Miller's Crossing Quotes

I cross myself and close my eyes. Where we go next, we go together.

Ariadne’s light feet crossed and recrossed the circle. Every step was perfect, like a gift she gave herself, and she smiled, receiving it. I wanted to seize her by the shoulders. Whatever you do, I wanted to say, do not be too happy. It will bring down fire on your head. I said nothing, and let her dance.

Did they look like anyone we know? For example… a cross between Pippi Longstocking and the Wicked Witch of the West would obviously give us Marcie Miller.

How does the story really go? Does she ever cross your mind? Does she ever steal your nights? Is she still a part of you? Do you ever wish she were still by your side? And what would you do? If she walked up here tomorrow And told you that she loved you? Would you drop it all and run to her? Would you tell her you love her too? Or would you simply send her home? And tell her you’ve moved on? Tell me, Buddy, what would you do?

I think some people are just inexplicably bonded. Drawn by forces beyond their own comprehension, they have no choice but to gravitate toward one another. Destined by fate to keep crossing paths until they finally get it right.

I remember that just as I was about to cross the border they asked me what I had to declare and, like an idiot, I answered: "I want to declare that I am a traitor to the human race.

in these situations, you followed the rules first. You toed the line. You made sure to cross every t and dot every i. And when that didn’t work, it was time to bring out the goddamned gators.

But we are wealthy, and our purses are so heavy that we cannot carry both our goods and his cross. So we cling to our wallets and leave the cross bearing to those who have less to surrender.

The closer they come to transcending technique and the memorization of lines--the closer to really beginning to act, in short--the more Chinese they begin to seem. Happy now approaches Miss Forsythe to pick her up in the restaurant with a wonderful formality, his back straight, head high, his hand-gestures even more precise and formal, but with a comic undertone that ironically comes closer to conveying the original American idea of the scene than when he was trying to be physically sloppy and "relaxed"--that is, imitating an American. I think that by some unplanned magic we may end up creating something not quite American or Chinese but a pure style springing from the heart of the play itself--the play as a nonnational event, that is, a human circumstance.

He's wearing black jeans and an amazingly hot black biker jacket over a white T-shirt.His normally casual bedhead is not perfectly styled bedhead. He also has light blue skin, but his tattoo are understated, just dots in a straight line that go ear from ear, crossing the bridge of his nose. He props himself against the doorway, and my head goes blank. "I like the viney things you have going on there." I clear my throat because it has suddenly gone dry. "Thanks. You look very..." I trail off because i almost said elf-a-licious

I am amazed all over again by how magnified this project's importance has become, far beyond its being a play or an artwork. It is now a test of some kind; but of what, precisely? The incommunicability of the Chinese? If I can't claim to know my actors, I know them as well or as little as I would an American cast. I can no longer call up the notion of Chinese mysteriousness.

Though the rooms were deserted, there was no speck of dust, and I would learn that none could cross the marble threshold. However I tracked upon it, the floor was always clean, the tables gleaming. The ashes vanished from the fireplace, the dishes washed themselves, and the firewood regrew overnight.

Now Sentimental Education doesn't read as if Flaubert was having fun; Letter to His Father doesn't read as if Kafka was having fun; The Sorrows of Young Werther sure as hell doesn't read as if Goethe was having fun. Sure, Henry Miller seems like he's having fun, but he had to cross three thousand miles of Atlantic before saying 'cunt'.

Centuries old, but recently widened, the highway was the same road used by pagan armies, pilgrims, peasants, donkey carts, nomads, wild horsemen out of the east, artillery, tanks, and ten-ton trucks. Its traffic gushed or trickled or dripped, according to the age and season. Once before, long ago, there had been six lanes and robot traffic. Then the traffic had stopped, the paving had cracked, and sparse grass grew in the cracks after an occasional rain. Dust had covered it. Desert dwellers had dug up its broken concrete for the building of hovels and barricades. Erosion made it a desert trail, crossing wilderness. But now there were six lanes and robot traffic, as before.

Dedicating Time and Resources With thousands, even millions within the people group of your focus, where do you commit your time? Detach from the idea that every need is a call. Pray that God would connect you to “people of peace” (Luke 10:6).

Ecologists have long understood that the typical interaction between any two individuals or species is neither competition nor cooperation, but neutralism. Neutralism means apathy: the animals just ignore each other. If their paths threaten to cross, they get out of each other’s way. Anything else usually takes too much energy. Being nasty has costs, and being nice has costs, and animals evolve to avoid costs whenever possible. […] If we were typical animals, our attitudes to others would be dominated not by hate, exploitation, spite, competitiveness, or treachery, but by indifference. And so they are.

Young people," McDonald said contemptuously. "You always think there's something to find out." "Yes, sir," Andrews said. "Well, there's nothing," McDonald said. "You get born, and you nurse on lies, and you get weaned on lies, and you learn fancier lies in school. You live all your life on lies, and then maybe when you're ready to die, it comes to you--that there's nothing, nothing but yourself and what you could have done. Only you ain't done it, because the lies told you there was something else. Then you know you could of had the world, because you're the only one that knows the secret; only then it's too late. You're too old." "No," Andrews said. A vague terror crept from the darkness that surrounded them, and tightened his voice. "That's not the way it is." "You ain't learned, then," McDonald said. "You ain't learned yet....look. You spend nearly a year of your life and sweat, because you have faith in the dream of a fool. And what have you got? Nothing. You kill three, four thousand buffalo, and stack their skins neat; and the buffalo will rot wherever you left them, and the rats will nest in the skins. What have you got to show? A year gone out of your life, a busted wagon that a beaver might use to make a dam with, some calluses on your hands, and the memory of a dead man." "No," Andrew said. "That's not all. That's not all I have." "Then what? What have you got?" Andrews was silent. "You can't answer. Look at Miller. Knows the country he was in as well as any man alive, and had faith in what he believed was true. What good did it do him? And Charley Hoge with his Bible and his whisky. Did that make your winter any easier, or save your hides? And Schneider. What about Schneider? Was that his name? "That was his name," Andrews said. "And that's all that's left of him," McDonald said. "His name. And he didn't even come out of it with that for himself." McDonald nodded, not looking at Andrews. "Sure, I know. I came out of it with nothing, too. Because I forgot what I learned a long time ago. I let the lies come back. I had a dream, too, and because it was different from yours and Miller's, I let myself think it wasn't a dream. But now I know, boy. And you don't. And that makes all the difference.

