Miller's Tale Quotes

There is nothing left but the attempt and not trying is the same as failing.

I wished Odysseus were there so I could ask him: but how did the king get that man to help him, the one who had struck him so deep? The answer that came to me was from a different tale. Long ago, in my wide bed, I had asked Odysseus: "What did you do? When you could not make Achilles and Agamemnon listen?" He'd smiled in the firelight. "That is easy. You make a plan in which they do not.

I no longer believe love works like a fairy tale but like farming. Most of it is just getting up early and tilling the soil and then praying for rain. But if we do the work, we just might wake up one day to find an endless field of crops rolling into the horizon. In my opinion, that’s even better than a miracle. I’d rather earn the money than win the lottery because there’s no joy in a reward unless it comes at the end of a story.

Previously, when I began to write this tale, I set out by saying that Mlle. Claude was a whore. She is a whore, of course, and I'm not trying to deny it, but what I say now is--if Mlle. Claude is a whore then what name shall I find for the other women I know?

It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery: closed, of course.

Then the Miller fell off his horse.

Are you reading fairy tales, miller's daughter? Or are you living one?

Who was he to be so patient, while I spilled my blood? I was a woman grown. I was a goddess, and his elder by a thousand generations. I did not need his pity, his attention, anything. “Well?” I would demand. “Why don’t you say something?” “I am listening,” he would answer. “You see?” I said, when I was finished with the tale. “Gods are ugly things.” “We are not our blood,” he answered. “A witch once told me that.

Hermes was watching me, his head cocked like a curious bird. He was waiting for my reaction. Would I be skimmed milk for crying, or a harpy with a heart of stone? There was nothing between. Anything else did not fit cleanly in the laughing tale he wanted to spin of it.

This Nicholas anon leet fle a fart As greet as it had been a thonder-dent, That with the strook he was almoost yblent; And he was redy with his iren hoot, And Nicholas amydde the ers he smoot. Of gooth the skyn an hande-brede aboute, The hoote kultour brende so his toute, And for the smert he wende for to dye.

This probably isn’t something you’re supposed to say at a moment like this, but I think the moon is seriously overrated.” A moment like what? I bite my cheeks, taming the grin that threatens to take over my face. “And the stars?” I ask, once the smile is under control. “Wildly underrated,” he declares with a grin. He looks up again. “The sky is a storybook,” he says then. “Every constellation’s like its own fairy tale.

The play’s over, the house lights are up, the audience is gone, but I’m still on the damned stage.

You see?” I said, when I was finished with the tale. “Gods are ugly things.” “We are not our blood,” he answered. “A witch once told me that.

Be easy," answered the nix, "I will make thee richer and happier than thou hast ever been before, only thou must promise to give me the young thing which has just been born in thy house." "What else can that be," thought the miller, "but a young puppy or kitten?" and he promised her what she desired.

The fiery heat of love by now had cooled, For from the time he kissed her hinder parts He didn't give a tinker's curse for tarts; His malady was cured by this endeavor And he defied all paramours whatever.

How did it happen?” There was a piece of me that shouted its alarm: if you speak he will turn gray and hate you. But I pushed past it. If he turned gray, then he did. I would not go on anymore weaving my cloths by day and unraveling them again at night, making nothing. I told him the whole tale of it, each jealousy and folly and all the lives that had been lost because of me.

The answer that came to me was from a different tale. Long ago, in my wide bed, I had asked Odysseus: “What did you do? When you could not make Achilles and Agamemnon listen?” He’d smiled in the firelight. “That is easy. You make a plan in which they do not.

I have been wrong to hide my temper so completely. All this time I have been inadvertently teaching my girls that goodness is the absence of faults. An unattainable goal that can only lead to a lifetime of discouragement. Effortless virtue is a fairy tale, so far as I can tell. The honor is in the struggle.

The possibilities are as numerous as the butterflies.

We both loved what she called “safe terror,” the chance to feel afraid without actually being in danger – like watching a horror movie or reading a good ghost story.

there’s plenty about life that might best be ignored yet can’t be.

A person who suffers from his own bad habits is almost never likely to blame himself.

But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence.

