Mining Motivational Quotes

Let the people talk, let people doubt, and let people question you, but never allow yourself to quit walking your path. Their path is their own and the path you walk is that of your own. Sweet child of mine, be the brave child of mine.

Uneori uit unde mă aflu şi zâmbesc aşa, fără motiv. Câteodată sunt vesel. Vesel de tot. Pentru că uit de mine. Mă pierd pe undeva, în vreun loc depărtat, cum ai uita o carte pe fereastră.

When evening comes, I return home and go into my study. On the threshold I strip off my muddy, sweaty, workday clothes, and put on the robes of court and palace, and in this graver dress I enter the antique courts of the ancients and am welcomed by them, and there I taste the food that alone is mine, and for which I was born. And there I make bold to speak to them and ask the motives of their actions, and they, in their humanity, reply to me. And for the space of four hours I forget the world, remember no vexation, fear poverty no more, tremble no more at death: I pass indeed into their world.

Without the fear of occasional gaffes, the willingness to be perfectly imperfect, and the heart of a child who creates chaos first thing in the morning for a parent; you are not allowing our inner child to grow. You grow in pain, not in years, and you must cross the bridge without knowing of the pain, the tears, or the trials and tribulations that you will come to have to face, but sweet child of mine, stay the happy child of mine.

Take me to your darkest corners and watch your demons surrender to mine..

There's no such thing as evil for its own sake. All evil is motivated - even mine {Lucifer}.

Because I always feel like running Not away, because there is no such place Because if there was, I would have found it by now Because it's easier to run, Easier than staying and finding out you're the only one who didn't run Because running will be the way your life and mine will be described, As in "the long run" Or as in having "given someone a run for his money" Or as in "running out of time" Because running makes me look like everyone else, though I hope there will never be cause for that Because I will be running in the other direction, not running for cover Because if I knew where cover was, I would stay there and never have to run for it Not running for my life, because I have to be running for something of more value to be running and not in fear Because the thing I fear cannot be escaped, eluded, avoided, hidden from, protected from, gotten away from, Not without showing the fear as I see it now Because closer, clearer, no sir, nearer Because of you and because of that nice That you quietly, quickly be causing And because you're going to see me run soon and because you're going to know why I'm running then You'll know then Because I'm not going to tell you now

Be polite in your speeches. Good information rudely communicated will make no positive difference.

His mouth twisted into a perceptive, sexy smile. "Hmm." "Hmm?" I looked away, flustered, automatically using irritation to cover my discomfort up. "What does 'hmm' have to do with anything? Could you ever use more than five words? All this grunting and miced words make you come across--primal." His smile tipped higher. "Primal." "You're impossible." "Me Jev, you Nora." "Stop it." But I nearly smiled in spite of myself. "Since we're keeping it primal, you smell good," he observed. Hw moved closer, makin me acutely aware of his size, the rise and fall of his chest, the warm burn of his skin on mine. Electricity tingled along my scalp, and I shuddered with pleasure. "It's called a shower...," I began automatically, then trailed off. My memory snagged, taken aback by a compelling and forceful sense of undue familiarity. "Soap, shampoo, hot water," I added, almost as an afterthought. "Naked. I know the drill," Jev said, something unreadable passing over his eyes. Unsure how to proceed, I attempted to wash away the moment with an airy laugh. "Are you flirting with me, Jev?" "Does it feel that way to you?" "I don't know you well enough to say either way." I tried to keep my voice level, neutral even. "Then we'll have to change that." Still uncertain of his motives, I cleared my throat. Two could play this game. "Running from bad guys together is your idea of playing getting-to-know-you?" "No. This is." He dipped my body backward, drawing me up in a slow arc until he raised me flush against him. In his arms, my joints loosened, my defenses melting as he led me through the sultry steps.

The psyche cannot tolerate a vacuum of love. In the severely abused or deprived child, pain, dis-ease, and violance rush in to fill the void. In the average person in our culture, who has been only "normally" deprived of touch, anxiety and an insatiable hunger for posessions replace the missing eros. The child lacking a sense of welcome, joyous belonging, gratuitous security, will learn to hoard the limited supply of affection. According to the law of psychic compensation, not being held leads to holding on, grasping, addiction, posessiveness. Gradually, things replace people as a source of pleasure and security. When the gift of belonging with is denied, the child learns that love means belongin to. To the degree we are arrested at this stage of development, the needy child will dominate our motivations. Other people and things (and there is fundamentally no difference) will be seen as existing solely for the purpose of "my" survival and satisfaction. "Mine" will become the most important word.

Where do they go, these dreams of mine? Do they live? Do they die? Do they fall? Do they fly?

Got just enough room to be a friend of yours. Oh I hope you got room to be a friend of mine.

Your life is carefully watched over, as was mine. The Lord knows both what He will need you to do and what you will need to know. He is kind and He is all-knowing. So you can with confidence expect that He has prepared opportunities for you to learn in preparation for the service you will give. You will not recognize those opportunities perfectly, as I did not. But when you put the spiritual things first in your life, you will be blessed to feel directed toward certain learning, and you will be motivated to work harder. You will recognize later that your power to serve was increased, and you will be grateful.

My Angel, My greatest hope is that you never have to read this. Vee knows to give you this letter only if my feather is burned and I’m chained in hell or if Blakely develops a devilcraft prototype strong enough to kill me. When war between our races ignites, I don’t know what will become of our future. When I think about you and our plans. I feel a desperate aching. Never have I wanted things to turn out right as as I do now. Before I leave this world, I need to make certain you know that all my love belongs to you. You are the same to me now as you were before you swore the Changeover Vow. You are mine. Always. I love the strength, courage, and gentleness of your soul. I love your body too. How could someone so sexy and perfect be mine? With you I have purpose-someone to love, cherish and protect. There are secrets in my past that weigh on your mind. You've trusted me enough not to ask about them, and it's your faith that has made me a better man. I don’t want to leave you with anything hidden between us. I told you I was banished from heaven for falling in love with a human girl. The I way I explained it, I risked everything to be with her. I said those words because they simplified my motivations. But they weren't the truth. The truth is I had become disenchanted with the archangels’s shifting goals and wanted to push back against them and their rules. That girl was an excuse to let go of an old way of living and accept a new journey that would eventually lead me to you. I believe in destiny, Angel. I believe every choice I've made has brought me closer to you. I looked for you for a very long time. I may have fallen from heaven but I fell for you. I will do whatever it takes to make sure you win this war. Nephilim will come out on top. You’ll fulfill your vow to the Black Hand and be safe. This is my priority even if the cost is my life. I suspect this will make you angry. It may be hard to forgive me. I promised that we would be together at the end of this and you may resent me for the breaking that vow. I want you to know I did everything to keep my word. As I write this I am going over ever possibility that will see us through this. I hope I find a way. But if this choice I have to make comes down to your or me, I choose you. I always have. All my love, Patch

People will let you down in this business every single day. I think you'll be let down and disappointed more than you'll be accepted and excited. But you need to find ways to keep yourself inspired. This is mine. What's yours?

My strength is my pride. My pride is my heart. And my heart will always be mine and mine alone.

Good motives butter no parsnips, and hell is paved with buttered parsnips.

Do you have a personal mantra? Mine comes from a childhood song. "Wherever I go the grass grows greener.

Here you are. Still standing. Fierce with the reality of love and loss. Wearing the truth of our hearts on your tattered sleeves. And yes, this one very nearly took you out. And yes, there were days when the darkness was heavy and the climb out of that rabbit hole required you to mine your depths for strength you didn’t even know you had. But here you are. Broken open by hope. Cracked wide by loss. Full of longing and grief and the burn of that phoenix fire. Warrior painted with ashes. Embers from the blaze still clinging to your newborn skin, leaving you forever marked with scars of rebirth. And just look at you. Heart broken but still beating. Arms empty but still open. Face raised to the sky and giving thanks for the light, even when it hurts your eyes. My god, you are beautiful.

When evening comes, I return home and enter my study; on the threshold I take off my workday clothes, covered with mud and dirt, and put on the garments of court and palace. Fitted out appropriately, I step inside the venerable courts of the ancients, where, solicitously received by them, I nourish myself on that food that alone is mine and for which I was born; where I am unashamed to converse with them and to question them about the motives for their actions, and they, out of their human kindness, answer me. And for four hours at a time I feel no boredom, I forget all my troubles, I do not dread poverty, and I am not terrified by death. I absorb myself into them completely.

As an artist, my talents are not mine alone to just keep. My creations have to touch lives, spread love and let my skills be used only in good things but should be selfless not through selfish motives. In this manner, I am giving the gift back to my Master Creator." - Elizabeth's Quotes

He has me pinned on my back in record time, his mouth crashing against mine as we frantically devour one another. “Awesome speech,” he murmurs, pushing my sweater up and planting his hot mouth against my equally hot skin. “Very motivational.

The infinite loves of two birds were broken. I and You were the two birds. The strong pillars of faith, trust, hope, conviction and whatever that makes a strong building, the building is obviously known as relations, were now go down. Those pillars lose their strength. They were no more able to balance my and yours’s infinite love..Tamanna breaks down

Truth is above any god, yours or mine.

More secrets are improperly disclosed from boredom than from any other motive;

The wants, needs, feelings, hours, hopes, and dreams of everyone around you bear equal weight to those of your own. Neither mine nor yours are greater. Ingrain that into your understanding.

