My Condolences Quotes

He blinked. His eyes fell as he processed her response. Then he lifted his chin and attempted a grin that was almost painfully dejected. "No, it's all right. I understand." Dr. Erland leaned back against his desk. "My sincerest condolences, Your Highness. In more ways than one, it seems.

I am to be converted to the joys of knitting,' said Mrs. Ali, smiling at the Major. 'My condolences,' he said.

I, too, have felt that the war goes on and on. When my son, Ian, died at El Alamein-- side by side with... visitors offering their condolences, thinking to comfort me, said, "Life goes on." What nonsense, I thought, of course it doesn't. It's death that goes on; Ian is dead now and will be dead tomorrow and nexe year and forever. There's no end to that. But perhaps there will be an end to the sorrow of it.

Nurse: "You look like a pharmaceutical rep. you can leave samples in the closet." Joe: "I'm actually a lawyer." Nurse: "My condolences.

If you have lived your life in such a way that no one has ever found you obnoxious then you have my condolences for you have never really lived.

Do not go to my grave. Mary knows, I am not there. Look for me in between pages and on people’s lips. Do not go to my old school. Do not go to my old house — I am not in any of those places. Look for me in your hearts and greet me there.

My condolences I'll shed a tear with your family I'll open a bottle up, pour a little bit out in your memory I'll be at the wake dressed in all black I'll call out your name, but you won't call back I'll hand a flower to your mother when I say goodbye Cause baby you're dead to me I need to kill you That's the only way to get you out of my head Oh I need to kill you To silence all the sweet little things you said I really want to kill you Wipe you off the face of my earth And bury your bracelet Bury your bracelet Six feet under the dirt

My experience with tragedy is that people will offer condolences and support but never be around when you want to collect.

On the way out, I give the man with the broken arm my condolences and say that I hope that he recovers quickly and painlessly. His smile makes me glad to have said it.

My condolences, you're still alive.

Before I lost my father, I never understood the rituals surrounding funerals: the wake, the service itself, the reception afterward,the dinners prepared by well-meaning friends and delivered in plastic containers, even the popular habit of making poster boards filled with photos of the dear departed. But now I know why we do those things. It's busywork, all of it. I had so much to take care of, so many arrangements to make, so many people to inform, I didn't have a moment to be engulfed by the ocean of grief that was lapping at my heels. Instead, I waded through the shallows, performing task after task, grateful to have duties to propel me forward.

Is he your only child? I asked, "my only son" padma said. "My condolences" I said....Anita Blake

We are all Everlasting.....as my thoughts drift of my loved one passing....I am reminded and softly touched by Wings of Love and a peacefull understanding..... I am comforted and my Heart is Warming

I'd always understood that the past did not die just because we wanted it to. The past signed to us: clicks and cracks in the night, misspelled words, the jargon of adverts, the bodies that attracted us or did not, the sounds that reminded us of this or that. The past was not a thread trailing behind us but an anchor. That was why I looked for you all these years, Sarah. Not for answers, condolences; not to ply you with guilt or set you up for a fall. But because – a long time ago – you were my mother and you left.

She was an expert in the exact amount of condolence which would be acceptable.

I am thinking of having a T-shirt printed: Yes my husband died. Yes I am very sad. Yes you are kind to offer condolences. Now can we change the subject?

I hear congratulations are in order, Father, on your nuptials,” he says with a grim smile before turning his attention to Cress. “And you, Lady Crescentia, have my deepest condolences.

It felt so weird, to be on the other side, where you were the one expected to offer condolences, not receive them. I wanted my "sorry" to sound genuine, because it was. That was the hard thing about grief, and the grieving. They spoke another language, and the words we knew always fell short of what we wanted to say.

Here is Abraham Lincoln’s touching condolence letter to 22-year-old Fanny McCullough, the daughter of a long-time friend: “Dear Fanny It is with deep grief that I learn of the death of your kind and brave Father; and, especially, that it is affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such cases. In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it. I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You can not now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer and holier sort than you have known before. Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother. Your sincere friend, A. Lincoln

Arpien didn't like tears. On the few occasions he'd tried to ease a maiden's tears, she inexplicably started producing more. How to fix this? He assumed the Sixth Stance of Deep Mourning and flourished the Bow of Esteemed Members of Foreign Nation States. "My condolences on the loss of your-" "Pickle?" She offered him one from the clay crock.

A blanket could be used to express my condolences. I’m sorry to have to tell you I’m sorry, but that’s life, you know?


and offered a handshake. “My condolences, Andrew.” He glanced down at her and

So sorry for your loss," Grandma said to Monica. "My condolences." "Yeah, whatever," Monica said. Grandma leaned into the casket for a close look. "What are you gonna do, kiss him?" Monica asked. "I was trying to see where they cut him up when they took his brain out," Grandma said. Monica sucked in some fake smoke. "You'd have to unzip his pants for that one.

Well-meaning friends ' often the worst kind ' handed me the usual clich+!s, and so I feel in a pretty good position to warn you: Just offer your deepest condolences. Don't tell me I'm young. Don't tell me it'll get better. Don't tell me she's in a better place. Don't tell me it's part of some divine plan. Don't tell me that I was lucky to have known such a love. Every one of those platitudes pissed me off. They made me ' and this is going to sound uncharitable ' stare at the idiot and wonder why he or she still breathed while my Elizabeth rotted.

MY FIVE DOS FOR GETTING BACK INTO THE GAME: 1. Do expect defeat. It’s a given when the stakes are high and the competition is working ferociously to beat you. If you’re surprised when it happens, you’re dreaming; dreamers don’t last long. 2. Do force yourself to stop looking backward and dwelling on the professional “train wreck” you have just been in. It’s mental quicksand. 3. Do allow yourself appropriate recovery—grieving—time. You’ve been knocked senseless; give yourself a little time to recuperate. A keyword here is “little.” Don’t let it drag on. 4. Do tell yourself, “I am going to stand and fight again,” with the knowledge that often when things are at their worst you’re closer than you can imagine to success. Our Super Bowl victory arrived less than sixteen months after my “train wreck” in Miami. 5. Do begin planning for your next serious encounter. The smallest steps—plans—move you forward on the road to recovery. Focus on the fix. MY FIVE DON’TS: 1. Don’t ask, “Why me?” 2. Don’t expect sympathy. 3. Don’t bellyache. 4. Don’t keep accepting condolences. 5. Don’t blame others.