All Persians are liars and lying is a sin. That's what the kids in Mrs. Miller's class think, but I'm the only Persian they've ever met, so I don't know where they got that idea. My mom says it's true, but only because everyone has sinned and needs God to save them. My dad says it isn't. Persians aren't liars. They're poets, which is worse. Poets don't even know when they're lying. They're just trying to remember their dreams. They're trying to remember six thousand years of history and all the versions of all the stories ever told. In one version, maybe I'm not the refugee kid in the back of Mrs. Miller's class. I'm a prince in disguise. If you catch me, I will say what they say in the 1,001 Nights. "Let me go, and I will tell you a tale passing strange." That's how they all begin. With a promise. If you listen, I'll tell you a story. We can know and be known to each other, and then we're not enemies anymore.

As I worked I continued to be a bit terrified in the back of my mind that it would be awful in the end, a big mishmash of nothing in particular, and there I would be, having wasted a whole week of my life destroying things I wanted to keep. But I should have trusted the long history of women who've come before me making rag rugs from everything that wasn't nailed down because it wasn't like that at all. Instead it was like a big, incredible tapestry that just happened to--if you could decipher it--tell a million little stories from my life. I could look at it and see my old lace slip and the girls' party dresses and my high school rainbow tie-dyes, the Irish kilt and the Halloween clown pants and so many, many other things. It was all in there somewhere. I felt like the miller's daughter in the fairy tale, the one who stays up all night spinning straw into gold. But who needs yellow metal, anyway? The was way better.

Ma in un'esistenza solitaria, sono rari i momenti in cui un'altra anima si fonde con la tua, così come le stelle sfiorano la terra una volta all'anno. Una tale costellazione era stato lui per me.

The fiery heat of love by now had cooled, for from the time he kissed her hinder parts, he didn't give a tinker's curse for tarts, his malady was cured by his endeavor, and he defied all paramours whatever.

but I’ve been lucky lucky for each man and each woman has brought me something and left me something, and I no longer must feel like Jeffers behind a stone wall, and I’ve been lucky in another way for what fame I have is largely hidden and quiet and I’ll hardly ever be a Henry Miller with people camping on my front lawn, the gods have been very good to me, they’ve kept me alive and even, still kicking, taking notes, observing, feeling the goodness of good people, feeling the miracle run up my arm like a crazy mouse. such a life, given to me at the age of 48, even though tomorrow does not know is the sweetest of the sweet dreams.

It softened him. This was a more pleasing tale: the princess swooning at his feet, forswearing her cruel father to be with him. Coming to him at night, in secret, that face of hers the only light. Who could say no?

Remember that an act of hatred belittles the one who acts it out - but not the one it is done against unless that person allows it to. Each person who reaches out in love grows a bit himself even when the love appears to be refused.

The king of Argos made a noise of disgust. “I’m sick to death of this tale about your marriage bed.” “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have suggested I tell it.” “And perhaps you should get some new stories, so I don’t fucking kill myself of boredom.

the Greek gods reflect what happens to humans when we see only ourselves and our own needs. The great gods have such infinite power and resources that they have forgotten what it’s like to want, to suffer, to show empathy, to face all of life’s minor inconveniences. They have forgotten what it’s like to be told no, and it has turned them into monsters, obsessed with dominance and hierarchy, always trying to claw a little higher. The frightening thing is how real this phenomenon is. I see the gods as a cautionary tale.

I no longer believe love works like a fairy tale but like farming. Most of it is just getting up early and tilling the soil and then praying for rain. But if we do the work, we just might wake up one day to find an endless field of crops rolling into the horizon.

My schoolfellows were mostly stiff, illiterate lads, who, with a little bad Latin and worse Greek, plumed themselves mightily on their scholarship; and I had little inducement to form any intimacies among them; for, of all men, the ignorant scholar is the least amusing.

She asked me what wedding present I would make to my bride. A wedding bed, I said, rather gallantly, of finest holm-oak. But this answer did not please her. ‘A wedding bed should not be made of dead, dry wood, but something green and living,’ she told me. ‘And what if I can make such a bed?’ I said. ‘Will you have me?’ And she said—” The king of Argos made a noise of disgust. “I’m sick to death of this tale about your marriage bed.” “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have suggested I tell it.” “And perhaps you should get some new stories, so I don’t fucking kill myself of boredom.