The wealthiest place in the world is not the gold mines of South America or the oil fields of Iraq or Iran. They are not the diamond mines of South Africa or the banks of the world. The wealthiest place on the planet is just down the road. It is the cemetery. There lie buried companies that were never started, inventions that were never made, bestselling books that were never written, and masterpieces that were never painted. In the cemetery is buried the greatest treasure of untapped potential.

The problem, David, is your cynicism only runs one direction. If somebody comes on TV and says everything is great and wonderful, you don’t believe it, you say they’re blowing smoke up your butt. You demand proof. But if one second later, some guy comes on and says everything is falling apart, you automatically believe it, no questions asked. If those people had told you that this mine monster situation was no big deal and that we should just go home, you wouldn’t have believed them, not for a second. But the moment they said it was a Class G apocalypse, you were on board. As if nobody ever has motivation to tell you things are worse than they really are. And you know for a fact that’s not true! Nothing controls people like fear.

Bastien rolled his eyes, "Calm down, Hauk. All you're going to do is hurt yourself." He glared at Bastien. "If you want to see exactly how angry someone can get, tell them to calm down when they're already pissed off!" Bellowing, he tried his best to break free. "Is that helping? I just gotta know." "When I get loose, Cabarro, your ass is the first one I'm kicking." "Oh good. Hope you get out soon. Been awhile since I had a good ass-kicking." Bastien made a kissy face at him. "Says the man who's so bruised, he looks like a two-year old banana." "Now that's just mean and hurtful." "Telise! He's awake again." She moved forward and kicked Hauk in the face. "I wouldn't do that," Bastien warned. "Don't motivate the Andarion for murder. It ain't going to work out well for any of us. 'Specially me, since mine's the first ass he's planning to come after.

When I was around Sunny, there was no time to dream about some easier, prettier, more comprehensible, less fucked-up existence. Now was all we had: Sunny lifting her eyes to meet mine. Cupping water in my own hands to rinse the blood off her head. Sunny’s tongue on my nose, her tail thudding on my leg. The reach of my hand across her spine. The words of comfort and rage and fear and sadness and hope that I spoke only in her presence.

It is hard not to envy. So dreadfully hard. Within my sight, within my reach, my senses are bathed in what I wish for, coveting the tiniest taste of what I know is not mine. Turn away. Do not be jealous. It is hard not to envy.

Oh! Almighty and Everlasting God, Creator of Heaven, Earth and the Universe: Help me to be, to think, to act what is right, because it is right; make me truthful, honest and honorable in all things; make me intellectually honest for the sake of right and honor and without thought of reward to me. Give me the ability to be charitable, forgiving and patient with my fellowmen—help me to understand their motives and their shortcomings—even as Thou understandest mine! Amen, Amen, Amen. Say

I don't worry about people copying me. Their next move can't happen until I make mine.

People may "other" me for the color of my skin and the shape of my eyes. This is their weakness. It is not mine.

There’s no shame in not knowing how to do something. There’s no shame in learning and trying. Shame never works as a motivator.

Tragedy happens to lots of people. You can decide to let it destroy you, or you can decide to move on.

I was hurt, but I would not die. The sunrise could still be mine. Another day.

The problem is not the visibility of dark skin, but who sees it and what the viewer feels motivated to do next.

It wasn't my day, till I made it mine..!

VALENTINE'S DAY POEM: What earth is to sky.. on the horizon.. What moon is to night.. no matter start studded ocean! What Love is to life.. above all give and take.. that you are to me.. a rhythm that soulful music would make! * Let's surrender to each other.. for a dream to be woven together!! You're my weakness and my strength.. wanna live with you till the end!! .. and beyond.. ;)!!! * Even a dent in the universe.. can't express my Love for you! My life is yours forever.. O girl, O girl.. O girl.. you be mine!! Not just for this time.. Everyday beyond.. Valentine, O O my heart, be my.. Valentine!

My audience listened, mouths agape, as I reeled my story before them. Their imaginations had been good, but mine was better. They had been amusing themselves, but I was motivated by the desire to escape.

I coax my palm into his lapel in search of my wish, returning his feverish kiss. "Checkmate, you son of a bug," I say against his mouth two seconds before my fingers find an empty pocket. "Sleight of hand, blossom," he says right back. "'Tis in fact in my pants pocket, if you'd like to search there." I shove him off and drop to the floor, wiping my mouth. "It's mine!" "And you'll receive it when the time is right." His lips, all I can look at, tilt into that smug smile that I've come to detest. He motions toward the chair. "Sit. You've just been soundly kissed. No doubt you're short of breath." "Don't flatter yourself." I huff in an effort to hide the gulp of air and hold the teddy bear against my chest. "That kiss meant nothing. It had underlying motivation." "Oh, to be sure. That kiss was nothing if not motivational.

Sînt oameni cărora le este dat să guste numai otrava din lucruri, pentru care orice surpriză este o surpriză dureroasă și orice experiență un nou prilej de tortură. Dacă se va spune că această suferință își are motive subiective, ținînd de o constituție particulară, voi întreba: există un criteriu obiectiv pentru aprecierea suferinței? Cine ar putea preciza că vecinul meu suferă mai mult decît mine sau că Isus a suferit mai mult decît toți? Nu există măsură obiectivă, deoarece ea nu se măsoară după excitația exterioară sau indispoziția locală a organismului, ci după modul în care suferința este simțită și reflectată în conștiință.

TEDDY DAY POEM: A bear hug for you, and I would make you forget your sorrows! I’ll be there with you forever, in your today and all tomorrows!! .. The moment I am not there.. Close your eyes and you'll see me.. You're there in my heart, and yours, I always would be; so just be fine! .. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. You're my buddy and I am your teddy.. O sweety, you be my.. Valentine. .. Just be mine.. O O.. be my Valentine!!!

CHOCOLATE DAY POEM: "Chocolate, dark or light.. Makes me smile bright. Chocolate, whether speak or not.. If it’s love, it conveys a lot. But when you’re.. not there with me.. It’s just a piece.. of sugar candy. It’s you, who makes it sweeter.. I love it with you, even if it’s bitter. So be there always.. stay forever.. I can’t think of life.. without you ever. .. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. You are my choco-life.. You be my.. Valentine. .. Just be mine.. O O.. Valentine!!!

Most people in civilized communities do not steal, and I think the usual motive is the great likelihood of punishment here on earth. This is borne out by the fact that in a mining camp during a gold rush, or in any such disorderly community, almost everybody steals.

Dar, în toate acele dimineți de tristă întoarcere din vis, aveam ceva de care să mă prind, un motiv de înviorare: știam că voi evada în larg, pe coclauri, unde voi fi stăpân pe mine și liber să-mi aleg jocurile și isprăvile, animal zburdalnic, fără întrebări și nedumeriri. Era suficient s-o aud pe sora mică în curte, ca să mă regăsesc, să sar de sub plapumă, să-mi leg strâns brăcinarul larg al pantalonilor și să plec, cu ea de mână, printre bălării - amândoi îmbujorați și sprinteni, în soarele pe care-l bănuiam numai al nostru și al mărăcinilor.

She wrapped her arms around his head and hugged him to her abdomen. “Why are you so nice to me?” His chuckle was muffled against her belly. “I have ulterior motives.” “Such as?” “Making you mine.” Shit. Why had he said that? He was showing his cards much too soon. She slapped his shoulder. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” He wished he could say he didn’t mean it. He didn’t particularly want to be so far gone. Ah, what the fuck—he liked her. A lot. She was just going to have to learn to live with it. If he could admit it, surely she could accept it. “I mean it, Toni.” He untangled his head from her grasp so he could look up at her. “I really do like you. And it isn’t just lust.” For once in his dick-led life. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Even when you’re not in my bed, you’re in my head. It’s driving me crazy. I’m not sure how to handle it.” She smiled, and he saw her feelings displayed clearly in her eyes. “You’re going to break my heart someday.” She released a sigh and stared over his head as she spoke. “I really like you too, Logan. But maybe it’s best if we pretend the only thing between us is lust. If I fall for you . . .” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “You don’t trust me with your heart.” “Should I?” He wanted to say she should, wanted to say that he’d never hurt her, but he, more than anyone, was aware of his track record with women. “That’s something you’ll have to decide on your own.