Lord knows I had a difficult time after I married George. They wouldn’t let me onto any good charity boards for years.” “My condolences. I can’t believe you survived such a terrible hardship.

Hey, who are you calling easy?" I say, clearing my throat. "I was just thinking how I haven't had sex in over a year. Is that the mark of a loose woman?" He looks at me, eyes wide. "God, that is a long time." "Yep, it is." I nod. "A personal record. Before that my longest dry spell was seven months. Definitely more tolerable, although I don't recommend it." He whistles. "I'm at six now, and I may have watched all the porn on the entire Internet. My condolences to your vagina." "My vagina thanks you." Yeah, that's a thing to say. My vagina wishes she could thank him. He smiles at me sweetly. "Did it like the wreath I sent?

He crossed his arms over the chair back and smirked his disapproval at Brother Fowles. “Sir, I offer you my condolences. Personally I’ve never been troubled by any such difficulties with interpreting God’s word.” “Indeed, I see that,” Brother Fowles said.

My condolences for your loss,” he said. “My congratulations for your gain.” Devon frowned. “I assure you, I never wanted your husband’s title.” “It’s true,” West said. “He complained about it all the way from London.” Devon sent his brother a damning glance.

Freeze or reheat. Thinking of you. I still don’t know who it’s from. Many of the condolence cards that arrived after my parents’ deaths came with stories of the cars they’d sold over the years. Keys handed to over-confident teens and over-anxious parents. Two-seater sports cars traded for family-friendly estates. Cars to celebrate promotions, big birthdays, retirements. My parents played a part in many different stories.

Hayden, as the first girl to take pity on my brother, let me offer my condolences. Suggestion? You might want to kick the tires and check the motor before you take him for a test drive. Number four. Just saying. All our parents’ good DNA went to us first. He got the leftover scraps.

My sincerest condolences, Your Highness. In more ways than one, it seems.

Dr. Erland leaned back against his desk. “My sincerest condolences, Your Highness. In more ways than one, it seems.

The sharpest image I hold from that day are the shiny nailheads in the wood, where someone overdone the hammering to shut the wood-slat crate they sent my brother home in. A note came attached, stiff with condolences from Mr. Mercer, the Estelle Mining owner. Other scrawled words said the company believed they’d recovered most of my brother from the explosion but warned us not to open the lid and check.

Fifty bucks for that one." Her nose crinkles in distaste. "That doesn't look worth more than a dollar." "It's an antique." "It looks better suited to host a bonfire," she retorts without hesitation. I'm full-on smiling like a fucking fool. "It probably is, but be careful, my employee might hear you. That's his pride and joy." She raises a brow. "My condolences to his wounded ego." Damn. I think I love her.

When I asked the Reb, Why do bad things happen to good people?, he gave none of the standard answers. He quietly said, “No one knows.” I admired that. But when I asked if that ever shook his belief in God, he was firm. “I cannot waver,” he said. Well, you could, if you didn’t believe in something all-powerful. “An atheist,” he said. Yes. “And then I could explain why my prayers were not answered.” Right. He studied me carefully. He drew in his breath. “I had a doctor once who was an atheist. Did I ever tell you about him?” No. “This doctor, he liked to jab me and my beliefs. He used to schedule my appointments deliberately on Saturdays, so I would have to call the receptionist and explain why, because of my religion, that wouldn’t work.” Nice guy, I said. “Anyhow, one day, I read in the paper that his brother had died. So I made a condolence call.” After the way he treated you? “In this job,” the Reb said, “you don’t retaliate.” I laughed. “So I go to his house, and he sees me. I can tell he is upset. I tell him I am sorry for his loss. And he says, with an angry face, ‘I envy you.’ “‘Why do you envy me?’ I said. “‘Because when you lose someone you love, you can curse God. You can yell. You can blame him. You can demand to know why. But I don’t believe in God. I’m a doctor! And I couldn’t help my brother!’ “He was near tears. ‘Who do I blame?’ he kept asking me. ‘There is no God. I can only blame myself.’” The Reb’s face tightened, as if in pain. “That,” he said, softly, “is a terrible self-indictment.” Worse than an unanswered prayer? “Oh yes. It is far more comforting to think God listened and said no, than to think that nobody’s out there.

Hercules expressed no wonder at any point of the recital, but when he heard of Medea’s infatuation for Jason he sighed and remarked with unusual mildness, ”The poor girl, I pity her! Echion, my friend, I have a message for you to deliver, and here is my silver cup in payment. Tell the Princess I condole with her, no less heartily than I condoled with Queen Hypsipyle of Lemnos. Tell her that Jason will treat her no less faithlessly than he treated Hypsipyle, though for his sake she has cut herself off from her own house and people and become an accessory to parricide and fratricide. Assure her that when he deserts her, whether it be this year or next year or in twelve years’ time, she can steadfastly count upon Hercules of Tiryns to avenge her or comfort her.

In the beginning, adults operating somewhere between concern and nosiness had asked questions about the war, and I spoke truthfully about the things I'd seen. But my descriptions were often met with an uncomfortable shining of eyes, as if they were waiting for me to take things back, to say that war or genocide was actually no big deal. They'd offer their condolences, as they'd been taught, then wade through a polite amount of time before presenting an excuse to end the conversation. Their musings about how and why people stayed in a country under such terrible conditions were what I hated most. I knew it was ignorance, not insight that prompted these questions. They asked because they hadn't smelled the air raid smoke or the scent of signed flesh on their own balconies; they couldn't fathom that such a dangerous place could still harbor all the feelings of home.