New attorneys were paid extraordinary sums, but they weren’t permitted to cross the street without someone more senior holding their hands to make sure nobody was hit by a car.

At night, we crossed the hollows of each other's skin

I thought about puking up all those sandwiches once I saw what I had done, but that's a line I won't cross. If you make yourself puke, you have a problem.

her. “How do you always know that stuff?” she asked. “Are you kidding? Everyone knows that stuff.” He went back to the kitchen to start cleaning up. Meri crossed to the lilies. Bending over them,

I could put up with heartbreaks and abortions and busted romances, but I had to have something under my belt to carry on, and I wanted something nourishing, something appetizing. I felt exactly like Jesus Christ would have felt if he had been taken down from the cross and not permitted to die in the flesh. I am sure that the shock of crucifixion would have been so great that he would have suffered a complete amnesia as regards humanity. I am certain that after his wounds had healed he wouldn't have given a damn about the tribulations of mankind but would have fallen with the greatest relish upon a fresh cup of coffee and a slice of toast, assuming he could have had it.

It's a tragedy, the way he loves you; it is a tragedy that star crossed lovers will read about a hundred years later, and weep over blood not yet spilt- because if you two could not make it; no one will. The playwrites will write your names in the darkness of the sky.

Ariadne’s light feet crossed and recrossed the circle. Every step was perfect, like a gift she gave herself, and she smiled, receiving it. I wanted to seize her by the shoulders. Whatever you do, I wanted to say, do not be too happy. It will bring down fire on your head. I said nothing, and let her dance.

From one task to another I went, weaving, working, slopping my pigs, crossing and recrossing the isle. I moved straight-backed, as if a great brimming bowl rested in my hands. The dark liquid rippled as I walked, always at the point of overflow, yet never flowing. Only if I stopped, if I lay down, did I feel it begin to bleed.

One of the reasons we come to feel guilty is that we move away from the cross and a desire to please God and live instead for the approval of others. Families have rules, our culture has rules, and the church often has hidden agendas. Our society encourages us to be successful, but if we live by a success/failure model rather than under the authority of Christ, we wound our consciences.

Though the rooms were deserted, there was no speck of dust, and I would learn that none could cross the marble threshold. However I tracked upon it, the floor was always clean, the tables gleaming. The ashes vanished from the fireplace, the dishes washed themselves, and the firewood regrew overnight. In the pantry there were jars of oil and wine, bowls of cheese and barley-grain, always fresh and full.

Even if it’s a meeting in passing, micah, your Soul Mate will find a way. If the connection is strong enough, He’ll find you. He’ll always find you. If a Man deems a woman worthy, He will make her His. He will fight for her. He will honor her. He will provide for her. He will protect her. I believe paths are meant to cross at certain points in time. People meet each when they’re supposed to. It’s what the universe wants.

And that’s all that’s left of him,” McDonald said. “His name. And he didn’t even come out of it with that for himself.” McDonald nodded, not looking at Andrews. “Sure, I know. I came out of it with nothing, too. Because I forgot what I learned a long time ago. I let the lies come back. I had a dream, too, and because it was different from yours and Miller’s, I let myself think it wasn’t a dream. But now I know, boy. And you don’t. And that makes all the difference.

Our natural tendency is to judge and condemn others. But here we find that, because of the cross we’ve been freed from God’s curse and liberated as sons and daughters. We are now free to humble ourselves and walk along with someone who is erring, even if they’ve sinned in a way that may be very terrible. When you bear each other’s burdens, what you are carrying is the burden of the other person’s sin. What motivates you is your compassion. You come alongside the sinner, not trying to crush them, but putting your arm around him or her as much as you can, as if to say, “Jesus loves you, so do I, and we want you to know this.

I do not write to trigger victims. I write to comfort them, and I've found that victims identify more with pain than platitudes. When I write about weakness, about how I am barely getting through this, my hope is that they feel better, because it aligns with the truth they are living. If I were to say I was healed and redeemed, I worry a victim would feel insufficient, as if they have not tried hard enough to cross some nonexistent finish line. I write to stand beside them in their suffering. I write because the most healing words I have been given are It's okay not to be okay. It's okay to fall apart, because that's what happens when you are broken, but I want victims to know they will not be left there, that we will be alongside them as they rebuild.

Looking out at the featureless land into which he seemed to flow and merge, even though he stood without moving, he realized that the hunt that he had arranged with Miller was only a stratagem, a ruse upon himself, a palliative for ingrained custom and use. No business led him where he looked, where he would go; he went there free. He went free upon the plain in the western horizon which seemed to stretch without interruption toward the setting sun (…). He felt that wherever he lived, and wherever he would live hereafter, he was leaving the city more and more, withdrawing into the wildness. He felt that that was the central meaning he could find in all his life and it seemed to him then that all the events of his childhood and his youth had led him unbeknowingly to this moment upon which he poised, as if before flight

Jesus has called you to serve faithfully. Keep your eye on this task. Be thankful for the others who have embraced the wilderness of cross-cultural ministry. If their ministries seem to be flourishing more than yours, so be it. God sees each part of the mission field and is watching how you plow, plant, water or harvest in your area of responsibility. Take your cues from Him and Him alone. Get this straight in your heart and fix your eyes upon Jesus. There will always be someone who is smarter, quicker, wittier, more gifted than you. There will always be missionaries who are better students of culture or who seem to have more energy than you. Stop the madness that comes from comparing. Be yourself. Do not evaluate your success by looking at others. Be faithful in your call and rejoice that you are working with others all around the world for the cause of Christ!

What I finally came to as I walked and prayed for you is the old, old story of getting the gospel clear in your own hearts and minds, making it clear to others, and doing it with only one motive — the glory of Christ. Getting the glory of Christ before your eyes and keeping it there — is the greatest work of the Spirit that I can imagine. And there is no greater peace, especially in the times of treadmill-like activity, than doing it all for the glory of the Lord Jesus. Think much of the Savior's suffering for you on that dreadful cross, think much of your sin that provoked such suffering, and then enter by faith into the love that took away your sin and guilt, and then give your work your best. Give it your heart out of gratitude for a tender, seeking, and patient Savior. Then every event becomes a shiny glory moment to be cherished — whether you drink tea or try to get the verb forms of the new language.