I'm only a cat, and I stay in my place... Up there on your chair, on your bed or your face! I'm only a cat, and I don't finick much... I'm happy with cream and anchovies and such! I'm only a cat, and we'll get along fine... As long as you know I'm not yours... you're all mine! (Author Unknown)

De unde derivă adâncimea iubirii, dacă nu din negaţia cunoaşterii? Ceea ce în cunoaştere e plat, iubire devine absolut. Orice cunoaştere obiectivă e plată; e o punere în relaţii prin care obiectele îşi pierd valoarea. Cunoaştem un lucru pentru a-l face ca pe celelalte; cu cât cunoaştem mai mult, cu atât realitatea devine mai comună, mai vulgară şi mai plată, deoarece cunoaşterea nu salvează niciodată nimic, ci distruge progresiv în fiinţă. Există, în orice cunoaştere obiectivă, care consideră lucrurile din afară, le încadrează în legi şi le pune în relaţii, care înţelege totul şi încearcă să explice totul, o tendinţă distructivă, iar când pornirea spre cunoaştere devine pasiune, ea nu este decât o formă de autodistrugere. Iubim în măsura în care negăm cunoaşterea, în măsura în care ne putem abandona absolut unei valori, făcând-o şi pe aceasta absolută. Şi dacă nu ne-am iubi decât dorinţa noastră de iubire sau iubirea noastră, în acest avânt nu este mai puţină negaţie a cunoaşterii. Cunoaştem cu adevărat numai în momentele când nu vibrăm intern, când nu ardem, când nu ne putem ridica la un înalt nivel psihic. Diferenţa aceasta de nivel psihic între cunoaştere şi iubire ne indică suficient pentru ce ele nu pot vieţui niciodată împreună. Când iubeşti o fiinţă, momentele de reală cunoaştere sunt extrem de rare; apariţia lor se datoreşte unui minus de iubire. Când ajungi uneori să-ţi dai seama din afară, cu o perspectivă obiectivă, că femeia care-ţi şerpuieşte ca o obsesie întreaga ta fiinţă, care a crescut organic în tine, seamănă cu oricare alta ca adâncime sufletească, sau când înţelegi că zâmbetul ei nu e unic, ci perfect reversibil, când o poţi încadra în rândul celorlalte şi găseşti explicaţii generale pentru reacţiile ei individuale, atunci cunoaşterea a suplinit dureros elanurile iubirii. Iubirea este o fugă de adevăr. Şi iubim cu adevărat numai când nu vrem adevărul. Iubirea împotriva adevărului, iată o luptă pentru viaţă, pentru propriile extazuri şi pentru propriile greşeli. Pe fiinţa ce o iubim o cunoaştem cu adevărat numai după ce n-o mai iubim, când am devenit lucizi, clari, seci şi goi. Şi în iubire nu putem cunoaşte, fiindcă persoana ce o iubim actualizează, numai, un potenţial lăuntric de iubire. Realitatea primordială şi efectivă este iubirea din noi. Pentru aceasta iubim. Iubesc iubirea din mine, iubesc iubirea mea. Femeia este pretextul indispensabil care-mi aduce într-un ritm intens pulsaţiile timide ale iubirii. Nu poate exista o iubire pur subiectivă. Dar, între abandonarea în experienţa voluptuoasă a iubirii ca stare pură şi abandonarea în culmile unei alte fiinţe, întâia este cea primordială. Iubim o femeie fiindcă ne este scumpă iubirea noastră. Singurătatea sexelor şi lupta sălbatică între bărbat şi femeie îşi au izvorul in această interioritate a iubirii. Căci în iubire ne gustăm, ne savurăm pe noi înşine, ne încântăm de voluptăţile tremurului nostru erotic. Din acest motiv, iubirea este cu atât mai intensă şi mai profundă, cu cât distanţa de persoana iubită este mai mare. Prezenţa ei fizică face din sentimentul nostru ceva prea orientat, cu o direcţie prea determinată, încât ceea ce este în noi cu adevărat trăire erotică pură, elan subiectiv, ne pare a veni din afară, desprinzându-se din prezenţa fizică a persoanei iubite. Numai iubirea de departe, iubirea care creşte alimentată de fatalitatea spaţiului, numai aceasta se prezintă ca stare pură. Atunci ai priză directă pe adânca ei interioritate, atunci trăieşti iubirea ca iubire, adâncindu-te în zvâcnirile unui sentiment, în farmecul lui voluptuos, care face suferinţele fluide, le topeşte ca într-o iluzie.

my beautiful friend, even on your darkest day i have benefited from the warmth of your light. and i know i’m not the only one. even when you are not consciously giving, you are still giving so much. with your openness, your kindness, your understanding. see yourself through my eyes, for just a moment. feel yourself through my heart.Allow me the honor of reflecting back to you the love you have shown me, time and again, when it was only real love, and real friendship that could have pulled me from the pain. let me take some of your pain now. I am here. I am yours. You are mine, my friend. I am grateful.

Among people who have autism and speech challenges, I think there will always be individuals whose “verbal blocks” come from the same place as mine. They too, I believe, can unlock language by referencing common points between memory scenes and the moment they’re in. This might take a great deal of practice, but their family, helpers and teachers mustn’t give up on them. The person with special needs will sense that resignation, lose their motivation and stop trying to speak. This can erode even their will to live. Believe me. Communication is the person, to a major degree. Please don’t be the first to walk away.

No one’s getting out of here alive” is one of mine. I find it motivational and comforting. I say it to myself when I’m marching along on the elliptical machine, because it reminds me that there absolutely will come an end to my time on earth, and if I want to push it off as far into the distance as I can, I need to get my heart strong and work off the sugar I consume every day. I say it to myself when I’m trying to calm down and deal with a jerk, because it helps me put things in perspective. We’re all going to die, and would I really die with more points if I took this person down, or should I have some empathy and grace and let our differences go?

The choices were mine. The errors, mine. But if people only understood how those mistakes were never intended. If only they understood how I never meant to end up here. Not like this. Never this broken. Never this stained. Perhaps if they understood, they would cease to speak of me in the cold, judgmental way they do. If only one person understood.

So the question is, what can I do to motivate you, Polly?” She eyes me salaciously and I drop my gaze, unable to return the intensity. Gently, she uses one finger to lift my chin and make my eyes meet her own. They are a vivid blue and alive with desire for me. The air around us is charged and the tension is palpable. My soaking pussy is a testament to how much I already want her… “Well?” she asks, breaking my train of thought. I gaze at her face; just a few inches from mine. “I – I’ve never done this before…” “Done what Polly?” Rachel chides, removing her finger. I miss the contact immediately and am rueful to have upset her. She raises one eyebrow at me. “Thought about what motivates you?” she asks, sardonically. “I’ve never been like this… with a woman, I mean…” She rises from the sofa in one fluid movement and stands above me. “Kneel Polly.” Surprised by the order, I blink at her before I respond. “Excuse me?” Rachel smiles at me. “Get. On. Your. Knees,” she says, articulating each word, and pointing to the floor in front of her. “I am going to find a way to motivate you.

I feel as though dispossessed from the semblances of some crystalline reality to which I’d grown accustomed, and to some degree, had engaged in as a participant, but to which I had, nevertheless, grown inexplicably irrelevant. But the elements of this phenomenon are now quickly dissolving from memory and being replaced by reverse-engineered Random Access actualizations of junk code/DNA consciousness, the retro-coded catalysts of rogue cellular activity. The steel meshing titters musically and in its song, I hear a forgotten tale of the Interstitial gaps that form pinpoint vortexes at which fibers (quanta, as it were) of Reason come to a standstill, like light on the edge of a Singularity. The gaps, along their ridges, seasonally infected by the incidental wildfires in the collective unconscious substrata. Heat flanks passageways down the Interstices. Wildfires cluster—spread down the base trunk Axon in a definitive roar: hitting branches, flaring out to Dendrites to give rise to this release of the very chemical seeds through which sentience is begotten. Float about the ether, gliding a gentle current, before skimming down, to a skip over the surface of a sea of deep black with glimmering waves. And then, come to a stop, still inanimate and naked before any trespass into the Field, with all its layers that serve to veil. Plunge downward into the trenches. Swim backwards, upstream, and down through these spiraling jets of bubbles. Plummet past the threshold to trace the living history of shadows back to their source virus. And acquire this sense that the viruses as a sample, all of the outlying populations withstanding: they have their own sense of self-importance, too. Their own religion. And they mine their hosts barren with the utilitarian wherewithal that can only be expected of beings with self-preservationist motives.

I learn from my own mistakes, but you dwell in my mistakes. You carry my mistakes around , so that when I am happy or when I have made it. You can remind me of my mistakes or how unperfect or not good I am and that is your biggest mistake. The biggest mistake that is hindering you from being successful, happy and making it in life. My mistakes are your heavy burden not mine.

HUG DAY POEM: Wrap me in your hug.. make me feel happy! Hold me tight and close.. not like a pillow or a teddy!! My heart needs you.. for you touched my soul, believe me things shall go fine. Walk me to my Dreams.. and take me to divine!! My life is yours forever.. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine. Let the hearts embrace.. Sugar you be my.. Valentine. Just be mine.. O O.. my Valentine!

The truth is, I quite like making you happy." He shook his head. "I'm frightened to think too much about what that means because I honestly can't remember the last time I wanted to do anything for another person, simply for its own sake. And without having an ulterior motive." His eyes when they met mine, were so intense I had to look away. "But for you, I would brace a blizzard just to see you smile

Give them glory in your death or in your killing". The guard's sentiment halted me for a moment, my gaze snapping to the fae. For the first time, I really noticed him. The horse-shifter, Zander, stood there, his chocolate brown eyes staring into mine. "Let their energy and your fear feed you, not starve you." His gaze remained intensely on me. Meaningful. "Use your head, find weapons in anything. Be the one who prevails.

ROSE DAY POEM: Rose.. if it is.. for the one whom you miss.. and you want to say a lot.. till now that you have not! - Then just go and dare to say.. for that moment is today.. beyond the earth and sky above.. Give it to the one whom you love!! - And sing your heart out.. to the universe aloud.. - O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. You are more than this rose to me.. You be my.. Valentine. Just be mine.. O O.. Valentine!!!