Maya Angelou @DrMayaAngelou "Our Summer's gone The golden days are through The rosy dawn I used to wait with you Has turned to gray My life has turned to blue."- Maya Angelou's poem with Nancy Wilson's song "My Life Has Turned To Blue". We send our deepest condolences to the family of #NancyWilson

Hercules expressed no wonder at any point of the recital, but when he heard of Medea’s infatuation for Jason he sighed and remarked with unusual mildness, ”The poor girl, I pity her! Echion, my friend, I have a message for you to deliver, and here is my silver cup in payment. Tell the Princess I condole with her, no less heartily than I condoled with Queen Hypsipyle of Lemnos. Tell her that Jason will treat her no less faithlessly than he treated Hypsipyle, though for his sake she has cut herself off from her own house and people and become a come an accessory to parricide and fratricide. Assure her that when he deserts her, whether it be this year or next year or in twelve years’ time, she can steadfastly count upon Hercules of Tiryns to avenge her or comfort her.

The weakest sufferers are precisely those who are least able to appropriate the future and its good things. If this be true of the weak, and if the strong find it irritating to be medicined with soft fictions, or presented with anything but sound truth, the popular method of consolation appears to be excluded altogether. If my own life were to be lived over again, I should, from the strength of this conviction, convert most of its words of intended consolation into a far more consolatory condolence. Never

What did I come to do? I didn’t think about it. I’d simply run out my door like a maniac and raced in grim reaper speed—which happens to be as fast as and sometimes faster than vampires—to her aid. But what was it I could actually do? Offer her condolences? False platitudes? You could offer her more, the darkness whispered. “She’s dead, Henry.” “I know.” Then she was in my arms, her pink softness drowning me in ecstasy. “I’m wet from the rain. I’m sorry,” I protested weakly. “I don’t care. Please hold me.” For fuck’s sake. Hold her? I’d burn the world for her.

And what about your brother, Agus? Will he be entertaining us with his pipes?” “Agg,” Shanks rasped, wrinkling his nose. “I didn’t tell you? He ain’t with us no more.” A heavy fist slammed on the arm of the Viidun’s chair as he growled, “The idiot went off and got himself killed!” “What?” Derian and Eena replied in unison, both horrified by the news. “You heard me!” Shanks bellowed. “The crazy fool should’ve known when to duck. He died in a bloody challenge with some brainless Deramptium! A downright disgraceful way to die! I’m ashamed to say he was my brother!” “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” Eena muttered, mostly speaking to Derian. “What was that?” the Viidun demanded. Derian whispered a hush to Eena. Addressing Shanks, he expressed their condolences. “We are truly sorry for your loss. Your brother will be sorely missed. On the other hand, we look forward to welcoming you and your crew aboard the Kemeniroc.” Derian held up his right hand, extending his thumb and two adjoining fingers. “Strength, truth, and honor, friend,” he said, ending their conversation. “Strength, truth, and honor,” Shanks repeated. The screen went black. The captain turned to Eena who was still in shock. “You have to understand,” he explained, “the Viiduns are a fiercely competitive people with proud, warring ways. Their culture doesn’t call for much sympathy, especially when it appears one of their own has failed to live up to expectations.” Eena was still disturbed by the lack of compassion. “But that was his brother.” “I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Shanks and Agus were very close. They traveled everywhere together. All I can figure is it’s easier for Shanks to express his anger than his anguish.” “After all that, I’m not sure I want to meet him in person. He scares me,” she admitted. Derian laughed. “He scares everyone. That’s why you want to keep him as an ally and not make him an enemy.

My Ren & Stimpy reference wasn’t all that funny when written in the center of someone’s CONDOLENCE CARD. “Fucking Leslie,” I spat. “She threw a bunch of cards on my desk and said they were birthday cards.” Dean proceeded to lose his shit, his cackling laughs echoing inside my office. I glared at him. “It’s not that funny.” “Oh, hell yes it is. You referenced Ren & Stimpy on a sympathy card,” he wheezed. Seriously, fuck you, Leslie. Fuck you, hard. I was convinced I could blame her for everything wrong in my life. Lost my keys? Goddammit, Leslie! Missed the subway? Fuck you very much, Leslie. Another awful dick pic sent to my phone? You’re such an asshole, Leslie.

My interactions with troubled or angry congregants have involved less explaining and more hand-holding. I have more than once paid a condolence call on a family to whom something so awful had happened that words seemed inadequate. So I didn’t offer words, beyond ‘I’m sorry, I feel so bad for you.’ I would often sit quietly with the grieving widow or parent for several minutes, and when I would get up to go, the mourner would throw her arms around me and say, ‘Thank you for being here with us.’ My presence represented God’s caring presence, the symbolic statement that God had not abandoned them. That reassurance, more than any theological wisdom, was what I was uniquely qualified to offer them.

Hercules expressed no wonder at any point of the recital, but when he heard of Medea’s infatuation for Jason he sighed and remarked with unusual mildness, ”The poor girl, I pity her! Echion, my friend, I have a message for you to deliver, and here is my silver cup in payment. Tell the Princess I condole with her, no less heartily than I condoled with Queen Hypsipyle of Lemons. Tell her that Jason will treat her no less faithlessly than he treated Hypsipyle, though for his sake she has cut herself off from her own house and people and become a come an accessory to parricide and fratricide. Assure her that when he deserts her, whether it be this year or next year or in twelve years’ time, she can steadfastly count upon Hercules of Tiryns to avenge her or comfort her.