Contemplando quella distesa di terra piatta e informe in cui gli sembrava di immergersi e di fondersi, pur restando lì immobile in piedi, capì che la battuta di caccia che aveva concordato con Miller non era che uno stratagemma, un trucco per ingannare se stesso, per blandire le sue abitudini più radicate. non erano certo gli affari a condurlo laggiù, dove ora stava guardando e dove stava per andare. Partiva in libertà, verso quelle pianure a ovest, verso quell'orizzonte che sembrava estendersi senza interruzione fino al sole al tramonto (…). Sentiva che ormai, ovunque vivesse, ora come in futuro, si sarebbe sempre più allontanato dalla città, per ritirarsi nella natura selvaggia. Sentiva che quello era il senso più profondo che potesse dare alla sua vita, e gli sembrava che tutti gli eventi della sua infanzia e della sua gioventù l'avessero condotto in modo inconsapevole fino a quell'istante, in cui si preparava al volo.

The last summer of his life he sat hours together on the old chintz-covered swing-bed in front of the willow tree, chain-smoking Woodbines and watching the shadows flood the lawn until they swallowed him and only the tip of his ciggarette still showed, a faint red pulse. How she had longed to bring him in, to rescue him as he had rescued his sergeant. Her mother wasn't up to it, sitting all day in the kitchen listening to Alma Cogan and Ronnie Hilton on the wireless, biting her nails until they bled. So, it was she who had gone, crossing the lawn at dusk to stand in front of him, waiting for the right words to come into her head, for a dove that would bring her the gift of speech. But nothing came, and he had gazed at her through the smoke of his ciggarette as though from the far side of a pane of glass. He felt sorry for her perhaps, knowing why she had come out, knowing the impossibility of it. But instead of saying, sit down beside me Alice, sit down, daughter, and we will try to understand together the unbearable truth that love is not always enough, that people cannot always be brought back in, he had said, very conservatively, as though in reference to a discussion he had been having with her in his head for weeks, 'They used flame-throwers, you know'. And she had nodded, yes, Daddy, and left him, and gone to her room, and pushed her face into the pillow and bawled. Because she should have done it, should have, and she had failed.

Do you believe that?” Melinda says, directing her wonderment at Irv. “That if someone commits suicide they go to hell?” “No.” “But many Christians do, right?” “There’s a debate, but it’s doctrine.” “But you don’t think so?” “No.” “Why not?” “For the same reason the Catholics believe in the Trinity, Melinda.” The appetizers arrive with a speed that Sigrid finds suspicious. “Which is . . . what?” “It’s how I understand Jesus’s words spoken from the cross,” says Irv, taking a calamari. “Jesus spoke seven times on the cross. In Matthew Twenty-Seven, verse forty-six and in Mark Fifteen verse thirty-four he says, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ This led to the Trinity,” Irv said, sucking cocktail sauce and grease from his thumb. “The thinking is, if Jesus was Lord, who was he speaking to? He was obviously speaking to someone or something other than himself, unless . . . ya know.” Irv makes a circular cuckoo motion by his head with a piece of squid. “So perhaps he was speaking to the Father, or to the Holy Spirit. In this act, he distinguishes himself from the eternal and embodies everything that is Man. The fear, the sadness, the tragedy. The longing. The recognition of betrayal. We see him, in that moment, only as the Son, and because of that, as ourselves. As I read it, Melinda, we are not invited in that moment to be cruel to him for his despair, or to mock him. Instead we are asked to feel his pain. When Jesus says, ‘It is finished’ I don’t read, ‘Mission accomplished.’ I see a person resigned. A person who has lost hope. A person who has taken a step away from this life. And our pity for him grows. And finally he says, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Now, I’m not going to equate Jesus letting go with suicide, but any decent and forgiving Christian person would have to admit that we are looking at a person who cannot fight anymore. We are being taught to be understanding of that state of mind and sympathetic to the suffering that might lead a person to it. It does not follow to me that if someone succumbs to that grief we are to treat them with eternal contempt. I just don’t believe it.

Andrew Mellon served as an officer or director for more than 160 corporations. In 1913, he and his brother established the Mellon Institute of Industrial Research, which later merged with the Carnegie Institute of Technology to become Carnegie Mellon University. During the First World War, he served on the board of the American Red Cross and other organizations supporting America’s wartime efforts. In 1921, President Warren G. Harding appointed Andrew Mellon to secretary of the treasury, and he continued as such under both Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover. As secretary, Mellon was a pioneer of supply-side economics, cutting tax rates in order to spur investment and

Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if there’s one thing you don’t want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events it’s beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in. Burst of static in his right ear: “G-man, you read me? What’s yo’ twenty, dawg?” Gareth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. “Concession stand, Section B. Over.” Allowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along. The same voice: “Yo, I’m in position. Ready when you is.” Gareth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear.

Laying my head on my crossed arms, I start laughing. When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up and have an exciting life. Now that I have an exciting life—albeit not the type of excitement I’d dreamed of—I’d give anything to go back to boring and average. ~Keely Fey

His first stretch alerted me to a concerning issue. “Um, Raphael, I think you should change.” Biceps bulged, thigh muscles popped, and I was fairly certain he just added another pack to his abs. “I am quite comfortable, Abigail Miller.” I crossed my arms. “Well, I’m not. I know you go commando under your skirt and I don’t want to see angel parts I wasn’t meant to see.” He shot me a sideways glance. “You have seen said angel parts on Alexander. Mine are much more impressive, however.” My mouth and eyes widened. “Oh my gosh! I cannot believe you said that, Raphael. And it was an accident!” He continued to stare. “I was bleeding to death!” He tilted his head at me, remaining silent. I threw up my arms. “Fine, wear the damn skirt. But you had better keep things tucked in. Any hint of said angel parts and this is over.” Raphael smiled. He won? How did he do that? He was diabolical.