PROPOSE DAY POEM: Austerity.. If.. I were to define.. it’s you.. yoo hoo! - Happiness is what.. that makes me feel divine.. smiling you.. yoo hoo!! - What rose is in flowers.. What moon is in stars.. That you are to me.. You and I will be we.. You’re my life.. I.. I.. You’re my life.. I.. I.. I love you.. yoo hoo I love you.. yoo hoo - O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. I love you.. I love you.. I love you.. yoo hoo.. You be my.. Valentine. - Just be mine.. I love you.. O O Valentine!!!

UNIVERS EU voi pleca spre infinitul În care mi-a rămas privitul Și voi veni de nicăieri... Poate mai repede ca ieri. Dar știu că voi găsi mereu... Acel ușor și acel ,,greu" același rău, același bine, În contradicție cu mine... Alți regi și alți martiri mai noi... Unii-mbuibați și alții goi... Și alte măști, alți arlechini... Alți ratați și alți senini. Alte motive puse lumii De vreun proliferant al ciumii. Și alte măști, alți rechini, O, repetiție turbată. Termină-ți ciclu-acesta-odată Și azvârle-mă în UNIVERS De unde-am venit Făr să fi mers...

Thank you Neil, and to the givers of this beautiful reward, my thanks from the heart. My family, my agent, editors, know that my being here is their doing as well as mine, and that the beautiful reward is theirs as much as mine. And I rejoice at accepting it for, and sharing it with, all the writers who were excluded from literature for so long, my fellow authors of fantasy and science fiction—writers of the imagination, who for the last 50 years watched the beautiful rewards go to the so-called realists. I think hard times are coming when we will be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now and can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being, and even imagine some real grounds for hope. We will need writers who can remember freedom. Poets, visionaries—the realists of a larger reality. Right now, I think we need writers who know the difference between the production of a market commodity and the practice of an art. Developing written material to suit sales strategies in order to maximize corporate profit and advertising revenue is not quite the same thing as responsible book publishing or authorship. (Thank you, brave applauders.) Yet I see sales departments given control over editorial; I see my own publishers in a silly panic of ignorance and greed, charging public libraries for an ebook six or seven times more than they charge customers. We just saw a profiteer try to punish a publisher for disobedience and writers threatened by corporate fatwa, and I see a lot of us, the producers who write the books, and make the books, accepting this. Letting commodity profiteers sell us like deodorant, and tell us what to publish and what to write. (Well, I love you too, darling.) Books, you know, they’re not just commodities. The profit motive often is in conflict with the aims of art. We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art—the art of words. I have had a long career and a good one. In good company. Now here, at the end of it, I really don’t want to watch American literature get sold down the river. We who live by writing and publishing want—and should demand—our fair share of the proceeds. But the name of our beautiful reward is not profit. Its name is freedom. Thank you.

I should know; perfectionism has always been a weakness of mine. Brene' Bown captures the motive in the mindset of the perfectionist in her book Daring Greatly: "If I look perfect and do everything perfectly, I can avoid or minimize the painful feelings of shame, judgment, and blame." This is the game, and I'm the player. Perfectionism for me comes from the feelings that I don't know enough. I'm not smart enough. Not hardworking enough. Perfectionism spikes for me if I'm going into a meeting with people who disagree with me, or if I'm giving a talk to experts to know more about the topic I do … when I start to feel inadequate and my perfectionism hits, one of the things I do is start gathering facts. I'm not talking about basic prep; I'm talking about obsessive fact-gathering driven by the vision that there shouldn't be anything I don't know. If I tell myself I shouldn't overprepare, then another voice tells me I'm being lazy. Boom. Ultimately, for me, perfectionism means hiding who I am. It's dressing myself up so the people I want to impress don't come away thinking I'm not as smart or interesting as I thought. It comes from a desperate need to not disappoint others. So I over-prepare. And one of the curious things I've discovered is that what I'm over-prepared, I don't listen as well; I go ahead and say whatever I prepared, whether it responds to the moment or not. I miss the opportunity to improvise or respond well to a surprise. I'm not really there. I'm not my authentic self… If you know how much I am not perfect. I am messy and sloppy in so many places in my life. But I try to clean myself up and bring my best self to work so I can help others bring their best selves to work. I guess what I need to role model a little more is the ability to be open about the mess. Maybe I should just show that to other people. That's what I said in the moment. When I reflected later I realized that my best self is not my polished self. Maybe my best self is when I'm open enough to say more about my doubts or anxieties, admit my mistakes, confess when I'm feeling down. The people can feel more comfortable with their own mess and that's needs your culture to live in that. That was certainly the employees' point. I want to create a workplace where everyone can bring the most human, most authentic selves where we all expect and respect each other's quirks and flaws and all the energy wasted in the pursuit of perfection is saved and channeled into the creativity we need for the work that is a cultural release impossible burdens and lift everyone up.

Fly with those who lift you up and thrust you forward A pilot friend of mine told me there are four main principles to master when flying airplanes: lift, thrust, weight, and drag. You have to take all these into account to make sure the plane will fly. It struck me that these same principles apply to specific types of people. There are some who lift you, brighten your day, cheer you up, and make you feel better about yourself. You meet them and you have a spring in your step. They’re a lift. Then there are people who thrust you. They inspire you, motivate you, challenge you to move forward and pursue your dreams. The third group are weights. They pull you down, dump their problems on you, so that you leave feeling heavier, negative, discouraged, and worse than you did before. Finally, there are those who are a drag. They’ve always got a sad song. The dishwasher broke. The goldfish died. They didn’t get invited to a party. They’re stuck in a pit. They expect you to cheer them up, fix their problems, and carry their loads. We all encounter people from each of these four groups. You have to make sure you’re spending the majority of your time with lifters and thrusters. If you’re only hanging out with weights and drags, it will keep you from becoming everything you were created to be.

She also taught me to write, by which I mean not simply organizing a set of sentences into a series of paragraphs, but organizing them as a means of investigation. When I was in trouble at school (which was quite often) she would make me write about it. The writing had to answer a series of questions: Why did I feel the need to talk at the same time as my teacher? Why did I not believe that my teacher was entitled to respect? How would I want someone to behave while I was talking? What would I do the next time I felt the urge to talk to my friends during a lesson? I have given you these same assignments. I gave them to you not because I thought they would curb your behavior—they certainly did not curb mine—but because these were the earliest acts of interrogation, of drawing myself into consciousness. Your grandmother was not teaching me how to behave in class. She was teaching me how to ruthlessly interrogate the subject that elicited the most sympathy and rationalizing—myself. Here was the lesson: I was not an innocent. My impulses were not filled with unfailing virtue. And feeling that I was as human as anyone, this must be true for other humans. If I was not innocent, then they were not innocent. Could this mix of motivation also affect the stories they tell? The cities they built? The country they claimed as given to them by God?

From motives of a desire of theological instruction I very seldom read any book except God’s own. The minds of persons are differently constituted; and it is no praise to mine to admit that I am apt to receive less of what is called edification from human discourses on divine subjects, than disturbance and hindrance. I read the Scriptures every day, and in as simple a spirit as I can; thinking as little as possible of the controversies engendered in that great sunshine, and as much as possible of the heat and glory belonging to it. It is a sure fact in my eyes that we do not require so much more knowledge, as a stronger apprehension, by the faith and affections, of what we already know.

PROMISE DAY POEM: I don't promise that I will bring the moon for you, but.. I shall stand by you in sun! I don't promise that I will not fight with you ever, but.. We shall be together, forever; and distances or differences shall be none!! I don't promise that life will be so easy, and cheesy, but.. when you are with me, I'll make sure it's always fun!!! I just promise one thing; I'll never make you cry, I'll never let you go, so all I need is you to be with me.. Let's make it happen.. and let our destiny shine. My life is yours forever.. .. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. Love is more than just promises.. Hey honey you be my.. Valentine. Just be mine.. O O.. my Valentine!

Interviewer: What helps to sustain you while you're climbing? Is there a particular Bible verse, or, song or song verse? Poem maybe? Mekael: That's a good question. Thoughts of my three sons, are my constant companions. Thoughts of them, help to keep me focused. As for other sources of inspiration....I'm a music lover. I think all Mountaineers and Poets are music lovers, so, when I'm climbing, I'm either in a Tupac zone, or I may be in a Linkin Park or Creed zone. Interviewer: Any song or verse in particular? Mekael: When during a climb, everything has aligned, Creed's 'Higher' pops into my head. I dig the part in the chorus when they sing..... 'Up high I feel like I'm, alive for the, very first time Set up high, I'm strong enough To take these dreams And make them mine

If you objectively look at life as a whole, it’s a daunting and impossible process. There are just far too many obstacles for one person alone to conquer. The world sucks. People are judged rather than accepted. Hate spreads far more easily than love. Power and money are valued more than morality. Insecurities are preyed upon rather than quelled.” His intense gaze never left mine when he asked, “Why would any of us want to live like that?” I didn’t have an answer for him because I sure as hell didn’t. And then he set his folder aside, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and saved my life. “Because life isn’t lived as a whole. You aren’t given a hundred years all at once. Time is doled out one very manageable second at a time. Stop looking at the big picture and find happiness in the seconds.

If you care so much about it,” she asks him, “then why did you run?” He takes a moment before answering, shifting his weight and grimacing again. “Their work is good,” he says. “It just isn’t mine.” This baffles her. His motives—his hazy integrity. It was easy to dismiss Lev as “part of the problem” when she did not know him, but now it’s not so easy. He’s a paradox. This is a boy who almost blew himself to bits in an attempt to kill others, and yet he offered himself to the parts pirate in order to save Miracolina’s life. How could someone go from having no respect for one’s own existence to being willing to give himself as a sacrifice for someone he barely knows? It flies in the face of the truths that have defined Miracolina’s life. The bad are bad, the good are good, and being caught in between is just an illusion. There is no gray.