How old am I? Over thirty, indeed? What cream do I use on my face? How many children do I have? Really—none? They offer condolences and smack their lips over my bad luck. My husband’s family must be very upset—I am married, of course? No? Again, they offer their regrets: a great shame that nobody wanted me. They understand—it is known to happen to some girls. Usually the very ugly or poor ones. Their concern extends to my parents: They must be unhappy, ashamed even, to have an old, unmarried daughter. And the relatives, horribly embarrassed, certainly? By now, I try to insist it may not be a complete disaster to be unmarried, but Setareh feels the need to intervene and freestyle the translation a little. She explains to the girls that, in her personal view, it is indeed a little tragic for my family. That concession renders sympathetic faces all around.When Sakina steps out of the room, questions become juicier: In the West, do I walk around almost naked in the streets? And have I “had relations” with a thousand men?

When Roshar saw her ripped, one-legged trousers and Arin at her side as they stood outside the prince’s tent, his eyes glinted with mirth and Kestrel felt quite sure that the prince was going to say it was about time Arin tore her clothes off. Then Roshar might comment coyly on Arin’s inability to reach a full conclusion (Only one trouser leg? she imagined Roshar saying. How lazy of you, Arin), or on the quaint quality of Arin’s modesty (What a little lamb you are). Perhaps he’d offer condolences to Kestrel on the partial death of her trousers. He’d ask whether she’d gotten injured on purpose. Kestrel flushed. “Things at the scout station didn’t go according to plan,” she said, stating the obvious in order to shunt the conversation to where it should be. Not, absolutely not, about what had happened or didn’t happen in Arin’s tent. “She’s wounded,” said Arin--who, although he didn’t look it, must have also been flustered if he, too, felt he had to state the obvious. “Barely,” Roshar said. “A mere scratch, or she wouldn’t be standing.” “You could offer her a seat,” Arin said. “Ah, but I have only two chairs in my tent, little Herrani, and we are three. I suppose she could always sit on your lap.” Arin shot him a look of deep annoyance and pushed inside the tent. “But I could have said something so much worse,” Roshar protested. “Say nothing at all,” Kestrel told him. “That would be very unlike me.

He stared at it in utter disbelief while his secretary, Peters, who’d only been with him for a fortnight, muttered a silent prayer of gratitude for the break and continued scribbling as fast as he could, trying futilely to catch up with his employer’s dictation. “This,” said Ian curtly, “was sent to me either by mistake or as a joke. In either case, it’s in excruciatingly bad taste.” A memory of Elizabeth Cameron flickered across Ian’s mind-a mercenary, shallow litter flirt with a face and body that had drugged his mind. She’d been betrothed to a viscount when he’d met her. Obviously she hadn’t married her viscount-no doubt she’d jilted him in favor of someone with even better prospects. The English nobility, as he well knew, married only for prestige and money, then looked elsewhere for sexual fulfillment. Evidently Elizabeth Cameron’s relatives were putting her back on the marriage block. If so, they must be damned eager to unload her if they were willing to forsake a title for Ian’s money…That line of conjecture seemed so unlikely that Ian dismissed it. This note was obviously a stupid prank, perpetrated, no doubt, by someone who remembered the gossip that had exploded over that weekend house party-someone who thought he’d find the note amusing. Completely dismissing the prankster and Elizabeth Cameron from his mind, Ian glanced at his harassed secretary who was frantically scribbling away. “No reply is necessary,” he said. As he spoke he flipped the message across his desk toward his secretary, but the white parchment slid across the polished oak and floated to the floor. Peters made an awkward dive to catch it, but as he lurched sideways all the other correspondence that went with his dictation slid off his lap onto the floor. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered, leaping up and trying to collect the dozens of pieces of paper he’d scattered on the carpet. “Extremely sorry, Mr. Thornton,” he added, frantically snatching up contracts, invitations and letters and shoving them into a disorderly pile. His employer appeared not to hear him. He was already rapping out more instructions and passing the corresponding invitations and letters across the desk. “Decline the first three, accept the fourth, decline the fifth. Send my condolences on this one. On this one, explain that I’m going to be in Scotland, and send an invitation to join me there, along with directions to the cottage.” Clutching the papers to his chest, Peters poked his face up on the opposite side of the desk. “Yes, Mr. Thornton!” he said, trying to sound confident. But it was hard to be confident when one was on one’s knees. Harder still when one wasn’t entirely certain which instructions of the morning went with which invitation or piece of correspondence. Ian Thornton spent the rest of the afternoon closeted with Peters, heaping more dictation on the inundated clerk. He spent the evening with the Earl of Melbourne, his future father-in-law, discussing the earl’s daughter and himself. Peters spent part of his evening trying to learn from the butler which invitations his employer was likely to accept or reject.

There comes a point in one's life where the people whom we grew up admiring begin to die, leaving a great chasm in the world. This is awful enough to deal with without having anything so annoying as feelings getting in the way of personal equanimity. And then, possibly even more horribly, there comes a time in one's life when the people whom we grew up with or the people who are in our same age group begin to die. I have had the disagreeable business of having to watch colleagues only a few years my senior perish without warning, though premonition would not soften the blow. I am now realizing that I am entering this time, the dreadful gateway of existence, the one that leads to watching the ebb and flow of time, the great rote and sussuration of life and death, and being able to do nothing but welter in misery and pine over the dregs of hideous mortality. Death is an unaccountable business, one that robs the living of the peace we believe to be --perhaps mistakenly-- our birthright, one which asks the living to pay for the departed in the currency of feelings, leaving us to wallow in emotional debt. There is a loneliness about behind left behind as is there a thrill of horror for what lies beyond. The sum total of living is to sacrifice peace in favour of finding it, which makes little sense at all. I often wonder if the dead know we grieve for them, as the penury of pity only disconcerts ourselves. It is poor comfort, the business of mourning, for what is there really to mourn about excepting our own desire for reconciliation, something which no one, not even the dead, can furnish?

If your favorite politician got ran over by a bus, I’d express my condolences by telling you I know how you feel. Why just the other day I ran over a rat, and I felt so guilty about it that I bought a whole gallon of ice cream, rather than just the normal two scoops I usually get on the cone.