Irwin hung up on him. The minivan nosed out into the travel lane and joined the flow of cars crossing the bridge. There was a break in

And then I did what no other athlete has done before. I won 2 Olympic gold medals in 2 different sports in the same afternoon. First I won the cross-country ski race. I went from home to Miller’s Pond and won by so much I couldn’t even see my competitors. But

This was good, seeing as if I did I would have seen Raiden Miller, arms crossed on his chest, sexy smile playing at his mouth, watching me go.     Chapter

She'd never seen something so bizarre. It was like a chupacabra cross-bred with a rabbit. Like some sort of Easter Bunny from Hell.

As Jesus presses up against the nails to catch his breath, his raw back scraping against the wood, the teachers and elders scream at him to do a sign. They tell him that if he will jump from the cross, then they will believe him. But Jesus will have none of it. He will not turn inward and seek human glory, nor be ruled by his feelings. He says “no” to his own desires. He trusts. He loves to the end.

With a StoryBrand-inspired narrative, ordinary jobs become extraordinary adventures. With a unifying BrandScript, the above story would have gone more like this: Before even applying for a job, the prospective employee has already heard the buzz on the street about this cool company. It’s somehow more alive. The people who work there love it and so do their customers. They exude a sense of competence within their industry as well as across the community in general. Their leaders are respected. Even their former employees talk about it with a hint of sentimental longing. On the list of ideal places to work, there are few that compare. During the first interview, the candidate starts to understand where the buzz has been coming from. The hiring manager describes the company the way you might describe Lewis and Clarke preparing to tame the western frontier. There are interesting characters whose lives have led them to this place. Business goals sound like plot twists. There are mountains to climb and rivers to cross. There are storms to weather, bears to hunt, and treasure to find. The hiring manager is visibly excited as she walks effortlessly through the seven categories of the company’s narrative. But not just anyone gets selected for this expedition. The employees of this company aren’t trying to be snobs; they’re just staying true to the story they’re following and they don’t want to compromise the plot. If you happen to be selected, it’s because destiny basically demands it. Instantly the candidate’s concept of work shifts up a level. It’s no longer just about what he can get out of it. It’s also about who he will become if he’s allowed to enter the story. He senses that working for this company will transform him. By the second and third interviews, the candidate has met most of the team and even been interviewed by them. Everyone he meets tells the exact same story he heard on the street and in the first interview. The story is growing on him. He realizes he needs to be part of a story like this to be fully satisfied in life. We all do. Finally, his first day on the job arrives, and the onboarding experience is more like being adopted than getting hired. He spends quality time with a facilitator who takes a small, new team through a curriculum explaining the story of their customer and how the company positions themselves as the guide in their customers’ story. Amazingly, the onboarding is more about the company’s customers than it is about the company itself. This organization loves their customers and is obsessed with seeing them win the day. Finally, the new employee discovers the secret. These people are here to serve a customer they love.

God customizes deserts for each of us. Joseph’s desert is being betrayed and forgotten in an Egyptian jail. Moses lives in the Midian desert as an outcast for forty years. The Israelites live in the desert for forty years. David runs from Saul in the desert. All of them hold on to the hope of God’s Word yet face the reality of their situations. The theme of the desert is so strong in Scripture that Jesus reenacts the desert journey at the beginning of his ministry by fasting for forty days in a desert while facing Satan’s temptation. His desert is living with the hope of the resurrection yet facing the reality of his Father’s face turned against him at the cross.

A Stoic would consider a lament inappropriate: too emotional, too aggressive. The Israelites lamented because they longed for a better world, the way the world is supposed to be. They believed in a covenant-keeping God, one who keeps his word. That’s what makes laments so passionate, so in-your-face. When you lament, you live simultaneously in the past, present, and future. A lament connects God’s past promise with my present chaos, hoping for a better future. So on the cross Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). He connects the utter chaos of his life with the love of his Father. That connection is nuclear.

A Stoic would consider a lament inappropriate: too emotional, too aggressive. The Israelites lamented because they longed for a better world, the way the world is supposed to be. They believed in a covenant-keeping God, one who keeps his word. That’s what makes laments so passionate, so in-your-face. When you lament, you live simultaneously in the past, present, and future. A lament connects God’s past promise with my present chaos, hoping for a better future. So on the cross Jesus cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). He connects the utter chaos of his life with the love of his Father. That connection is nuclear. Jesus’ lament of God-forsakenness is answered with the Resurrection. His Father acts on his prayer and raises him from the dead, creating a new, deathless body for Jesus, a foretaste of the coming new creation that will utterly transform all of us who believe in him. Laments work. Jesus is not a Stoic, gritting his teeth until the Resurrection; nor is he a determinist, saying, “I know God is going to raise me from the dead. I just have to get through this.” He is fully alive to both his situation and his Father’s love for him.

It’s the crossing of that distance that makes the story work.

Does this car have Bluetooth?” Oliver chuckles. “Yes, Princess Estelle, is it up to par with your inspection?” I stop moving my hand over the dash and set it back on my lap, feeling a blush creep into my face. “I liked your old car better,” I say. Oliver’s eyebrows hike up and he turns to gape at me. “You like my beat-up Maxima better than this?” I shrug. “It was more cozy. This reminds me of the Batmobile, and there’s nothing wrong with the Batmobile, but I like cozy.” He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, but starts to look for my phone to hook up to Bluetooth. He already knows it’s because I want to play my own music—I don’t even have to explain. I used to bring my own CD whenever I was in the car with him. Oliver listens to two things: heavy rock and rap, and while I’m okay with both, I prefer the classics. The Steve Miller Band hasn’t even gotten to the hook before they’re interrupted by a call from Mia. Oliver looks at me with a question in his eyes. “If you don’t mind,” I say. He presses the button, and before I say hello, Mia’s frantic voice comes through. “What underwear are you wearing?” she asks. My face goes hot for the second time this morning. From the corner of my eye, I see Oliver bite down on his lip. “What?” I ask. “Mia, you’re on speaker phone!” “I don’t care. This is an emergency. Do you not hear the shrill tone in my voice? What are you wearing under your clothes?” My eyes snap to the side of Oliver’s face, then out the front window, and finally, I pull my shirt slightly and look down, because I completely forgot what underwear I have on. “Can you disconnect the phone?” I say to Oliver, who shakes his head in refusal. “Please. This is like . . . monumentally embarrassing.” “Just answer,” he whispers. “Who’s that?” Mia asks. “Oliver. We’re in his car, and you’re on the fucking Bluetooth.” She laughs. “Oh my God! I am so sorry, Bean!” “What?” I shout. “He’s not the one being harassed!” “Oh, but now he is. So tell me—underwear?” “White lace bra and matching boy shorts,” I say, almost through my teeth, not missing the way Oliver’s eyes snap to me with an approving look. I want to slap him for it, but I know nothing good would come of that, so I just cross my arms over my chest like a petulant child.