Ţi-a fost dor de mine, Alina? Ţi-a fost dor de mine cât ai fost la palat? — În fiecare zi, i-am răspuns eu sincer. — Mie mi-a fost dor de tine în fiecare oră. Şi ştii care a fost partea cea mai rea? Că m-a luat complet prin surprindere. Mă trezeam că încercam să dau de tine, dar nu pentru vreun motiv anume, ci pur şi simplu din obişnuinţă, pentru că văzusem ceva şi voiam să-ţi povestesc sau pentru că voiam să-ţi aud vocea. Dar apoi îmi dădeam seama că nu mai erai în preajma mea, şi de fiecare dată – dar de fiecare dată – simţeam că mi se taie respiraţia. Mi-am riscat viaţa pentru tine. Am traversat jumătate din Ravka pentru tine, şi aş face la fel încă o dată şi încă o dată, numai ca să fiu cu tine, numai ca să sufăr de foame cu tine, să îndur frigul cu tine şi să te aud plângându-te de caşcaval în fiecare zi. Deci nu-mi spune că locul nostru nu e unul lângă altul, a zis el pe un ton apăsat.

I am interested in helping people to understand how to sell what it is they need to sell in a way that makes sense for both them and the investor.  Over the years what I have been astounded that many artists and business people who produce theatre works consistently do not know how to go about funding their projects and moving them from one point to the other.  There are many money sources around, but in many cases people who make theatre are not business minded to the point of developing the skills to mine money sources consistently.  Ask yourself what is the motivation of this potential investor. Is it for financial return, is it for tax credit, is it just to help? or do they want to become a part of the entertainment business?  OK once you have discovered this then you need to think in terms of how do you present your case. This is what has come to be known in the world of investment as your “pitch deck.

Well, I’ll tell you this, Mr. Michael. You’re going to walk in there, people are going to tell you things and they’ll say it’s true, but know this: instincts beat advice. Your instincts beat everyone else’s conviction. Including mine. What anyone ever tells you can absolutely expire the second something new happens. We already know what to do, sweetie. And most advice can be narrowed down to: it’s best you try again. But our instincts are a powerful tool, you ought to listen to them. And you know, Michael, it’s not always worth explaining to people. We are too rational to believe extraordinary things can happen sometimes. But”—she smiled—“the most extraordinary times I remember were when I quieted the other voices beside me and embraced the room. The other person. A look. Their voice. Their body. Timing. You’ll feel it Michael and it’s more important you snatch those moments right when they appear. Chase that. Does that make sense?

Cînd iubeşti o fiinţă, momentele de reală cunoaştere sunt extrem de rare; apariţia lor se datoreaza unui minus de iubire. Cînd ajungi uneori să-ţi dai seama din afară, cu o perspectivă obiectivă, că femeia care-ţi şerpuieşte ca o obsesie intreaga ta fiinţă, care a crescut organic in tine seamănă cu oricare alta ca adîncime sufletească sau cînd înţelegi că zîmbetul ei nu e unic, ci perfect reversibil; cand o poţi înseria şi încadra în rîndul celorlalte şi găseşti explicaţii generale pentru reacţiile ei individuale, atunci cunoaşterea a suplinit dureros elanurile iubirii. lubirea este o fugă de adevăr. Şi iubim cu adevărat numai cînd nu vrem adevărul. Iubirea împotriva adevărului, iată o lupta pentru viaţă, pentru propriile extazuri şi pentru propriile greşeli. Pe fiinţa ce o iubim o cunoaştem cu adevărat numai după ce n-o mai iubim, cînd am devenit lucizi, clari, seci şi goi. Şi în iubire nu putem cunoaşte, fiindcă persoana ce o iubim actualizează numai un potenţial lăuntric de iubire. Realitatea primordială şi efectivă este iubirea din noi. Pentru aceasta iubim. Iubesc iubirea din mine, iubesc iubirea mea. Femeia este pretextul indispensabil care-mi aduce într-un ritm intens pulsaţiile timide ale iubirii. Nu poate exista o iubire pur subiectivă. Dar între abandonarea în experienţa voluptuoasă a iubirii ca stare pură şi abandonarea în culmile unei alte fiinţe, întîia este cea primordială. Iubim o femeie, fiindcă ne este scumpă iubirea noastră. Singurătatea sexelor şi lupta sălbatică între bărbat şi femeie îşi au izvorul în această interioritate a iubirii. Căci în iubire ne gustăm, ne savurăm pe noi înşine, ne încîntăm de voluptăţile tremurului nostru erotic. Din acest motiv, iubirea este cu atît mai intensă şi mai profundă, cu cît distanţa de persoana iubită este mai mare. Prezenţa ei fizică face din sentimentul nostru ceva prea orientat, cu o direcţie prea determinată, încît ceea ce este în noi cu adevărat trăire erotică pură, elan subiectiv, ne pare a veni din afară, desprinzîndu-se din prezenţa fizică a persoanei iubite. Numai iubirea de departe, iubirea care creşte alimentată de fatalitatea spaţiului, numai aceasta se prezintă ca stare pură. Atunci ai priză directă pe adinca ei interioritate, atunci trăieşti iubirea ca iubire, adîncindu-te în zvacniriIe unui sentiment, în farmecul lui voluptuos, care face suferinţele fluide, le topeşte ca într-o iluzie. La oamenii cu multă imaginaţie şi cu o viaţă interioară complicată, se găseşte nu arareori o astfel de purificare a iubirii încît ei trăiesc elanurile iubirii in ceea ce ele au suav, virginal, în volutele vitale ale iubirii, în pulsaţiile ei pure, în potenţialul erotic ca atare, inainte ca o fiinţă să fi trezit la viaţă şi să fi actualizat acest potenţial. Contopirea în tremurul vital, în iubirea ca germen, în iubirea ca dorinţă face din sufletul acestor oameni fîntîni nesecate de stări cristaline în puritatea lor.

I don't know what kind of man I would have grown to be had I not served time at The Wilkinson Home for Boys. I don't know how those months and the events that occurred there shaped the person I became, how much they colored my motives or my actions. I don't know if they made me any braver or any weaker. I don't know if the illnesses I've suffered as an adult have been the result of those ruinous months. I'll never know if my distrust of most people and my unease when placed in group situations are byproducts of those days or simply the result of a shy personality. I do know the dreams and nightmares I've had all these years are born of the nights spent in that cell at Wilkinson. That the scars I carry, both mental and physical, are gifts of a system that treated children as prey. The images that screen across my mind in the lonely hours are mine to bear alone, shared only by the silent community of sufferers who once lived as I did, in a world that was deaf to our screams.

Since Jonathan, I had not slept with anyone. I know. Aren’t you disappointed? There was kissing; there were bodies pressed up against the various walls of Cork city night clubs; there were hands in my knickers. There were boys—cute ones, nice ones—who had walked me home after the club kicked out, their jackets draped around my shoulders, their hands laced through mine. But whenever they would imply that they had walked me home for sex, had understood that I wanted to have sex also, I acted all disgraced. “You think I’m that easy, huh?” I said to them, feigning shock that a twenty-one-year-old boy standing without a jacket in February at two in the morning might have an ulterior motive. I would send them packing, triumphant, then I would go inside and feel depressed, stupid and horny. I don’t know who I was trying to impress. I did not want a boyfriend; I did want romance. I wanted passion; I did not want to be someone who was known as easy. I was desperate to be touched; I was terrified of being ruined.

Dragă Christian, Te-am așteptat în vacanța de Paște. Ți-am pregătit patul lângă al meu. Deasupra, am agățat niște postere cu fotbaliști. Am făcut loc în dulap ca să-ți pui hainele și mingea. Eram gata să te primesc la mine. Nu vei veni. Sunt multe lucruri pe care nu am apucat să ți le spun. De exemplu, cred că nu ți-am povestit niciodată despre Laure. E logodnica mea. Ea nu știe încă. Am plănuit să o cer în căsătorie. Foarte curând. Când va fi din nou pace. Eu și Laure ne trimitem scrisori. Scrisori care ajung cu avionul. Berze de hârtie care călătoresc între Africa și Europa. Este prima oară când mă îndrăgostesc de o fată. E o senzație tare ciudată. Ca o febră în stomac. Nu îndrăznesc să le spun prietenilor, pentru că ar râde de mine. Mi-ar spune că sunt îndrăgostit de o fantomă. Pentru că nu am văzut-o niciodată pe fata asta. Dar nu e nevoie să mă întâlnesc cu ea ca să știu că o iubesc. Îmi sunt de-ajuns scrisorile noastre. Am amânat să-ți scriu. Am încercat prea mult în timpul ăsta să rămân copil. Prietenii mă îngrijorează. Se îndepărtează de mine tot mai mult în fiecare zi. Se iau la harță pentru chestii de oameni mari, își inventează dușmani și motive de luptă. Tata avea dreptate când nu ne lăsa pe mine și pe Ana să vorbim despre politică. Tata pare obosit. Mi se pare absent. Distant. Și-a făcut o platoșă groasă de fier ca să nu-l atingă răutatea. Dar eu știu că, în inima lui, e la fel de gingaș ca pulpa unui fruct bine copt de guava. Mama nu s-a mai întors niciodată de la tine. Și-a lăsat sufletul în grădina ta. I s-a frânt inima. A înnebunit, ca lumea care te-a răpit. Am amânat să-ți scriu. Am ascultat o mulțime de voci care mi-au spus atâtea lucruri… La radio au zis că echipa Nigeriei, cu care țineai tu, a câștigat Cupa Africii pe națiuni. Străbunica mea spunea că oamenii pe care îi iubim nu mor dacă ne gândim în continuare la ei. Tatăl meu spunea că în ziua în care nu va mai fi război între oameni, va ninge la tropice. Doamna Economopoulos spunea că mai adevărate decât realitatea sunt cuvintele. Profesoara mea de biologie spunea că pământul e rotund. Prietenii mei spuneau că trebuie să alegem de ce parte a baricadei suntem. Mama spunea că dormi, cu tricoul de fotbal al echipei tale preferate. Iar tu, Christian, nu vei mai spune nimic, niciodată. Gaby