Cage gestured to my running leg. “Testing a new leg?” I shook my head. “Underwear.” His brow wrinkled and the guys behind him inched a bit closer, ears perked. “What?” Cage asked. “My favorite underwear has been discontinued. I’m trying a new brand and the best way to test them out is to go for a jog. I want to know before I buy ten pairs if they’re going to ride up on me. I’m not a thong girl. I don’t like anything shoved up my ass.” His cheeks turned red while taking a hard swallow. The fishing crew tried and failed to hide their chuckling. One of the guys slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you out front.” He cleared his throat. “Our condolences on the ass news.” That sparked a new round of laughter as the guys piled onto the elevator. When the doors shut, Cage pursed his lips and sighed. “Thanks for that.” I shrugged. “What?” “What …” It’s possible his intention was to be serious or maybe upset, but he couldn’t finish his thought without rubbing his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk. “You don’t like ‘anything shoved up your ass.’ Really, Lake?” Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he shook his head. “So you’re big into fishing, huh?” “Don’t change the subject.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Too bad he still couldn’t keep a straight face. It would have given his case a lot more merit. Those were favorite moments of mine, when he was ninety percent sure my actions were an embarrassing side effect of my Sahara Desert humor, yet still ten percent holy-shit-she’s-serious. I loved that ten percent. I worked my ass off for that ten percent. “I’m sorry, what was the subject? Oh yeah, things I don’t like in my crack. Sounds like a Jeopardy category or a Family Feud survey. ‘Name something Lake Jones does not like up her crack. Underwear. Survey says? Ding ding ding … ninety-four people surveyed said underwear, the other six said cock. And I do believe those six lascivious idiots are downstairs waiting for you.” Cage observed me; it was never just a stare or a lingering look. His eyes narrowed a fraction, but never lost their sparkle. The wetting of his lips was always followed by biting them together like he refused to speak until he’d figured me out. And just before he spoke, his dimples surrendered to his impending grin. “I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there in three hours.” “What if I haven’t sorted through this underwear situation by then?” My head tilted to the side as my poker face slipped a bit, revealing my own impending grin. “Hmm …” He pulled me to him, his hands easing into the back of my running shorts. “Don’t fret over it,” he whispered before sucking my earlobe into his mouth. My lips parted, and eyes closed, as I held onto his biceps to keep my knees from buckling. “Panties are optional.” Three words and my knees buckled. Thankfully—not really thankful at all—he fisted the back of my new panties and yanked up. My hero? No. The wedgie was underway a few seconds before my knees gave out. I gasped. He smirked. “I think you should consider getting used to the idea—the feeling—of something in that sexy ass of yours.” Not much left me speechless, but my first non-brother-male-induced wedgie left me with cow eyes and a numb tongue. He winked just before the elevator doors shut.

After Steve’s death I received letters of condolence from people all over the world. I would like to thank everyone who sent such thoughtful sympathy. Your kind words and support gave me the strength to write this book and so much more. Carolyn Male is one of those dear people who expressed her thoughts and feelings after we lost Steve. It was incredibly touching and special, and I wanted to express my appreciation and gratitude. I’m happy to share it with you. It is with a still-heavy heart that I rise this evening to speak about the life and death of one of the greatest conservationists of our time: Steve Irwin. Many people describe Steve Irwin as a larrikin, inspirational, spontaneous. For me, the best way I can describe Steve Irwin is formidable. He would stand and fight, and was not to be defeated when it came to looking after our environment. When he wanted to get things done--whether that meant his expansion plans for the zoo, providing aid for animals affected by the tsunami and the cyclones, organizing scientific research, or buying land to conserve its environmental and habitat values--he just did it, and woe betide anyone who stood in his way. I am not sure I have ever met anyone else who was so determined to get the conservation message out across the globe, and I believe he achieved his aim. What I admired most about him was that he lived the conservation message every day of his life. Steve’s parents, Bob and Lyn, passed on their love of the Australian bush and their passion for rescuing and rehabilitating wildlife. Steve took their passion and turned it into a worldwide crusade. The founding of Wildlife Warriors Worldwide in 2002 provided Steve and Terri with another vehicle to raise awareness of conservation by allowing individuals to become personally involved in protecting injured, threatened, or endangered wildlife. It also has generated a working fund that helps with the wildlife hospital on the zoo premises and supports work with endangered species in Asia and Africa. Research was always high on Steve’s agenda, and his work has enabled a far greater understanding of crocodile behavior, population, and movement patterns. Working with the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service and the University of Queensland, Steve was an integral part of the world’s first Crocs in Space research program. His work will live on and inform us for many, many years to come. Our hearts go out to his family and the Australia Zoo family. It must be difficult to work at the zoo every day with his larger-than-life persona still very much evident. Everyone must still be waiting for him to walk through the gate. His presence is everywhere, and I hope it lives on in the hearts and minds of generations of wildlife warriors to come. We have lost a great man in Steve Irwin. It is a great loss to the conservation movement. My heart and the hearts of everyone here goes out to his family. Carolyn Male, Member for Glass House, Queensland, Australia October 11, 2006

I laughed. I laughed while his lips hovered over my mouth and the gun pressed into his body. It was the laughter, not the gun, that made him draw back. Hannah collapsed to her knees. The Traveler had gone. Someone needed to help her to the stairs. I thought of Willie and he came. He helped her to her feet without looking at me. I kept my eyes on the bad guys. One problem at a time. “Why are you laughing?” Fernando asked. “Because you are too fucking stupid to survive.” I drew back from them, the gun still pointed at him. “Is he your only son?” I asked. “My only child,” Padma said. “My condolences,” I said. No, I didn’t shoot him. But staring into Fernando’s angry eyes, I knew there’d be other opportunities. Some people seek death through desperation. Some people fall into it out of stupidity. If Fernando wanted to fall, I was more than happy to catch him.

night has enveloped, to give me some relief now invisible are walls of separation, and thy grief where blood quenches the thirst disloyalty is faith last and first is the religion my beloved belongs to I beckoned, red and black robed lady with a wand let me take her by the hand heard of her about sorcery her powers useless, and witch now about to succumb from just a gaze of eyes filled with Kohl of Leila my nights worthless, body breathless every moment, feeling restless be silent and hear, hear me, my cries don't forget the promise you swore I have lost my childhood over you don't know, how these years left me alone sufferings, separation, theft me alone I never knew how pain excrutiates sometimes, i enlivened you my dear Love is a blessing, and not a fear in a melancholy cloudy day, I mourn glistening eyes, weeping sky, and heart torn I gaze from a window in Kashmir For a moment, condoling the tragedy, sighing In sombre time, lifeless, as if dying

You know, it’s been my family’s privilege to bury three generations of Nolans. And I knew Wendell from Kiwanis. He was a fine man. You have my condolences.