What more should I say, but that the Miller would not his words forebear for any man, and told his vulgar tale in his own way. I regret that I must repeat it here and, therefore, of every refined person I pray, for the love of God, think not that I speak with evil intent, but I must relate all the stories as they are told, be they better or worse, or else be untrue to myself and my design. And, therefore, he who wishes not to read it, turn over the leaf and choose another tale. For he shall find enough, great and small, of historical matters that touch upon gentility, and also morality and holiness. Blame me not if you should choose amiss.

Scylla was not born a monster. I made her.” His face was in the fire’s shadows. “How did it happen?” There was a piece of me that shouted its alarm: if you speak he will turn gray and hate you. But I pushed past it. If he turned gray, then he did. I would not go on anymore weaving my cloths by day and unraveling them again at night, making nothing. I told him the whole tale of it, each jealousy and folly and all the lives that had been lost because of me. “Her name,” he said. “Scylla. It means the Render. Perhaps it was always her destiny to be a monster, and you were only the instrument.” “Do you use the same excuse for the maids you hanged?” It was as if I had struck him. “I make no excuse for that. I will wear that shame all my life. I cannot undo it, but I will spend my days wishing I could.” “It is how you know you are different from your father,” I said. “Yes.” His voice was sharp. “It is the same for me,” I said. “Do not try to take my regret from me.” He was quiet a long time. “You are wise,” he said. “If it is so,” I said, “it is only because I have been fool enough for a hundred lifetimes.” “Yet at least what you loved, you fought for.” “That is not always a blessing. I must tell you, all my past is like today, monsters and horrors no one wants to hear.” He held my gaze. Something about him then reminded me strangely of Trygon. An unearthly, quiet patience. “I want to hear,” he said.

There was a piece of me that shouted its alarm: if you speak he will turn gray and hate you. But I pushed past it. If he turned gray, then he did. I would not go on anymore weaving my cloths by day and unraveling them again at night, making nothing. I told him the whole tale of it, each jealousy and folly and all the lives that had been lost because of me.

Have do," qoud she, "come of, cand speed the fase, Lest that oure neighbores thee espie." This Absolon gan wype his mouth ful drie. Derk was the nyght as pich, or as the cole, And athe wydnow out she putte hir hole, And Absolon, hym fil no bet new wers, but with his mouth he kiste hir naked ers Ful savourly, er he were war of this. Abak he stirte, and thoughte it was amys, For wel he wiste a woman hath no berd. He felte athyng al rough and long yherd, And seyde, "Fy! allas! what have Ido?" "Tehee!" qoud she, and clapte the wyndow to, And Absolon gooth forth a sory pas. "A berd! A berd!" qoud hende Nicholas,...

I bring this up because in writing some thoughts about a father, or not having a father, I feel as though I'm writing a book about a troll under a bridge or a dragon. For me, a father was nothing more than a character in a fairy tale. I know fathers are not like dragons because fathers actually exist. I have seen them on television and sliding their arms around their wives in grocery stores, and I have seen them in the malls and in the coffee shops, but these were characters in other people's stories. The sad thing is, as a kid, I wondered why I couldn't have a dragon, but I never wondered why I didn't have a father. (page 20)

There is no psychology in a fairy tale. The characters have little interior life; their motives are clear and obvious. If people are good, they are good, and if bad, they’re bad. Even when the princess in ‘The Three Snake Leaves’…inexplicably and ungratefully turns against her husband, we know about it from the moment it happens. Nothing of that sort is concealed. The tremors and mysteries of human awareness, the whispers of memory, the promptings of half-understood regret or doubt or desire that are so much part of the subject matter of the modern novel are absently entirely. One might almost say that the characters in a fairy tale are not actually conscious. They seldom have names of their own. More often than not they’re known by their occupation or their social position, or by a quirk of their dress: the miller, the princess, the captain, the Bearskin, Little Red Riding Hood. When they do have a name it’s usually Hans, just as Jack is the hero of every British fairy tale. The most fitting pictorial representation of fairy-tale characters seems to me to be found not in any of the beautifully illustrated editions of Grimm that have been published over the years, but in the little cardboard cut-out figures that come with the toy theatre.