I am a graduate of Calcutta University and employed as an Assistant Inspector, Calcutta Corporation. I am also a writer and used to visit the College Street Coffee House where young writers of Calcutta generally assembled in the evening. Samir Roychoudhury is a personal friend of mine. I came to know the sponsors of Hungry Generation, namely Shakti Chattopadhyay, Malay Roychoudhury and others. Although I am not directly connected with the Hungry Generation I was interested in the literary movement. Some of the manifesto of the Hungry Generation contain advertisement of my literary work. In one of the publication my name was cited as editor. This was probably done with a motive to exploit my reputation as writer but since my prior consent was not taken I took exception. The present publication in question also came to my notice. As a poet myself I do not approve either the theme or the language of the poem of Malay Roychoudhury captioned প্রচণ্ড বৈদ্যুতিক ছুতার ; I have severed all connection with Hungry Generation. I had correspondence with Malay Roychoudhury who often sought my advise in literary matters. Sandipan Chattopadhyay ( alias Pashupati Chatterjee ) 15 March 1965

Stop,' I put my hand on Xaden's arm. 'Xaden, stop. If you want me to go with you, I'll go. It's that simple.' His gaze shifts to meet mine and immediately softens. 'No fucking way,' Dain whispers, but it reverberates in my bones like a lightning strike. I pivot, dropping my hand from Xaden's arm, but it's obvious by Dain's expression that he now knows there's something between Xaden and me- and he's hurt. My stomach hits the ground. 'Dain-' 'Him?' Dain's eyes widen and his face flushes. 'You and... him?' He shakes his head. 'People talk, and I thought that's all it was, but you...' Disappointment drops his shoulders. 'Don't go, Violet. Please. He's going to get you killed.' 'I know you think Xaden has ulterior motives, but I trust him. He's had every opportunity and has never hurt me.' I move toward Dain. 'At some point, you have to let this go.' Dain looks horrified for a second but quickly masks it. 'If he's what you choose...' He sighs. 'Then I guess that has to be enough for me, doesn't it?' 'Yes.' I nod. Thank gods all this nonsense is about to be past us. He swallows hard and leans in to whisper. 'I'll miss you, Violet.' Then he pivots on his heel and heads for Cath. 'Thank you for trusting me,' Xaden says as I reach Tairn's foreleg. 'Always.

By June the revival began to wane. But Roberts’s vision had been realized. An estimated 100,000 confessed Christ. The Congregationalists added 26,500 members. Another 24,000 Welsh joined the Calvinist Methodist Church. About 4,000 opted for the Wesleyan Church. The remainder were split between the Anglicans and several Baptist groups.13 The effect on Welsh society was undeniable. Output from the coal mines famously slowed because the horses wouldn’t move. Miners converted in the revival no longer kicked or swore at the horses, so the horses didn’t know what to do.14 Judges closed their courtrooms with nothing to judge. Christians wielded the revival as apologetic against the growing number of skeptics who derided religion. Stead argued: The most thoroughgoing materialist who resolutely and forever rejects as inconceivable the existence of the soul in man, and to whom “the universe is but the infinite empty eye-socket of a dead God,” could not fail to be impressed by the pathetic sincerity of these men; nor, if he were just, could he refuse to recognize that out of their faith in the creed which he has rejected they have drawn, and are drawing, a motive power that makes for righteousness, and not only for righteousness, but for the joy of living, that he would be powerless to give them.15

De la doisprezece ani, cred că de când mi s-a trezit conştiinţa de sine, am început să nu-i mai iubesc pe oameni. De fapt, nu să nu-i iubesc, ci să simt că mi-e greu cu ei. În clipele de tristeţe, mi-a fost mie însumi foarte greu că nu puteam să spun totul nici măcar celor apropiaţi ; adică puteam, dar nu voiam, era ceva care mă reţinea : sunt suspicios, posac şi necomunicativ. În plus, chiar din copilărie am observat faptul că învinuiesc prea adesea sau sunt înclinat să-i acuz pe alţii ; însă, deşi aveam această înclinaţie, foarte adesea eram prins de un alt gând, mult prea grav pentru mine : "Oare nu eu sunt adevăratul vinovat şi nu ei?". Şi cât de adesea mă învinuiam pe mine pe degeaba! Ca să nu caut răspuns la asemenea întrebari, preferam singurătatea. La drept vorbind, nici n-am aflat ceva demn de interes în societatea oamenilor, oricât m-aş fi străduit, şi m-am straduit ; în orice caz, cei de o vârstă cu mine, toţi colegii mei, toţi pâna la unul, erau mai prejos în ce priveşte gândirea - nu-mi vine în minte nici o excepţie. Dar sunt morocanos, mă ascund mereu. Foarte des vreau să parasesc societatea. Aş putea face un bine oamenilor, dar nu văd nici un motiv ca să le fac acest bine. Şi oamenii ce nu sunt deloc atat de minunati, încât să ai grija lor. De ce nu se poartă ei direct şi sincer şi de ce, neapărat, eu trebuie să fiu primul care să-i abordez?

So you don’t trust me: the guy who taught you everything you know. I’m guessing if you have her”—he jerked his thumb at Rae—“that’s no accident. Luke’s buddies sent her to trap you, and she thought she was doing the right thing, because, duh, she’s already proven she’s kinda gullible that way.” “Hey!” Rae said. “You are. Own it. Fix it. Now, you guys have her, which means you escaped whoever sent her after you. You didn’t escape without a fight, given that bruise I see rising on Daniel’s jaw and the scrapes on Derek’s knuckles. But you escaped, and you came back here, and you captured me. Who taught you all that?” “Daniel and I had already started learning,” Maya said, “during those weeks you were chasing us.” “Trial by fire,” he said. “Followed by hardcore, hands-on tactical training. You got away scot-free from these guys because of my lessons. And yet now you don’t trust I’m on your side?” “Nope,” Derek said. “Sorry,” Daniel said. Maya crossed her arms and shook her head. I shrugged. Moreno broke into a grin. “You guys do me proud. I’d give you all a hug, if that wasn’t a little creepy. And if I was the hugging sort. But if you survive the rest of this, I’ll take you all out for beer and ice cream.” “You don’t need to be sarcastic,” Rae muttered. “Oh, but I’m not, and they know it. This is exactly what I trained them for. Trust no one except one another. Excluding you, kid, because I don’t know you, and you have a bad habit of screwing up. But these guys are doing the right thing. Next step?” Turn the tables,” I said. “Capture someone who’s behind this and get them to talk.” “Mmm, yes. That would work. But even better?” “Stop them,” Derek said. “Don’t just take down one. Take them all down.” “Without running to the Nasts for help,” Daniel said. “Because in another year, some of us will be off to college, and we need to be able to look after ourselves.” “Starting with proving we can look after ourselves,” Maya said. Moreno beamed. “You guys are ace. See, this is what I told Sean. The best time to train operatives is when they’re still young and malleable. None of that shit about waiting until they’re eighteen and legally old enough to consent.” Maya shook her head. “I suppose you’d also suggest he have the Cabal terrorize them for weeks first, so they’re properly motivated.” “Exactly. Personal rights and freedoms are vastly overrated. And there’s nothing wrong with a little PTSD. I’ve always found mine useful. Keeps me on my toes.” Rae stared at him. “I’m kidding,” he said to her. “Mostly. Don’t you joke around like this with your instructors? Oh, wait. You don’t have any. Which is why you got tricked—again. And got captured by these guys.” “Can we tie him up now?” Rae said. “And gag him?” “Doesn’t do any good,” Derek said. “We could try.

For the disciplined man, as for the true believer, no detail is unimportant, but not so much for the meaning that it conceals within it as for the hold it provides for the power that wishes to seize it. Characteristic is the great hymn to the 'little things' and to their eternal importance, sung by Jean Baptiste de La Salle, in his "Traité sur les obligations des freres des Ecoles chretienne" (Treaty on the obligations of the Brothers of the Christian Schools). The mystique of the everyday is joined here with the discipline of the minute. 'How dangerous it is to neglect little things. It is a very consoling reflection for a soul like mine, little disposed to great actions, to think that fidelity to little things may, by an imperceptible progress, raise us to the most eminent sanctity: because little things lead to greater . . . Little things; it will be said, alas, my God, what can we do that is great for you, weak and mortal creatures that we are. Little things; if great things presented themselves would we perform them! Would we not think them beyond our strength! Little things; and if God accepts them and wishes to receive them as great things! Little things; has one ever felt this? Does one judge according to experience? Little things; one is certainly guilty, therefore, of seeing them as such, one refuses them! Little things; yet it is they that in the end have made great saints! Yes, little things; but great motives, great feelings, great fervour, great ardour, and consequently great merits, great treasures, great rewards! (La Salle). The meticulousness of the regulations, the fussiness of the inspections, the supervision of the smallest fragment of life and of the body - will soon provide, in the context of the school, the barracks, the hospital or the workshop, a laicized content, an economic or technical rationality for this mystical calculus of the infinitesimal and the infinite.