I have never been to Thuvhe, I confess,” Chezel says. “Is it as cold as they say?” “Colder than that,” I say. “Especially in Hessa, where I am from.” “Ah, Hessa,” he says. “‘The very heart of Thuvhe.’ Is that not what they call it?” He says the phrase--“the very heart of Thuvhe”--in labored, but accurate, Thuvhesit. I smile. “But you must know the rest of the quote?” He shakes his head. “‘Hessa is a land of ill-mannered, poorly groomed, inarticulate dirt-lovers who spit on their hands to wash them,’” I say. “‘Yet it is the very heart of Thuvhe.’” Chezel pauses for a tick, then lets out a loud guffaw. In the pause, I angle my head toward Isae to catch some of her conversation with Harth. Harth is offering condolences for the attack against Shissa. Asking for details. “Do you find that to be accurate?” Chezel asks me. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say airily. “Sometimes we use water to wash our hands, in the warmer months.” Chezel laughs again.

Hessa is a land of ill-mannered, poorly groomed, inarticulate dirt-lovers who spit on their hands to wash them,’” I say. “‘Yet it is the very heart of Thuvhe.’” Chezel pauses for a tick, then lets out a loud guffaw. In the pause, I angle my head toward Isae to catch some of her conversation with Harth. Harth is offering condolences for the attack against Shissa. Asking for details. “Do you find that to be accurate?” Chezel asks me. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say airily. “Sometimes we use water to wash our hands, in the warmer months.

Here is Lizzy refusing Mr. Collins who is to inherit Longbourn and cast us out. If only I had had a dutiful son instead of a most unnatural daughter, I should be happy.” “My condolences.” Miss Bingley yawned, despite the early hour. “I doubt a son would have wanted to marry Mr. Collins either,” said Lizzy.

I should ask how they are. If I can rattle off rehearsed condolences, I should be able to offer support, right? I should. Yet, my tongue is as empty as when I faced a red-eyed Mirjam in the bathroom or an Iris stressed out from her festivals. Sometimes I wanted to ask if I could hug her, the same way Iris always did with me—"Can I?"—but self-consciousness would stop me at the last second. It's just not my role. I'd be playing normal like a child playing dress-up.

We treat effort as a second-class citizen. It’s the condolence message we send ourselves when we fail. We say, “I gave it my best shot,” or “I get an A for effort.” But after a few days, quantifying effort rather than outcome reveals patterns that we’d otherwise miss.

Mr Darcy, rest assured I had no intention of hunting you. Indeed, I find no pleasure in such prey. My curiosity and interest — for which I apologise — was roused by the fact that I was fortunate enough to meet your family a long time ago, and I hoped for a pleasant meeting with another Darcy. I was deeply grieved by the news of your parents’ deaths, and I wished to present my condolences and to enquire after Miss Darcy.

In order for me to get those moments that leave me filled with gratitude I have to be willing to first show up, and then show up again. Next step is making sure I’m the kind of friend I’m hoping for in the first place. It’s the reason I keep a pile of birthday, condolence and get-well cards sitting next to me. Lowers the excuses for sending out a note to celebrate or just let someone know they’re not alone. Meant a lot to me lately when people sent me cards after my sister, Diana died. Or the times I’ve carried a casserole to someone’s door, or had dinner delivered – on me. Or the times I’ve bought candles, or tea from a friend’s new company, or I’ve gone to see plays or cabaret performances, or bought CD’s or books, or countless other moments just like those. I wanted to encourage and celebrate, as well as sit alongside a friend who’s struggling with a loss or a challenge. It all starts with heading out my door and being open to whatever greets me along the way.

I feel a pair of arms engulf me in a hug and I give in, basking in the warmth she radiates. I cling onto her arm, resting my head on her shoulder. She slowly caresses my back, whispering hushes of condolences in my ear. Her mumbles turn into sobs as she hides my pain in her heart. This is it - Aliya is my safe haven.

Xander: My condolences about Glyn, Captain. It’s my worst nightmare to imagine some fucker taking away my Cecily.

Why? You didn’t kill him. So tell me about you. Where are you from? What’s with the accent? You look like a black guy, no offense.” “I am a black guy. No offense,” he retorted but seemed a little thrown off in the way his eyes narrowed on her in a dissecting manner. Gaby was aware she had been sharp with her words to his condolences. She wondered if she offended him, or surprised him. A man like Power was probably used to women creaming at his slightest display of affection. “My father and his family are Belizean. I was born and raised in Belize. I lived there until I was 19-years-old. My mother is…was… a black American. My father, Belizean, yes. Still, I’m a black man.” “So Belizeans aren’t considered Hispanic?” Gaby questioned with a crinkled brow. “Belizeans, like most Central and South American inhabitants, are descendants of African slaves that were just dropped off along the way. But we were the only British colony in the region, the only Central American country where English is still the official language, although most Belizeans are trilingual, Elizabeth The Second’s the queen, the whole nine. But we’re of black ancestry even with Hispanic heritage. I see darker tones in my country than yours. Nicaraguans, Puerto Ricans, Brazilians, Costa Ricans, Columbians… most of them have more black blood than the black people in the U.S. That’s why it kills me when people ask shit like that. I mean…” He stopped short. “… not you,” he offered up but Gaby only pressed her lips together feeling slightly embarrassed knowing she was in fact, amongst the ignorant.