The striving fluency of the Hampstead nanny's boy is deceptive and occasionally plausible. With its cultural allusions and cross-references to other disciplines, it is the gab-gift of someone to whom English is an adoptive tongue. Intellect does terrible things to the mind.

But when I wrote the ugly and painful parts into a statement, an incredible thing happened. The world did not plug up its ears, it opened itself to me. I do not write to trigger victims. I write to comfort them, and I’ve found that victims identify more with pain than platitudes. When I write about weakness, about how I am barely getting through this, my hope is that they feel better, because it aligns with the truth they are living. If I were to say I was healed and redeemed, I worry a victim would feel insufficient, as if they have not tried hard enough to cross some nonexistent finish line. I write to stand beside them in their suffering. I write because the most healing words I have been given are It’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to fall apart, because that’s what happens when you are broken, but I want victims to know they will not be left there, that we will be alongside them as they rebuild.

Patanjali’s method for achieving insight is far from the mystical ecstasy of a poet like St. John of the Cross or the ritual ecstasy of a shaman in a trance. It is instead a contemplative intensity that unbinds the constraints of everyday experience.

During his years of institutionalization, he read a shocking three hundred and thirty-one books.

You’re forgetting,” her father pointed out reluctantly, “that Steven Fairfax is spoken for. He’s got his eye on Miss Emma Chalmers.” Joellen was horrified. “That dowdy little snippet who runs the library? He’s just toying with her, that’s all.” Big John shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Miss Emma tries to conduct herself proper-like, and dress the way a lady should, but she’s not dowdy, Joellen, not by a far sight.” Miss Lenahan was in no mood to hear a recital of that dreadful woman’s virtues. She steered the conversation in a slightly different direction. “If Steven’s taken up with her, it’s only because he knows she’s loose, and he’s out for what he can get. When it comes time for marrying, he’ll want another sort of woman entirely.” Two patches of color appeared on Big John’s leathery cheeks, and his eyes snapped. In that instant, Joellen knew she’d gone too far. “I won’t hear another word against Emma,” he said tightly. “Now, you just run along and forget chasing after Fairfax—do you hear me?” Even Joellen didn’t dare cross Big John when he had that look in his eyes. She nodded glumly.

Did you see the fight yesterday, when Lem Johnson didn’t want to cross the river?” Joellen nodded. “I was hiding in the supply wagon, and I watched the whole thing. You were masterful.” “If you saw what happened, you know nobody defies my orders and gets away with it. And I don’t let people tell lies about me, either.” Joellen swallowed, but she still looked besotted. Steven was about to cure her of that. He sat down on the bench, clasped Joellen by the wrist, and flung her down across his lap. She was so startled that, for a moment, she just lay there with her fanny upended. But when she looked back over her shoulder, she saw Steven’s hand descending and yelped in anticipation of the pain. His palm made a satisfying thwack, so Steven gave her another swat. Joellen squirmed and shrieked, more in anger than suffering, but he kept her legs scissored between his thighs and went right on spanking her. In the street, wagons rolled past, their occupants staring at Joellen and Steven, but he didn’t give a damn. In fact, he gave Joellen five more solid swats before letting her up. He felt guilty looking at the tear streaks on her dirty cheeks, but only a little. “Monster! Fiend! I wouldn’t marry you if you could buy and sell my daddy five times over!” Joellen screamed, her hands knotted into fists at her sides. In a few years, when she was of age, she was going to make somebody a fine and spirited wife. Steven rose from the bench and sighed as he pulled his gloves back on. “Good-bye, Joellen,” he said. Taking his wallet from the inside pocket of his leather vest, he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “This will keep you until Big John gets here.” For a moment, she looked as if she was going to spit in his face. But then, at the last second, Joellen snatched the money from his hand. “I hate you!” she cried. Steven grinned as he walked away. In six months Joellen Lenahan not only wouldn’t hate him, she wouldn’t remember his name. Wearily,

I have another problem.” Caleb’s grin was at once endearing and obnoxious. “You’re naked in my bed, and you don’t own a stitch of clothing in the world,” he agreed. “You needn’t look so pleased about it!” Lily snapped, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. She was very careful not to let the covers slip away from her breasts. “Not only that,” Caleb went on, as though she hadn’t spoken, “but the whole fort is talking about us. Speculating on what’s going on right here in this room.” Lily flushed. Now that she could see things in better perspective she was furious with herself for giving in to Caleb the night of the fire. If she’d gone to Mrs. Tibbet and asked for a place to stay, she could have avoided this problem. She let her forehead rest on her upraised knees. “I’m just like my mother,” she despaired. Caleb made her lift her head. “No,” he said softly. “She gave up, and you don’t have the first idea how to do that. I don’t mind telling you that sometimes I wish you did.” He paused. “You’re still going to move onto your land, aren’t you?” Lily swallowed. “Yes,” she said, because Caleb was right. She didn’t know how to give up on her dream. She’d had to struggle for everything all her life, and she’d never learned to walk away from something she wanted. The major rose from the bed, gazing distractedly toward the window. Lily knew he wasn’t seeing the fluttering lace curtains, which needed washing, or the blue of the sky. Presently he spoke, his voice hoarse and so low that she had to strain to hear it. “I guess there’s no point in talking about it anymore, then. I’ll see what I can do about getting you some clothes.” Caleb’s loving had affected Lily like a dose of opium, but now she was fully awake, and having to stay in bed was like being held prisoner. “Mrs. Tibbet may still have some of Sandra’s things around,” she suggested. Caleb didn’t so much as glance in her direction. “Right,” he answered, crossing the room and pulling open the door. “Caleb, wait!” Lily cried. “You can’t just walk out and leave me here like this—I need to know how soon I can expect you back!” He let his head rest against the doorjamb for a moment, and his shoulders, always so straight and strong, looked slightly stooped to Lily. “Half an hour,” he said, and then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him. Lily