We paused to breathe and I slid my arms around his neck and held his face the way I'd wanted to for so long. My fingers weaved into his wind-blown hair and tugged the back of his head, pulling his lips toward mine once more. There would be time for breathing later. "I love you," I whispered when our lips finally parted. "The biggest lie I ever told was telling you I didn't. And if I ever claim you're not romantic, please remind me of the time we were 1.200 feet in the air in December and I needed to fan myself." I saw a smile overtake his eyes and felt it overtake his mouth. "I mean, seriously, Will," I said, my breath still coming back to me. He pulled away, which was the last thing I wanted, and laughed. "But I'm also just a boy, standing in front of a girl..." I threw my head back in joyous laughter. "You don't have to ask me to love you, Whitaker. It's done." "Actually..." He kissed my hand and lowered onto one knee. "I was going to say "asking her to marry him." The hand that wasn't linked with mine was holding a beautiful emerald cut diamond ring. "Sorry there's not a box," he said with a wink. My breath caught in my throat. "But, how did you...why do you..." "Sorry, but Kevin's on my team. I claimed him pretty early. And he understands, in a way you still don't seem to, that not even Willie Mays and Hank Aaron could provide me with the motivation that you could. Besides, McCaffrey, even I'm not stupid enough to fall for that ridiculous plan you hatched." His smile grew wider and he kissed my hand once more. "But I just like that you try." I Ieaned down to kiss him. Tears flooded my cheeks, but still I said nothing. "You're killing me here. And frankly, I'm not sure how long my knee can stay on this cold concrete." He smiled and asked, "Will you marry me or not?" I sniffed. "Have you asked my father's permission?" I began laughing as he jumped up to face me. "Oh, you think that's funny, do you?" "Too soon?" He captured my mouth once again, and I threw my arms around his neck before pulling away from his kiss, just long enough to whisper, "My answer is yes." I smiled against his lips and added, "I really thought you'd never ask.

Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! (520) Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wann'd, Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing! For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, (530) That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, (540) And can say nothing; no, not for a king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i' the throat, As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? Ha! 'Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall (550) To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, (560) A scullion! Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; (570) I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds More relative than this: the play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

[...]Many of those friends were self-declared socialists - Wester socialists, that is. They spoke about Rosa Luxemburg, Leon Trotsky, Salvador Allende or Ernesto 'Che' Guevara as secular saints. It occurred to me that they were like my father in this aspect: the only revolutionaries they considered worthy of admiration had been murdered.[...]ut they did not think that my stories from the eighties were in any way significant to their political beliefs. Sometimes, my appropriating the label of socialist to describe both my experiences and their commitments was considered a dangerous provocation. [...] 'What you had was not really socialism.' they would say, barely concealing their irritation. My stories about socialism in Albania and references to all the other socialist countries against which our socialism had measured itself were, at best, tolerated as the embarrassing remarks of a foreigner still learning to integrate. The Soviet Union, China, the German Democratic Republic, Yugoslavia, Vietnam, Cuba; there was nothing socialist about them either. They were seen as the deserving losers of a historical battle that the real, authentic bearers of that title had yet to join. My friends' socialism was clear, bright and in the future. Mine was messy, bloody and of the past. And yet, the future that they sought, and that which socialist states had once embodied, found inspiration in the same books, the same critiques of society, the same historical characters. But to my surprise, they treated this as an unfortunate coincidence. Everything that went wrong on my side of the world could be explained by the cruelty of our leaders, or the uniquely backward nature of our institutions. They believed there was little for them to learn. There was no risk of repeating the same mistakes, no reason to ponder what had been achieved, and why it had been destroyed. Their socialism was characterized by the triumph of freedom and justice; mine by their failure. Their socialism would be brought about by the right people, with the right motives, under the right circumstances, with the right combination of theory and practice. There was only one thing to do about mine: forget it. [...]But if there was one lesson to take away from he history of my family, and of my country, it was that people never make history under circumstances they choose. It is easy to say, 'What you had was not the real thing', applying that to socialism or liberalism, to any complex hybrid of ideas and reality. It releases us from the burden of responsability. We are no longer complicit in moral tragedies create din the name of great ideas, and we don't have to reflect, apologize and learn.

Oare ce-a fost pe lume până-acuma păcatul cel mai mare? Oare n-a fost cuvântul celui ce zicea: „Vai celor care râd aici!” Chiar nu găsise el pe lume nici un motiv să râdă? Înseamnă că nu căutase bine. Chiar şi-un copil ar fi găsit destule motive. Acela nu iubea-ndeajuns: altfel ne-ar fi iubit chiar şi pe noi, cei care râdem! El însă ne-a batjocorit şi ne-a urât, şi ne-a promis doar lacrimi şi scrâşnirea dinţilor. Se cade oare să blestemi ce nu iubeşti? — Nu mi se pare de bun gust aceasta. El însă a făcut aşa, neînduplecatul. El se trăgea din gloată. El însuşi nu iubea-ndeajuns – altfel nu s-ar fi mâniat că nu este iubit îndeajuns. Iubirea mea nu-i flămândă de iubire: ea vrea mai mult. Feriţi-vă de toţi aceşti neînduplecaţi! Ei sunt o biată spiţă cam bolnavă, spiţă de gloată, care se uită doar chiorâş la viaţă, care privesc cu ciudă-acest pământ. Feriţi-vă de toţi aceşti intransigenţi! Ei calcă greu, au inimi apăsate – ei nu ştiu să danseze. Cum să le fie uşor lor pământul? Tot ce e bun şi-atinge ţelul încovoiat. Îşi încovoaie ca pisicile spinarea, începe-a toarce văzându-şi fericirea apropiată – tot ce e bun ştie să râdă. Pasul arată dacă mergi sau nu pe drumul tău: uitaţi-vă la mine cum păşesc! Dar cine se apropie de ţel dansează. Într-adevăr, eu nu sunt ca un stâlp, nu stau acolo ţeapăn, încremenit şi tâmp ca o coloană; îmi place să merg repede. Şi chiar dacă pe lume mai sunt şi smârcuri şi tristeţe groasă, cel care are glezna sprintenă aleargă peste mâluri şi dansează ca pe gheaţa netedă. Sus inimile, fraţi ai mei, mai sus! Mai sus! Dar nu uitaţi picioarele! Săltaţi-le, voi – ageri dansatori, sau şi mai bine: aşezaţi-vă în creştet! Coroana celor care râd, această cunună din crengi de trandafir, eu însumi m-am încoronat cu ea, eu însumi am decis că râsul meu e sfânt. Căci n-am găsit pe nimeni altul destul de tare pentru-aceasta. Eu, Zarathustra, dansatorul! Eu, Zarathustra cel uşor! cel care dă din aripi, gata pentru zbor, în rând cu toate păsările, mereu dispus şi ager, ferice în uşurătatea sa. Profetul Zarathustra, profetul care râde, nicicând intransigent şi nici nerăbdător, cel ce iubeşte săriturile: eu însumi m-am încoronat! Sus inimile, fraţi ai mei, mai sus! Mai sus! Şi nu uitaţi picioarele! Săltaţi-le, voi – ageri dansatori, sau şi mai bine: aşezaţi-vă în creştet! Există chiar şi-n fericire brute greoaie, există glezne-mpiedicate din născare. Acestea ostenesc bizar, asemeni elefantului care-ar cerca să se aşeze-n creştet. Mai bine să fii nebun de fericire decât să fii nebun de nenoroc, mai bine să dansezi greoi decât să şchiopătezi. Deci învăţaţi înţelepciunea mea: chiar lucrul cel mai rău are două părţi bune — chiar lucrul cel mai rău are picioare bune de dansat; deci învăţaţi voi înşivă, oameni superiori, cum să vă ţineţi pe picioare! Daţi la o parte văicăreala şi toată-amărăciunea gloatei! Ce jalnici mi se par acuma aceşti bufoni ai gloatei! însă prezentul aparţine gloatei. Faceţi ca vântul care se năpusteşte din peşterile muntelui: la propriul său fluier vrea să danseze, să crească-n freamăt mările şi să-i urmeze paşii-n salturi mari. Cel care dă aripi asinilor, cel care mulge chiar leoaicele – lăudat să fie spiritul dezlănţuit, care ca uraganul mătură orice prezent şi orice gloate. — duşmanul ciulinilor şi-al celor care taie firu-n patru şi-al tuturor frunzarelor şi buruienilor îngălbenite: lăudat să fie acest aprig uragan plăcut şi liber, care dansează peste smârcuri şi amărăciuni ca peste pajişti.