He says the witch was dressed as a man and wore her hair also like a man's. Not only that, but in the boy's fevered dream, she fought better than any soldier. As I said, beyond belief." The forester shrugged in apology for wasting his lord's time. The corners of Gilliam's mouth lifted in sudden respect, and he touched the pin at his shoulder. "She did it all alone," he said quietly. "My lord?" the forester asked. "Hobbe, this is no dream. The boy has indeed seen my bride." Hobbe blinked. "Condolences, my lord.

The DFL headquarters was a low white-brick building in a St. Paul business park across the Mississippi from downtown that possibly looked hip for fifteen minutes after it was built but no longer did. Lucas talked to a receptionist, who made a call. Schariff came out and got him, and said, “We’re down in the conference room.” “Who’s we?” Lucas asked. “Me and Daryl Larson, our attorney,” Schariff said. He was a stocky, dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard and dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a white shirt with a couple of pens in a plastic pocket protector. In any other circumstance, Lucas would have been willing to arrest him on the basis of the pocket protector alone. “I asked, and everybody said when you’re talking to a cop . . . especially one investigating the Grant-Smalls fight . . .” “Okay,” Lucas said. Larson was a tall, thin man whom Lucas knew through Weather’s association with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra. Larson raised money for the orchestra, usually by wheedling rich wives; it’d worked with Weather. When Lucas stepped into the room, Larson put down the paper he’d been reading and stood to shake hands. “Lucas, nice to see you. How’s Weather?” “Broke. She’s broke. She’s got no money left. She’s wondering how we’re going to feed the kids.” “Hate to hear that,” Larson said, with a toothy smile. “I’ll call her with my condolences.” The pleasantries out of the way, they settled into the conference chairs and Lucas outlined some of what he knew and believed about Tubbs’s disappearance. He finished by saying, “You guys are probably not going to want to talk about this, because when the media puts Tubbs’s disappearance together with the porn trick . . . it’s gonna look bad.

persistence in and of itself. In a moment of clarity, I knew at once I wanted to visit Hesham's home and express my condolences. It was the only way I could express penance for my

You seem awfully concerned about this guy,” Jeoff stated. “More than a disobedient lone wolf merits. Has he hurt someone in the pride?” “In a sense. He threatens my mate.” That was one way to stun an opponent. “You? Mated? You have my condolences.” Arik frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It’s always sad when a man gets shackled to a ball and chain. Next thing you know, you’ll be taking ballroom fucking dancing, calling everything ‘ours’, losing your closet to shoes, and having to watch romantic comedies instead of going to the bar with the boys.” “I’ll also be having incredible sex multiple times a day.” “You could have had that without having her shackle you.” “I’m the one who claimed her.” “Why? Why would you do that?” Jeoff shook his head. “Don’t come crying to me when she makes you wear an ugly sweater at Christmas.” “I won’t cry because I’ll make sure you and I have matching ones, given to you publicly, so you can’t refuse. I’ll have Hayder take a picture, and I’ll post it on every social media site I find.” “You’re an evil king, Arik.” “Thank you.” He couldn’t help a smug smile.

I turned fifty and decided to take a break. After twenty-five years of working, it seemed like a good idea. Honestly, I was feeling depleted. I still cared about my career and realized, amid a worsening economic climate, that I was lucky to have one. But that appreciation felt more lodged in my head than my heart. One day, United Airlines sent me a card, along with some new luggage tags, offering congratulations on having flown 2 million miles. Quick arithmetic translated all those zeroes into the equivalent of flying from one side of the country to the other every single day—Sundays, holidays, birthdays, sick or well—for more than two years. Maybe the card from United should have offered condolences. It all added up to an abiding fatigue. And a question: Did I want to fly 2 million more miles over the next twenty-five years of my life? Was I having a low-grade midlife crisis? I had no red sports car, reckless affair,

I’ll tell you this up front: The other dead man, the murder victim, was my brother. There’s nothing left of him. There’s only me, left to speak in his place, sitting in this bar, waiting for condolences no one’s ever going to offer.

As a young priest, I'd had a father scream at me once. I was working in a hospital. He'd just lost his son. I thought my clerical collar gave me the right to speak, so right after the doctors called time of death, I went and assured him his infant son was in paradise. Stupid. And of all people, I should have known better. At age fourteen, I lost my mother to a rare form of cancer similar to what struck that father's son, and every empty condolence I received after my mother's death only deepened my angry teenage grief. But platitudes are most appealing when they're least appropriate. This father had watched his healthy child waste away to nothing. It must have been maddening. The months of random emergency room visits. The brief rallies and the inevitable relapses. The inexorable course of the disease... ...And then I came along, after the chemotherapy, after the bankrupting bills and the deterioration of his and his wife's careers, after the months of hoping and despair, after every possible medical violation had denied his child grace even in death. And I dared suggest some good had come of it? It was unbearable. It was disgusting. It was vile.

I’ve shortened this sentence’s length, in order to reduce the need for it. I’ve also shortened my penis (as impossible as that sounds), in order to reduce your reliance on it. Please accept my condolences, and this vibrating piece of rubber.

Yeah, I can imagine with the funeral and all, this is the last thing you want to be dealing with right now. Like I said, my condolences.” Mayhew took his own deep breath, his far more raspy. “We’ve got a nutshell, but we’re still filling in some blanks. You’re not the first person in the county to have this kind of thing happen. We suspect it’s a gang of young males who read the obituaries, find out when the funerals are, then Google Earth the house and figure out whether it’s worth robbing.