Enormous hydrangeas with vibrant pink sponge-like blooms, rhododendrons and impatiens, tall spears of flowering oyster plants jostled together with Jurassic-looking philodendron leaves and tree ferns, a mixed bag all tied by a wild creeper with bell-shaped blue flowers. The damp smell of the garden reminded Jess of places she'd visited in Cornwall, like St. Just in Roseland, where fertile ground spoke of layers of different generations, civilizations past. At last, beyond the tangled greenery, Jess glimpsed the jutting white chimneys of a large roof. She realized she was holding her breath. She turned a final corner, just like Daniel Miller had done on his way to meet Nora, and there it was. Grand and magnificent, yet even from a distance she could see that the house was in a state of disrepair. It was perched upon a stone plinth that rose about a meter off the ground. A clinging ficus with tiny leaves had grown to cover most of the stones and moss stained the rest, so that the house appeared to sit upon an ocean of greenery. Jess was reminded of the houses in fairy tales, hidden and then forgotten, ignored by the human world only to be reclaimed by nature. Protruding from one corner of the plinth was a lion's head, its mouth open to reveal a void from which a stream of spring water must once have flowed. On the ground beneath sat a stone bowl, half-filled with stale rainwater. As Jess watched, a blue-breasted fairy wren flew down to perch upon the edge of the bowl; after observing Jess for a moment, the little bird made a graceful dive across the surface of the water, skimming himself clean before disappearing once more into the folds of the garden.

I no longer believe love works like a fairy tale but like farming. Most o fit is just getting up early and tilling the soil and then praying for rain. But if we do the work, we just might wake up one day to find an endless field of crops rolling into the horizon. In my opinion, that's even better than a miracle. I'd rather earn the money than win the lottery because there's no joy in a reward unless it comes at the end of a story.

muscular. “See, I have this problem,” he stated, grabbing at my wrists and pulling them from his chest, placing them at my side. Leaning in close, his lips grazed my ear and an involuntary shudder went through me. “I like my privacy, and you, Miss. Miller, just compromised it with your blonde hair, electric blue eyes and a peach dress that should only ever be worn by the bedroom floor.

gloaming

nitre

Byrony!

whelk

Boldness is the banner of strength; strength is the fruit of numbers; and numbers of apostates will be the ruin of Judea and the forgetting of God!

his aggressive nature stamped him with an individuality which has had no equal in all time. Over his countenance was a fine assumption of humility curiously inconsistent with a consciousness of excellence which made an atmosphere about him that could be felt. Yet, holding first place over these conflicting attributes was the stamp of tremendous mental power, and a heart-whole sweetness that was irresistible. The union of these four characteristics was to produce a man that would hold fast to theory, though all fact arise and shouted it down; who would maintain form, though the spirit had in horror long since fled the shape.

The union of these four characteristics was to produce a man that would hold fast to theory, though all fact arise and shouted it down; who would maintain form, though the spirit had in horror long since fled the shape.

Thus, inflexibly fixed in his convictions, he was unlimited in his capacity for maintaining them. In short, he was a leader of men, a zealot, a formalist and an inquisitor—one of great mentality dogmatized, of great spirit prejudiced, of immense capabilities perverted. Such was Saul of Tarsus.

The magical proposition of the gospel, once free from the clasps of fairy tale, was very adult to me, very gritty like something from Hemingway or Steinbeck,

cowry,

One woman’s recipe for laundry day included this 11-step routine that’s exhausting even to read: bild fire in back yard to het kettle of rain water. set tubs so smoke won’t blow in eyes if wind is peart. shave 1 hole cake lie sope in bilin water. sort things. make 3 piles. 1 pile white, 1 pile cullord, 1 pile work briches and rags. stur flour in cold water to smooth then thin down with bilin water [for starch]. rub dirty spots on board. scrub hard. then bile. rub cullord but don’t bile just rench [rinse] and starch. take white things out of kettle with broom stick handle then rench, blew [whitener] and starch. pore rench water in flower bed. scrub porch with hot sopy water turn tubs upside down go put on a cleen dress, smooth hair with side combs, brew cup of tee, set and rest and rock a spell and count blessings.

RUBY MILLER’S HOUSE WAS ON ORTEGA STREET IN THE Sunset district, a green stucco bungalow with a manicured lawn and a bowl of plastic roses in the picture window.

It’s all about creating that fairy tale. I may not write romance, but that doesn’t mean I don’t read it, and everything in those books is about making people think that the happily ever after of their dreams is within arm’s reach.

Then Hope, that most precarious of human emotions, slipped in on silent tiptoes.