Who will have their strength renewed? “Those who wait upon the Lord”. Waiting could signify passivity: being still. Waiting could also indicate action: serving. Waiting — either kind — can be nearly impossible while we are being run by our emotions. In learning to balance your emotions with wisdom, learning to wait upon the Lord in both senses of the word, you will find that your strength is renewed every day in every situation. On the other hand, operating out of emotions can be exhausting. In your Christian walk, the ability to discern seasons is vital. There are times in your life where immediate action is not only unnecessary, it can be damaging. There are situations in which your best course of action is to “be still and know that He is God” (Psalm 46:10). Allowing Him to speak to you in the midst of your storm, finding your peace in Christ when your life seems upside down may be exactly what is needed. There are times when patience is the order of the day, and waiting on the Lord to move or instruct you in the way you are to move is exactly what is needed. Sometimes the most difficult course to take is to wait and allow the Lord to direct your heart “into the love of God and the patience of Christ” (2 Thessalonians3:5). However difficult it may be, practicing waiting will serve you well. “Waiting” can also signify an action. A waitress will wait on you in your favorite restaurant. You may wait on, or serve, your family. In being able to discern the seasons of waiting passively, we must also be able to discern the seasons of waiting actively. Even in times when you might feel unsure of the next step, there are continually ways for you to serve the Lord: prayer, study, service to others being a few examples. In times when everything is going along smoothly, waiting actively on the Lord is always in order. Paul encourages young Timothy to “be diligent to show yourself approved” (2 Timothy 2:15). In learning to wait actively on the Lord, it is good advice for us as well. Applying ourselves to faithful service to the Lord (active waiting) will sustain us through times when the waiting requires patience and stillness. In our Christian walk, both kinds of “waiting” are needed: an active waiting on or serving the Lord, and likewise a passive waiting for the Lord to move on your behalf. As everything in our relationship with the Lord is a partnership or covenant, this waiting is a “two way street”. As we serve the Lord, He is moved to action on our behalf. Psalm 37:3-7 speaks to both kinds of waiting (parentheses mine): “Trust in the LORD (passive), and do good (active); Dwell in the land (passive), and feed on His faithfulness (active). Delight yourself also in the LORD, And He shall give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD (active), Trust also in Him (passive), And He shall bring it to pass (the Lord’s action). He shall bring forth your righteousness as the light, And your justice as the noonday (the Lord’s action). Rest in the LORD (passive), and wait patiently for Him (passive)”. Tremendous and amazing results can come from this kind of waiting. Of course, the Lord in His generous and kind manner will send you opportunities to practice if you want to learn to wait! In His providence, those opportunities are already provided — it is for you to take advantage of them. Will you? Unfortunately, patience is not one of Ahasuerus’ virtues. He is motivated by his emotions, and seems to rush right into whatever comes into his mind without much forethought. Let’s return to Persia, and find out what Ahasuerus is rushing into today. After these things, when the wrath of King Ahasuerus subsided, he remembered... Esther 2:1 “After these things”…. By the beginning of chapter two, four years have passed since King Ahasuerus dethroned Queen Vashti. God was working through this Persian chronicler as he wrote this history

Mr Bold,” said the other, stopping, and speaking with some solemnity, “if you act justly, say nothing in this matter but the truth, and use no unfair weapons in carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothing to forgive. I presume you think I am not entitled to the income I receive from the hospital, and that others are entitled to it. Whatever some may do, I shall never attribute to you base motives because you hold an opinion opposed to my own and adverse to my interests: pray do what you consider to be your duty; I can give you no assistance, neither will I offer you any obstacle. Let me, however, suggest to you, that you can in no wise forward your views nor I mine, by any discussion between us.

Objective motives and subjective compulsions that incite a person to write is the decisive element in defining the writer’s unique voice. Anyone who does not understand oneself or is unwilling to ferret out their own buried, true identity and publicly unmask the hidden stranger that resides within us all will never be a person who can bridge a connection with other people who share similar thoughts, feelings, wants, and needs. Lacking critical discernment, this want-a-be writer will remain a cosseted imposter, playing a coldhearted game of charades. If a person is unwilling to peel back the craggy mask that we conceal ourselves behind and explore the seeds of inner awareness wrapped inside the enigma of doubt engulfing all people, one can still aim to be a writer of nonfiction or technical journals. Creative writing, in sharp contrast, is for the intrepid cliff dwellers, the recluses willing to mine the soft belly of their internal psychosis.

As we all know, life remains a mystery with so many things we would never get to their bottoms no matter how we try digging. The only thing I know, if I may borrow a saying from a friend of mine, is that the One who makes the snail to crawl slowly blesses it with ability to climb and hide among the leaves.

If you are one of these people, it will be your loss, not mine.

Regardless of how low a person stoops, it is never too late to uncover a redemptive epiphany. Can I mine an inspirational ray of motivation from my darkest thoughts that allows me to confront the commonplace disorders and tragic interruptions of life? What physical, mental, and emotional strumming make up the tinderbox that produces the moral tension that gives meaning to the life of an ordinary person? Amongst the chaos, confusion, and compromises that mark existence, how do we go about understanding ourselves? How do we become in touch with our personal band of raw emotions? Does self-transformation commence by admitting illicit impulses, irrational thoughts, disturbing habits, mythic misgivings, and stinted worldview? Do we learn through deconstructing our maverick experiences or through intellectual abstraction? In order to move forward in life, is it sometimes necessary to dissect ourselves? Would it prove helpful systematically to take apart nightmarish experiences that seemly never let go of a person?

Our old methods of excavating for problems leaves us with more problems. Everything rides on changing the positions we hold, the questions we ask, and the answers we’re willing to accept. When we only mine for weaknesses, that’s exactly what we’ll find.

The mirror it was and life it spelled, The road ahead, and the time past stepped, All gathered in one; one to all paired, My life is so different from all the world’s threads. My breaths are mine, my woes are too, If my life were put through you, You sure would unlikely pursue, It should be left for me to gather, I am its sculptor, mine would be the hammer.

So, you’re Maxime,” Aunt Mimi said, once they were in the living room. “You hate Americans?” Aria rolled her eyes in despair and looked to her father for help. Aunt Mimi had heard of a notion called tact, but had never deemed it to be compatible with honesty, her main motivation in life. “I used to …?” Maxime answered uncertainly. “I’m a man hater,” Aunt Mimi declared staunchly. “Are you a man?” “Absolutely not,” Maxime answered with a hint of a smile in Aria’s direction. “That’s why I changed my mind about Americans. A full grown man never changes his mind. Mine is still capable of hearing reason.” Aria

Your Personal Angel A story about an angel who has been taking care of you even before you were born and will always take care no matter how much you grow old.... you know that angel as Mother, Mamma, Mom... My mom only had one eye. I hated her… She was such an embarrassment. She cooked for students and teachers to support the family. There was this one day during elementary school where my mom came to say hello to me. I was so embarrassed. How could she do this to me? I ignored her, threw her a hateful look and ran out. The next day at school one of my classmates said, ‘Eeee, your mom only has one eye!’ I wanted to bury myself. I also wanted my mom to just disappear. I confronted her that day and said, ‘ If you’re only gonna make me a laughing stock, why don’t you just die?’ My mom did not respond… I didn’t even stop to think for a second about what I had said, because I was full of anger. I was oblivious to her feelings. I wanted out of that house, and have nothing to do with her. So I studied real hard, got a chance to go abroad to study. Then, I got married. I bought a house of my own. I had kids of my own. I was happy with my life, my kids and the comforts. Then one day, my Mother came to visit me. She hadn’t seen me in years and she didn’t even meet her grandchildren. When she stood by the door, my children laughed at her, and I yelled at her for coming over uninvited. I screamed at her, ‘How dare you come to my house and scare my children!’ Get Out Of Here! Now!’ And to this, my mother quietly answered, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I may have gotten the wrong address,’ and she disappeared out of sight. One day, a letter regarding a school reunion came to my house. So I lied to my wife that I was going on a business trip. After the reunion, I went to the old shack just out of curiosity. My neighbors said that she died. I did not shed a single tear. They handed me a letter that she had wanted me to have. My dearest son, I think of you all the time. I’m sorry that I came to your house and scared your children. I was so glad when I heard you were coming for the reunion. But I may not be able to even get out of bed to see you. I’m sorry that I was a constant embarrassment to you when you were growing up. You see... when you were very little, you got into an accident, and lost your eye. As a mother, I couldn’t stand watching you having to grow up with one eye. So I gave you mine. I was so proud of my son who was seeing a whole new world for me, in my place, with that eye. With all my love to you, Your mother 

A dori ceva e, în definitiv, tendinţa de a poseda acest ceva, în care caz posesia înseamnă, într-un fel sau altul, ca obiectul să intre în orbita noastră şi să ajungă oarecum a face parte din noi. Din acest motiv, dorinţa moare automat odată cu dobândirea, dispare odată cu satisfacerea. Iubirea, în schimb, este veşnic nesatisfăcută. Dorinţa are un caracter pasiv şi în ultimă instanţă ceea ce doresc dorind este ca obiectul să ajungă la mine. Sunt un centru de gravitaţie în care aştept să cadă lucrurile. Viceversa: în iubire totul e, după cum vom vedea, activitate. Şi în loc de a consimţi ca obiectul să vină la mine, eu sunt cel ce mă duc la obiect şi mă instalez în el. În actul amoros, persoana iese din sine: e pesemne cea mai intensă încercare făcută de către Natură pentru ca fiecare să iasă din sine însuşi către altceva. Nu gravitează altceva către mine, ci eu către altceva.