If you permit such a barbarous thing to happen, Caleb Halliday, I vow that I’ll never speak to you again.” He pushed back his chair, and Lily’s hand in the process, to stand. “If you have your way, we’ll be apart soon anyway. What do I have to lose?” “Your honor,” Lily argued. He crossed the room to take his campaign hat from one of the pegs beside the kitchen door. “When it comes to letting another man lay his hands on you, I have no honor,” he said bluntly. She grasped the back of a chair as he put his hat on and reached for the doorknob. “Where are you going? You can’t just leave me here—” “I need to think,” Caleb replied. “I’ll be at my office if you want me.” “Well, I won’t be here when you get back.” He grinned at her, but there was no fondness in the expression, no light in his eyes. “You won’t get far, will you?” he asked, and Lily saw mockery in the curve of his lips and the set of his shoulders. “I’ll wager you don’t want to face even Gertrude without my wedding band on your finger.” He

Lily didn’t move until much later, when he crossed the room to swat her lightly on her quilt-covered bottom. “Your bath water is hot again,” he said quietly. “Lock the door when I go.” Lily turned to look up at him. “Caleb—” He laid an index finger to her lips to silence her. “There’s been enough nonsense,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I’ll be away for a day or so. When I get back I want to find you living in my house, where you belong.” Before Lily could recover enough to respond, he was gone. She

Lily pulled the quilt over her and rolled to one side so that her back was to him. Now that her passion had been appeased, her pride was back in force, and it was painfully bruised. She heard the clank of metal against metal, then felt a cold rush of air as Caleb opened the back door and went out. She knew he’d gone to the pump for more water. Lily didn’t move until much later, when he crossed the room to swat her lightly on her quilt-covered bottom. “Your bath water is hot again,” he said quietly. “Lock the door when I go.” Lily turned to look up at him. “Caleb—” He laid an index finger to her lips to silence her. “There’s been enough nonsense,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I’ll be away for a day or so. When I get back I want to find you living in my house, where you belong.” Before Lily could recover enough to respond, he was gone. She

When gender non-conforming people cross paths with sexually confused and repressed people, shit hits the fan.

So, what is the right way to look at death? Do we see death as life's expiration date and the point of no return? Or is it simply a threshold to be crossed, on the way to another dimension, or another life? Do you want to know what the right answer is? Whatever makes you feel more comfortable about dying.

Star crossed lovers” A term used to describe two souls whose love is doomed to end in tragedy. Why? Because they defy the ethereal wisdom of the universe, the ancient laws of which are written in the constellations themselves. These people are by no means evil, it’s just that they together create a power that rivals that of any other, and it's that power in the end that ultimately destroys them.

On passing the woman for the third time, I stop to ask how it was that we continued to meet like that. She and her husband are thru-hiking the trail together, and they have their car with them. On most days, one will drop the other off at the south end of the trail to hike north. The driver then drives to a point where a road crosses at the north end of the trail, parks the car, and hikes south. They meet at midday on the trail. The northbound hiker will reach the car at the end of the day, and drive back to the south end of the section to retrieve the partner. Having the car offers them many options; they can camp, sleep in the car, or drive to a nearby town. They carry little more than a water bottle and lunch.

There are several lines of evidence that suggest that men might, in fact, be able to detect when women ovulate (Symons, 1995). First, during ovulation, women’s skin becomes suffused with blood. This corresponds to the “glow” that women sometimes appear to have, a healthy reddening of the cheeks. Second, women’s skin lightens slightly during ovulation as compared with other times of the menstrual cycle—a cue universally thought to be a sexual attractant (Frost, 2011; van den Berghe & Frost, 1986). A cross-cultural survey found that “of the 51 societies for which any mention of native skin preferences… is made, 47 state a preference for the lighter end of the locally represented spectrum, although not necessarily for the lightest possible skin color” (van den Berghe & Frost, 1986, p. 92). Third, during ovulation, women’s level of circulating estrogen increases, which produces a corresponding decrease in women’s WHR (Symons, 1995, p. 93). Fourth, ovulating women are touched more often by men in singles bars (Grammer, 1996). Fifth, men find the body odor of women to be more attractive and pleasant smelling during the follicular (fertile) stage of the menstrual cycle (Gildersleeve, Haselton, Larson, & Pillsworth, 2012; Havlicek, Dvorakova, Bartos, & Flegr, 2005; Singh & Bronstad, 2001). Sixth, men who smell T-shirts worn by ovulating women display a subsequent rise in testosterone levels compared to men who smell shirts worn by non-ovulating women or shirts with a control scent (Miller & Maner, 2010), although a subsequent study failed to replicate this effect (Roney & Simmons, 2012). Seventh, there are vocal cues to ovulation—women’s voices rise in pitch, in the attractive feminine direction, at ovulation (Bryant & Haselton, 2009). Eighth, women’s faces are judged by both sexes to be more attractive during the fertile than during the luteal phase (Puts et al., 2013; Roberts et al., 2004). Ninth, men perceive their romantic partners to be more attractive around ovulation (Cobey, Buunk, Pollet, Klipping, & Roberts, 2013). Tenth, women report feeling more attractive and desirable, as well as an increased interest in sex, around the time of ovulation (R ö der, Brewer, & Fink, 2009). And 11th, a study of professional lap dancers working in gentlemen’s clubs found that ovulating women received significantly higher tips than women in the non-ovulation phases of their cycle (Miller, Tybur, & Jordan, 2007).

THE PLAN CREATES CLARITY Plans can take many shapes and forms, but all effective plans do one of two things: they either clarify how somebody can do business with us, or they remove the sense of risk somebody might have if they’re considering investing in our products or services. Remember the mantra “If you confuse, you lose”? Not having a plan is a guaranteed way to confuse your customers. After potential customers listen to us give a keynote or visit our webpage or read an e-mail blast we’ve sent, they’re all wondering the same thing: What do you want me to do now? If we don’t guide them, they experience a little bit of confusion, and because they can hear that waterfall downstream, they use that confusion as an excuse not to do business with us. The fact that we want them to place an order is not enough information to motivate them. If we’re selling a storage system a customer can install in their garage, they hover over that “Buy Now” button subconsciously wondering whether it will work for them, how hard it will be to install, and whether it will sit unopened in the garage in boxes like the last thing they bought. But when we spell out how easy this whole thing is and let them know they can get started in three easy steps, they are more likely to place an order. We must tell them to . . . 1.​Measure your space. 2.​Order the items that fit. 3.​Install it in minutes using basic tools. Even though these steps may seem obvious, they aren’t obvious to our customers. Placing stones in the creek greatly increases the chance they will cross the creek.