Not much in this world scares that girl, but horses can have her acting like a wee kinner, experiencing their first thunderstorm.” Startled by the sudden turn in the conversation, it took Reuben a moment to comprehend what David had just told him. Knowing that there was no way that he had come out here with just the intention to inform him of one of his dochder’s phobias, Reuben tilted his head and asked, “And?” “She used to love horses, you know.” A hint of sadness appeared in those watery eyes. Placing a gnarled hand on his hip, David bowed his head slightly. “When she was younger, they were a passion of hers. She’d be out in the barn or out in the fields, but alas, nee more.” “Used to?” A finger of dread ran down the length of Reuben’s spine. He did know of Nancy King, there weren’t many people in the District who didn’t, at least, know

Since the term "fairy tale" by definition implies unreality, censorship can be minimal, especially if in the end good triumphs over evil, justice reigns, the sinner is punished, and the good person is rewarded; that is, if denial undoes the tale's insights into the truth. For the world is not just, goodness is seldom rewarded, and the cruelest deeds are selddom punished. Yet we tell all this to our children, who, like us, would naturally like to believe that the world is the way we are presenting it to them. (...) At the same time, there need be no fear of offending anyone, for the original author is unknown, the story has been recast countless times, and the truth has often been turned upside down, although sometimes it has managed to remain intact because it is so well hidden behind an innocuous mask that no one has been upset by it.

REWIND OR DIE Midnight Exhibit Vol. 1 Infested - Carol Gore Benny Rose: The Cannibal King - Hailey Piper - Jan. 23 Cirque Berserk - Jessica Guess - Feb. 20 Hairspray and Switchblades - V. Castro - Feb. 20 Sole Survivor - Zachary Ashford - Mar. 26 Food Fright - Nico Bell - Mar. 26 Hell’s Bells - Lisa Quigley - May 28 The Kelping - Jan Stinchcomb - May 28 Trampled Crown - Kirby Kellogg - Jun. 25 Dead and Breakfast - Gary Buller - Jun. 25 Blood Lake Monster - Renee Miller - Jul. 23 The Catcatcher - Kevin Lewis - Jul. 23 All You Need is Love and a Strong Electric Current - Mackenzie Kiera - Aug. 27 Tales From the Meat Wagon - Eddie Generous - Aug. 27 Hooker - M. Lopes da Silva - Oct. 29 Offstage Offerings - Priya Sridhar - Oct. 29 Dead Eyes - EV Knight - Nov. 26 Dancing on the Edge of a Blade - Todd Rigney - Dec. 12 Midnight Exhibit Vol. 2 - Dec. 12

I longed for glory. I remember nothing of my childhood more than my fervor for tales of glory and my plans to travel the world in quest of fame.

Some have suggested that the preponderance of trickster stories in folklore ranging from the Norse Loki to the Coyote of the New World may have in their origins stories of bargains gone awry, though the opposite may be as likely to be true--- that stories of human pride's comeuppance are a commonplace theme. ---Changelings and Gambler's Chances: Tales of Fairy Mischief, by William Fitzgerald

Tattooing is a gift,” said the night-watchman, firmly.

I had the honour of being the first man to introduce to the public (through the columns of the Medical Mercury) the case of Matthew Stevadore, the most highly coloured and artistically executed individual known to science

It has been remarked that “beauty is only skin-deep,” but in his case it was at all events more lasting than usual.

Signode strap

Overdrive magazine.

The Captain of the “Polestar” Arthur Conan Doyle

And the kingdom was very peaceful indeed. This, however, was not due to any brilliant reigning philosophy constructed by her father, King Abnegolde, or any skill he had in creating a functional bicameral legislative body made up of representatives from the peasant farmers', blacksmiths', woodcutters' or millers' guilds.

