, c'est de nous efforcer de suivre le chemin qui nous paraît le plus juste, de bâtir une vie qui ait du sens dans un monde insensé, et de jouer à chaque instant, en faisant preuve d'élégance et de courage, avec les cartes que nous avons en main.

Valley of the Damned. Valkyrie Kari tells of the great warrior Crazy Horse (abridged) ’Twas written of those of long ago, That honor should be “as long as grass shall grow.” In battle honor is a fearsome beast, none can contain, In the strength of heart, it brings only shame. A mighty warrior of the plains was he, Crazy Horse of Sioux battle creed. Given to the ravages of noble, savage war, Against his enemies, he vaulted fore. Peering down from lofty mountain hold, The Horse in dream; the warrior was of olde. The promises they were broken one by one, Until only war unbridled could be hardtily done. Understanding and honor was not for those weak, Only the evil Long-knives now he eagerly did seek. The Knives came to steal, to plunder their land, To kill sacred mother with marauding, guilty hands. They had no regard for their own swelling words, With lust in their eyes, their greed greatly stirred. From southern lands came noise that Longhair did kill, Black Kettle’s camp, their blood he had spilled. Longhair destroyed all; dastard agent of evil strife, Deprived them of children and their bountiful life. Yet this lone, brave holy man stood in Longhair’s way, Crazy Horse, vision man, his plans were well framed. His command rode north hard to that destined battle, To meet wicked Longhair—to dash him from the saddle. Fate led him on to Little Bighorn, Where warriors of the sun met with sacred horn. A hellish dry place of calamitous battle, Found many a soul hearing death’s final rattle. The Long-snakes scouted for the great camp, That morn’ they set their fateful, forked-tongue attack. They raised their sabers, waved them strong, Entered eternity, their deaths foresaw. A sea of pilfered blue engulfed in crimson red, Amidst swirls of feathers sacred of the motherland. Through carnage, The Horse did lead his men, Beyond the battle, to the place where legend began. Up hill rode the bold Crazy Horse, With a thousand others to show determined force. To engage Long-knives at their last stand, Striking them down until dead was every man. Great Gall and Crazy Horse led that righteous attack, Against forceful Custer, whose plans did not lack, For ’twas he himself who boasted, wantonly said, “I will become a great chief, if my enemies I fill with lead.” With righteous honor as their sacred ally, Holy arrows that day swiftly let fly. Horse met Longhair in battle forever stayed, Defeated mighty Custer; his corpse on the field in state. Upon that fateful day, on sage choked sandy plain, Spirits clashed with spirits, for the sacred domain. Unconquerable, indomitable this sacred warrior heart, Leads many against the evil now, for this righteous court. Thus, Horse brought the valiants into stark raved battle, Battle scarred by holy wounds delivered by blue devils. Yet he would not relent, this honorable man of gifted vision, But peace came through the lie; his life ended by steel incision. Breathing his last, quiet honor came his way, “Bring my heart home, the Great Spirit will find my way.” Thus ˊtis with all whose understanding shows what may, Honor leads righteousness to death, ask they of that claim. War spirit vigilant with mighty spear and bow in hand, Leads Great Plains spirits, under his gallant command. His spirit never conquered lives it to this good day, Among the heroic mighty, let us his spirit proclaim. In the hour of travail, honor can be finely seen, Leading multitudes unto battle, their hearts boundlessly free. Cowards can never know the freedom of the plains and wind, Or how she musters a soul and the courage found within. Born in deep commune of Earth and Great Spirit above, Understanding and honor flow from hearts of great love. One without understanding is a fool at best, One without honor is a spirit that ne’er rests. O’ majestic One of the relentless plain, The mountains ring joyous with thy name.

It's like that story of the young boy who travelled far from his home to study under a great teacher. When he met the wise old man, his first question was, "How long will it take me before I am as wise as you?" The response came swiftly, "Five years." "This is a very long time," the boy replied. "How about if I work twice as hard?" "Then it will take ten," said the master. "Ten! That's far too long. How about if I studied all day and well into the night, every night?" "Fifteen years," said the sage. "I don't understand," replied the boy. "Every time I promise to devote more energy to my goal, you tell me that it will take longer. Why?" "The answer is simple. With one eye fixed on the destination, there is only one left to guide you along the journey.

She leaned forward. "Hey, can I change our destination?" The driver met her eyes in the mirror. "Sure, but you have to do it in the app." "I can't tell you? You know, verbally?" He shook his head. "Well, sure, you can tell me, verbally, or in sign language, or on a piece of parchment carried by a pigeon, but for me to alter my course, you also have to change it in the app." He shrugged, his eyes back on the road. "Despite the fact we're a scant two feet apart, our relationship requires the intermediation of a computer system housed in a server farm neither of us will ever see. Thus technology further separates us, eroding our trust in one another and leading our species down a path to a future where we only know one another on a screen and can only talk to one another in characters, and where ideas are owned by companies run by algorithms." Nina gazed at the back of his head for a moment. "So... on the app then?" "Yup.

story of the young boy who travelled far from his home to study under a great teacher. When he met the wise old man, his first question was, 'How long will it take me before I am as wise as you?' "The response came swiftly, 'Five years.' "'This is a very long time,' the boy replied. 'How about if I work twice as hard?' '"Then it will take ten,' said the master. '"Ten! That's far too long. How about if I studied all day and well into the night, every night?' '"Fifteen years,' said the sage. "'I don't understand,' replied the boy. 'Every time I promise to devote more energy to my goal, you tell me that it will take longer. Why?' '"The answer is simple. With one eye fixed on the destination, there is only one left to guide you along the journey

En 1937, Cioran part pour Paris, envoyé comme boursier de l’Institut français. Très vite, ce cadeau inespéré commence à lui sembler empoisonné : « Dès qu’on se met au diapason de la ville, on est perdu. » Boulevard Saint-Germain, les blessures narcissiques ne guérissent jamais, car il « n’y a rien qui ressemble tant au néant que la gloire à Paris ». D’entrée de jeu, ce « provincial dans l’âme » sait qu’il s’est trompé de destination, mais il est trop tard pour faire marche arrière. Dans l’espoir d’oublier son forfait, Cioran parcourt régulièrement la France en vélo et couche dans les auberges de jeunesse. Durant l’été 1947, arrivé dans un village près de Dieppe, il s’emploie sans grande conviction à traduire Mallarmé en roumain, mais un beau matin, il décide brusquement d’en finir avec sa langue maternelle. Écrire uniquement en français lui apparaît comme un impératif majeur. Le lendemain il regagne Paris et se met à l’œuvre sur-le-champ. Il termine très vite la première version du Précis de décomposition et la montre un ami dont le jugement est loin d’être encourageant : « Ça fait métèque. Il faut tout reprendre. » Cioran est déçu et furieux, mais il décide de suivre rigoureusement le conseil. Ayant connu un Basque, « spécialiste de la langue ancienne et fanatique de l’imparfait du subjonctif », il se paye le luxe d’écouter à longueur de journée ses tournures superbes et démodées.