I do not write to trigger victims. I write to comfort them, and I’ve found that victims identify more with pain than platitudes. When I write about weakness, about how I am barely getting through this, my hope is that they feel better, because it aligns with the truth they are living. If I were to say I was healed and redeemed, I worry a victim would feel insufficient, as if they have not tried hard enough to cross some nonexistent finish line. I write to stand beside them in their suffering.

What steps do they need to take to do business with you? Spell out those steps, and it’ll be as though you’ve paved a sidewalk through a field. More people will cross the field.

... crept up on his brother, quiet as a Shaolin monk crossing a shag rug... Not sure if he meant to; you learn to do things real quiet in prison.

This one-word prayer, Father, is uniquely Jesus’ prayer. His first recorded sentence at age twelve is about his father: “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” (Luke 2:49). Abba is the first word the prodigal son utters when he returned home. It is the first word of the Lord’s Prayer, and it is the first word Jesus prays in Gethsemane. It is his first word on the cross—“Father, forgive them” (Luke 23:34)—and one of his last—“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” (Luke 23:46).

She fell into it naturally and unassumingly, more as an angelic being than as a doer of good deeds. In performing her duties she innocently believed that she was awakening the afflicted to the nature and existence of the true source of power and health, or peace and joy. But, like all who have made the experiment, she gradually came to perceive that people are not interested in the divine power which is theirs but only in finding an intermediary who will undo the havoc which they have wrought through stupidity or meanness of soul. She discovered what others know only too well in a cynical way, that people prefer to believe in and worship a god who is remote rather than live out the godlike nature which is their inherent being. She found that people prefer the easy path, the lazy, irresponsible path, of confession, repentance and sinning anew to the hard but direct path which leads, not to the Cross, but to life more abundant, life everlasting.

They gathered in the center of the Court as evening deepened the gloom of the forest. Tables covered with Fae delicacies rose from the moss itself and parted the waters of the brook. Delphine had not imagined that temptation could wield such strength. There was no hunger, only desire; she had not felt hunger, or thirst, or any other mundane discomfort since she crossed through the linden. But the fruits and breads and crystalline ices and even those things far stranger--- clouds encapsulated by thin leaves, braided blossoms that shimmered with uncanny glaze, lacework wafers like the finest marzipan--- all of it beckoned her, begged her to taste, to try. Their scents were faint but heady, rosewater and citrus and pungent herbs and the air after the rain. They promised more--- savor, yes, but deeper, thicker draughts of pleasure, joy, knowledge.

XVII. Thinking, Tangling Shadows" Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude. You are far away too, oh farther than anyone. Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images, burying lamps. Belfry of fogs, how far away, up there! Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes, taciturn miller, night falls on you face downward, far from the city. You presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing. I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you. My life before anyone, my harsh life. The shout facing the sea, among the rocks, running free, mad, in the sea-spray. The sad rage, the shout, the solitude of the sea. Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky. You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane of that immense fan? You were as far as you are now. Fire in the forest! Burn in blue crosses. Burn, burn, flame up, sparkle in trees of light. It collapses, crackling. Fire. Fire. And my soul dances, seared with curls of fire. Who calls? What silence peopled with echoes? Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude, hour that is mine from among them all! Hunting horn through which the wind passes singing. Such a passion of weeping tied to my bedy. Shaking of all the roots, attack of all the waves! My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending. Thinking, burying lamps in the deep solitude. Who are you, who are you?

When you know that you (like Jesus) can’t do life on your own, then prayer makes complete sense. But it goes even deeper than that. Jesus defines himself only in relationship with his heavenly Father. Adam and Eve began their quest for self-identity after the Fall. Only after they acted independently of God did they have a sense of a separate self.1 Because Jesus has no separate sense of self, he has no identity crisis, no angst. Consequently, he doesn’t try to “find himself.” He knows himself only in relationship with his Father. He can’t conceive of himself outside of that relationship. Imagine asking Jesus how he’s doing. He’d say, “My Father and I are doing great. He has given me everything I need today.” You respond, “I’m glad your Father is doing well, but let’s just focus on you for a minute. Jesus, how are you doing?” Jesus would look at you strangely, as if you were speaking a foreign language. The question doesn’t make sense. He simply can’t answer the question “How are you doing?” without including his heavenly Father. That’s why contemplating the terror of the cross at Gethsemane was such an agony for Jesus. He had never experienced a moment when he wasn’t in communion with his Father. Jesus’ anguish is our normal. His prayer life is an expression of his relationship with his Father. He wants to be alone with the person he loves.

Lydia, Stephen thought, would leave the front door wide open and dare British soldiers passing by to cross the threshold.

They cannot seem to connect cross and character.

Faith doesn’t work by formula, so we are not going to either. Faith, as much as it pains me to say so, is not CrossFit, because God, I think it’s safe to say, doesn’t do burpees. And also doesn’t boss us around. Which means I cannot dictate your core movements. This is another reason we are going to be guided by a spider’s web: No two are alike. Each is a custom design reflecting not only the species of spider but also the environment in which the spider finds itself.

The cross says, “No matter what your sins, unlimited mercy is available to those who turn to God through Jesus’ merits.

The answer is the cross itself. We have all sinned against the law of God, and now this rebellion has come to climactic expression in our sinning against the ultimate gift of God. But the cross includes in it payment for this worst sin of all—the scorning of it.

Think much of the Savior’s suffering for you on that dreadful cross, think much of your sin that provoked such suffering, and then enter by faith into the love that took away your sin and guilt, and then give your work your best.

Examining yourself is fine—if you relate it to the cross and Christ’s love for you.

See John Weinlick’s biography of Zinzendorf. Prayer connects cross and character, God’s love for us, working in us a sacrificial love for others.