New York Times article from March 8, 1953, titled “Looking Back Two Billion Years.” “Obviously,” Edmond said, “this experiment raised some eyebrows. The implications could have been earth-shattering, especially for the religious world. If life magically appeared inside this test tube, we would know conclusively that the laws of chemistry alone are indeed enough to create life. We would no longer require a supernatural being to reach down from heaven and bestow upon us the spark of Creation. We would understand that life simply happens…as an inevitable by-product of the laws of nature. More importantly, we would have to conclude that because life spontaneously appeared here on earth, it almost certainly did the same thing elsewhere in the cosmos, meaning: man is not unique; man is not at the center of God’s universe; and man is not alone in the universe.” Edmond exhaled. “However, as many of you may know, the Miller-Urey experiment failed. It produced a few amino acids, but nothing even closely resembling life. The chemists tried repeatedly, using different combinations of ingredients, different heat patterns, but nothing worked. It seemed that life—as the faithful had long believed—required divine intervention. Miller and Urey eventually abandoned their experiments. The religious community breathed a sigh of relief, and the scientific community went back to the drawing board.” He paused, an amused glimmer in his eyes. “That is, until 2007…when there was an unexpected development.” Edmond now told the tale of how the forgotten Miller-Urey testing vials had been rediscovered in a closet at the University of California in San Diego after Miller’s death. Miller’s students had reanalyzed the samples using far more sensitive contemporary techniques—including liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry—and the results had been startling. Apparently, the original Miller-Urey experiment had produced many more amino acids and complex compounds than Miller had been able to measure at the time. The new analysis of the vials even identified several important nucleobases—the building blocks of RNA, and perhaps eventually…DNA. “It was an astounding science story,” Edmond concluded, “relegitimizing the notion that perhaps life does simply happen…without divine intervention. It seemed the Miller-Urey experiment had indeed been working, but just needed more time to gestate. Let’s remember one key point: life evolved over billions of years, and these test tubes had been sitting in a closet for just over fifty. If the timeline of this experiment were measured in miles, it was as if our perspective were limited to only the very first inch…” He let that thought hang in the air. “Needless to say,” Edmond went on, “there was a sudden resurgence in interest surrounding the idea of creating life in a lab.” I remember that, Langdon thought. The Harvard biology faculty had thrown

Bucuria unui gand frumos nu inseamnă nimic pe langă bucuria de a-i da expresie - o expresie permanentă. De fapt, e aproape imposibil să te infranezi de a da expresie unui gand frumos. Noi nu suntem decat instrumentele unei forţe care ne depăşeşte. Suntem creatori prin ingăduinţă, prin graţie. Nimeni nu creează de unul singur, de la sine putere şi prin propriile lui puteri. Artistul este un instrument care inregistrează ceva deja existent, ceva ce aparţine intregii omenirii şi, dacă e un artist, se simte obligat să il redea omenirii. A păstra pentru tine ideile tale frumoase ar insemna să fii ca un virtuoz care stă in orchestră cu mainile la piept. Eram indrăgostit de dragoste. Să iubeşti! Să le dăruieşti in intregime, să te prosternezi in faţa imaginii divine, să mori o mie de morţi imaginare, să anihilezi orice urmă a eului tău, să regăseşti intregul univers intrupat şi sanctificat in imaginea vie a altuia! De aci incolo incepe jocul. In orice direcţie te-ai intoarce, te pomeneşti intr-o sală a oglinzilor, alergi ca un nebun căutand o ieşire, doar ca să constaţi că eşti inconjurat de imagini distorsionate ale propriului tău dulce eu. A fi in stare să te dăruieşti in intregime, fără nicio reţinere, e cea mai mare bucurie pe care ţi-o poale ingădui viaţa. Iubirea adevărată incepe de la acest punct de disoluţie. Viaţa personală se intemeiază pe dependenţă, pe dependenţa reciprocă. Societatea e un agregat de persoane interdependente. Există şi o altă viaţă mai bogată dincolo de palisada societăţii, dincolo de viaţa personală, dar n-o poţi cunoaşte şi nu poţi accede la ea pană n-ai străbătut mai intai inălţimile şi depresiunile junglei personale.

A person who suffers from his own bad habits is almost never likely to blame himself. Everyone else becomes a target. And the folks who are different become the biggest target. Travis

The major set Lily in a chair near the fire, and he dropped to one knee in front of her, took her hand in his, and kissed it He looked so like a prince from a fairy tale that Lily was nearly overcome. “I didn’t make a proper proposal before,” he said quietly. “Oh, Caleb.” “There’s never been anyone else for me, Lily,” he went on, “and there never will be again. I’m promising you right now that your happiness will always be as important to me as my own.” Lily’s eyes brimmed with joyous tears. Why had she waited so long? She put her arms around Caleb’s neck and embraced him, and his head was cradled against the plump cushion of her breasts. “I love you so much,” she whispered. He looked up at her, a glint dancing in his eyes. “Show me, Mrs. Halliday.” Lily

To be capable of great love, (that of myths, legends, and fairy tales), one must have had more so, greatly suffered, (that of bleeding heart nightmares)

We are not meant to survive our lives, we are meant to live them. We are not meant to die unscathed in pristine condition. We are meant to die with scars, emotional and physical, each one there to remind us of what we have overcome, each one there to chronicle our lives. Make your life a story worth reading. A tale worth telling. A lesson worth learning.