It requires faith to meet trouble and adversity heroically. Undoubtedly, at the time, the blessing is not apparent in the sorrow or the defeat. All seems disastrous and destructive. It is in the future, in the outworking, that the good is to come. It is a matter of faith, not of sight. "All chastening seemeth for the present to be not joyous, but grievous; yet afterward it yieldeth peaceable fruit unto them that have been exercised thereby, even the fruit of righteousness." Oh, the blessing of God's "afterwards"! Jacob one day thought and said that all things were against him, but afterward he saw that his great afflictions and losses were wrought in as parts of a beautiful plan of love for him. The disciples thought that the cross was the destruction of all their Messianic hopes; afterward they saw that it was the very fulfilment of these hopes. The pruning, which at the time cuts so into the life of the vine, lopping off great, rich branches, afterward is seen to have been the saving and enriching of the whole vine. So we always need faith. We must believe against appearances.

Of the 433 Medals of Honor awarded during World War II, none went to the more than one million African Americans who served. Nine black soldiers received the Distinguished Service Cross. In the navy, one African American received a high award: Dorie Miller, the cook at Pearl Harbor who jumped behind an AAA gun he had never been trained to use and fired at Japanese planes until he ran out of ammo. For his efforts, Miller received the Navy Cross, the third-highest decoration at that time (it was later elevated to the second-highest). Among the fifteen men awarded the Medal of Honor for their service on December 7, 1941, one was Mervyn Sharp Bennion, the mortally wounded captain of the USS West Virginia, whom Miller had helped pull to safety before he began firing.

Men had lines other men didn’t cross, an unspoken respected space. I imagined a thick line drawn like a perimeter around Lucas. Men would speak to me as if no line existed, every day I was forced to redraw it as quickly as I could. Why weren’t my boundaries inherent?

I was directed by the coachman to by far the most splendid temperance coffee-house I had ever seen: but it seemed too fine a lodging-house for harbouring the more characteristic English and I had not crossed the Border to see cosmopolites...

Cross-examination. It’s the best part. All instinct.

Cross-Examination aka The Silencing

He’s being nice to me now, and like every victim I have cross-examined before I fall for it. I ache for nice-ness.

Maxwell Miller and John Hayes [...] have pointed out that if “six hundred thousand fighting men” left Egypt, then altogether there would have been about 2.5 million people who left Egypt at that time, since most of the “fighting men” would have had wives, and most of the couples would have had several children. Add in the assorted others the Bible says were also present, and we have easily 2.5 million people taking part in the Exodus. As Miller and Hayes note, if this were the case, the Israelites would have formed a line 150 miles long, marching ten across, and would have taken “eight or nine days to march by any fixed point.” A line of escaped slaves 150 miles long certainly makes the crossing of the Red Sea very problematic, for Moses would have had to keep the water parted for nearly nine days for all his people to cross safely. Moreover, as Miller and Hayes note, we can only begin to imagine the logistics involved in keeping 2.5 million people alive in the desert for 40 years, especially if they are reduced to eating manna and quail upon occasion. However, it is unlikely that the Egyptians would have had that many Hebrew slaves in the first place, no matter when the Exodus took place (and if they had, the slaves probably would have revolted even earlier!).

I flopped down on my air mattress, and here I lie. I can actually feel my heartbeat throb in my aching, swollen feet. I’m cross-eyed and drooling on my pillow. I try to write, but coherent sentences do not come easily. I can barely think, yet I find I cannot stop smiling. I can already tell I’m going to like this PCT thing.

You’ve probably all seen this place before. It’s a large field filled with really old pecan trees. They are planted in rows with the grass trimmed beneath them. Sometimes the owners let the cattle run free in the field, their hulking bodies snorting beneath the gigantic barken trunks, their breath visible in the dewy morning air as the sun rises over—” I hold my crossed fingers up and interrupt him. “Dude, can we get on with it? Your third year creative writing class is doing wonders for your descriptive prose, but I’m ready to smash some skulls.” It takes all I have to not squeak in shock when Zelda actually seconds my statement with a fervent nod. Tommy sighs and flips past one, two, three of the notecards he was reading from. The dude must really be digging those writing classes. “Okay, here we go. 

The second I step into The Phoenix, Zelda hits me with another one of those stupid glares of hers. Well, I’m not one to keep things bottled up. The question is out before the bell over the door stops ringing. “Why, why, why do you keep looking at me like that?” She glances at the others around her like she doesn’t know full well I’m talking to her. “Who? Me?” She puts a dainty hand to her chest. I go into a long speech as I walk down the center aisle of the shop. “Cut the innocent act. You’re up to something. Every time I see you, you either look at me like you want me to burst into flames or like you know a secret about me. But the thing is, I’m an open book, I have no secrets. So, either you really do want me to burst into flames or you have, like, eye Tourette’s. Like you don’t have control over them. And if that were the case, then why have I never seen you randomly cross your eyes or blink rapidly?” Her brows knit together and her lips purse. Then her face relaxes and she freaking crosses her eyes. She turns to everyone else. “I have no idea what this guy is talking about.” They all laugh way too hard for my liking. Logan crosses his eyes, too. “Dude, are you okay? Do you need a glass of water? Maybe a cup of tea?” “Ha ha, it’s all so funny, but I’m serious!” My arms fling out in exasperation. “She’s up to something.” Zelda shakes her head and scoffs. “Whatever, Dan.

During this time I also start investing with the Sydney entrepreneur James Miller, the creator of Sumo Salad and one of those smart people that can see ahead of the curve.

I’m not crossing the aisle of sanity. The aisle is crossing me.

Strength is weakness rearranged, a rope plaited from grass.

However, brutal programs are avidly absorbed by children who have never been allowed to defend themselves against overt or subtle tormenting at home or who, for other reasons, can never articulate their feelings—for example, to spare a threatened parent. So they can satisfy their secret longings for revenge by identifying with what they see on TV. These children already carry within them the seeds of future destructiveness. Whether or not this destructiveness will erupt depends largely on whether life offers them more than violence: in other words, whether witnesses willing to rescue them cross their path. What is important to understand is that the child learns cruelty not by watching TV but always by suffering and repressing.

able to substantiate them or cross the publication threshold. Now, because of Comey’s conversation at Trump Tower, news organizations had reason to reconsider. Salacious memos circulating in Washington were one thing; the director of the FBI briefing the incoming president on those allegations was news and word leaked swiftly. Comey had in effect triggered the launch.