Some of you might know me as Meg Lacey, but Lynda Miller is my real name. Of course, I am usually called Lynn and only Lynda by my father when I was in trouble.

reticule.

A man might as well say that millers and cats and princesses are fabulous animals, because they appear side by side with goblins and mermaids in the stories of the nursery.

Today, contemplate the psychic path taken in this story. When reflecting on dreams or fairy tales, it’s important to remember that all the characters are inner aspects of ourselves. You are not only the miller’s daughter, but the miller, the king, the faithful servant, the baby, and Rumpelstiltskin. Even more important, you are both the straw and the gold.

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.

Travis Walton never once knew when to keep his mouth shut, and that’s a shame, since little that spilled out of it ever benefited anyone.

The Miller glared round at us, then his ruined face collapsed into a grin that showed all his tombstone teeth.

How could they know that a miller's not just as greedy as a hole in the ground, but as slippery as a handful of butter as well?

AUTHOR’S NOTE The First Assassin is a work of fiction, and specifically a work of historical fiction—meaning that much of it is based on real people, places, and events. My goal never has been to tell a tale about what really happened but to tell what might have happened by blending known facts with my imagination. Characters such as Abraham Lincoln, Winfield Scott, and John Hay were, of course, actual people. When they speak on these pages, their words are occasionally drawn from things they are reported to have said. At other times, I literally put words in their mouths. Historical events and circumstances such as Lincoln’s inauguration, the fall of Fort Sumter, and the military crisis in Washington, D.C., provide both a factual backdrop and a narrative skeleton. Throughout, I have tried to maximize the authenticity and also to tell a good story. Thomas Mallon, an experienced historical novelist, has described writing about the past: “The attempt to reconstruct the surface texture of that world was a homely pleasure, like quilting, done with items close to hand.” For me, the items close to hand were books and articles. Naming all of my sources is impossible. I’ve drawn from a lifetime of reading about the Civil War, starting as a boy who gazed for hours at the battlefield pictures in The Golden Book of the Civil War, which is an adaptation for young readers of The American Heritage Picture History of the Civil War by Bruce Catton. Yet several works stand out as especially important references. The first chapter owes much to an account that appeared in the New York Tribune on February 26, 1861 (and is cited in A House Dividing, by William E. Baringer). It is also informed by Lincoln and the Baltimore Plot, 1861, edited by Norma B. Cuthbert. For details about Washington in 1861: Reveille in Washington, by Margaret Leech; The Civil War Day by Day, by E. B. Long with Barbara Long; Freedom Rising, by Ernest B. Ferguson; The Regiment That Saved the Capitol, by William J. Roehrenbeck; The Story the Soldiers Wouldn’t Tell, by Thomas P. Lowry; and “Washington City,” in The Atlantic Monthly, January 1861. For information about certain characters: With Malice Toward None, by Stephen B. Oates; Lincoln, by David Herbert Donald; Abe Lincoln Laughing, edited by P. M. Zall; Lincoln and the Civil War in the Diaries of John Hay, edited by Tyler Dennett; Lincoln Day by Day, Vol. III: 1861–1865, by C. Percy Powell; Agent of Destiny, by John S. D. Eisenhower; Rebel Rose, by Isabel Ross; Wild Rose, by Ann Blackman; and several magazine articles by Charles Pomeroy Stone. For life in the South: Roll, Jordan, Roll, by Eugene D. Genovese; Runaway Slaves, by John Hope Franklin and Loren Schweninger; Bound for Canaan, by Fergus M. Bordewich; Narrative of the Life of Henry Box Brown, written by himself; The Fire-Eaters, by Eric H. Walther; and The Southern Dream of a Caribbean Empire, by Robert E. May. For background on Mazorca: Argentine Dictator, by John Lynch. This is the second edition of The First Assassin. Except for a few minor edits, it is no different from the first edition.