My heart sunk. I never understood why people felt sorry for me. Yes it hurt knowing I’d never meet my mom, but I hadn’t had the chance to lose her. She was already gone. But this? I would never understand Brandon’s hurt, and I didn’t know how to try, but I wanted to take it away. What I did know, was that he didn’t need my condolences right now, so I reached my hand across the table and rested it on top of his. He made slow circles on my thumb causing my entire hand to heat up. “Tell me about him.” He glanced up and my breath caught at his expression. If a masculine man could be described as beautiful, then his expression was just that. “He was amazing. Hard worker, but always home for dinner with us. Brought my mom flowers every other weekend, never missed one of our games. Taught me how to play football and surf. He made sure to let us know we could have anything we wanted if we worked hard enough for it. I always wanted to be like him when I grew up. Everyone loved him, he was a great man.” “Sounds like it. I’m sure he would be very proud of you.” He smiled at me and sat back into the chair, looking at me intently. “What?” “I’ve never had someone ask me that. Normally people just tell me they’re sorry and get uncomfortable. It’s awkward and to be honest, gets kind of old.” “Does it bother you that I asked?” “Not at all. It’s nice to talk about him sometimes. Your dad ever talk about your mom?” “Um, not exactly. Just said enough to let me know I reminded him too much of her. It never made sense to me, he always kept me close, like with the home-schooling, but he always made it clear he didn’t want me.” I snapped my mouth shut before I could say anything else. I exhaled in relief when he didn’t ask me to explain that further. “Well it’s his loss.” Yeah,

Diane Hoffman was smoking a cigarette. The several stubs by her feet indicated that she had been there for more than a few minutes. Myron approached. “Hi,” he said. “We met the other day.” Diane Hoffman looked up at him, took a deep drag of the cigarette, released it into the still air. “I remember.” Her hoarse voice sounded like old tires on rough pavement. “My condolences,” Myron said. “You and Jack must have been very close.” Another deep drag. “Yeah.

So, what brings you to town?” Sean took a sip of his beer. “Burning off some leave. Visiting my brother. I have a little over six weeks of leave left. I used to hit the bars with my brother, but his running days are over.” “War injury?” the bartender asked. “Battle of the sexes. He just got married.” The bartender whistled. “My condolences.” Tonight

End April 2012 A week had passed and I finally plucked up the courage to reply to my ex-lover. Dear Andy, It is good to hear from you. I agree it’s been too long since we connected. My condolences; I’m deeply saddened to hear of your partner’s passing. It is difficult for those who are left behind, grieving, when a person we love departs to the next realm. I’m sure you are coping splendidly, though; knowing the nature of my beloved friend, you’ll be back living a full life in no time.

Brian is a deeply compassionate man who was sad to learn that his work colleague, Tom, had lost his 17-year-old daughter to a drug overdose. When Tom returned to work weeks later, Brian approached him and said, “Man, I am so sorry. There are no words to express my condolences. “Brian reached out to hug Tom. At first, he was rigid and on guard, but with Brian’s genuine embrace, he felt Tom release into his safety. Tom had been so incredibly strong for his wife and family that Brian’s powerful hug allowed him to surrender into another man’s strength. It was a memorable and powerful step towards healing. Sometimes a hug at the right time, even if spontaneous, can be the kindest thing you can do for another human being.

However, if you're cursed as I am with a love of storytelling and adventures in galaxies far, far away, and mythical creatures from fictional lands who are more real to you than actual people with blood and bones---which is to say, people who exist---well, let me be the first to pass on my condolences. Because life is rarely what you imagined it would be.

When Margot died after a car accident in which my sister was also seriously injured in November 1970, I sat on a hill behind a friend's house in Greymouth trying to get my head around having to identify the body of my university sweetheart. Yvonne was the only one who came with condolences (Paul Caffyn)

Although it wouldn’t bring Ramone back, it was the only way I knew how to show my condolences.

As a young priest, I’d had a father scream at me once. I was working in a hospital. He’d just lost his son. I thought my clerical collar gave me the right to speak, so right after the doctors called time of death, I went and assured him his infant son was in paradise. Stupid. And of all people, I should have known better. At age fourteen, I lost my mother to a rare form of cancer similar to what struck that father’s son, and every empty condolence I received after my mother’s death only deepened my angry teenage grief. But platitudes are most appealing when they’re least appropriate

I’ve seen it,” she tells me. “Of course you have.” I nod at her once. “My condolences.

He single?" asked Ethan and laughed at Jav's scowl. "Engaged, actually." "Congrats?" "And straight," Jav added. "Oh," said Ethan. "My condolences.

My condolences,” he says. “Thank you.” It occurs to me that out of all the people I know, Mikolaj might understand the pain I’m feeling the best. After all, he too lost his adoptive father, a man he loved and respected. I don’t know if that will motivate him to help me, however—considering that it was Dante who shot Tymon Zajac.

I was assured that nothing would appear in the press, and that I need only see the Duce for a few minutes. All that he wanted to do was to shake hands with me and to convey personally his condolences at my wife’s death. So we argued for a full hour with all courtesy on both sides but with increasing strain; it was a most exhausting hour for me and probably more so for the other party. The time fixed for the interview was at last upon us and I had my way. A telephone message was sent to the Duce’s palace that I could not come.

Sounds like a cunt. You should dump him.” “Grey!” I scold in surprise. “That’s awful. And I can’t.” “Why not? Did he fuck the next Ashford heir into you?” “Jesus, no. No babies. Ever.” I shiver in horror at the thought. “Then why can’t you dump his sorry British ass?” “Because I love him.” Greyson looks down at me with pity in his eyes. “My condolences. I hear that illness is fatal.

Yes, I gave them my condolences,” I cough, “I mean best wishes for a long and happy marriage.

That’s factually inaccurate!” I announce loudly to the entire room, because that feels like the most important part to clarify. “Not true! That’s—it’s—well, I’m sorry to say, it’s actually somewhat underwhelming, to be honest with you.” I give the new girl an apologetic look. “I’ve seen it,” she tells me. “Of course you have.” I nod at her once. “My condolences.

Do you have someone like this in your life, a person who rubs you the wrong way, and no matter how often you promise that you will rise above it all, you let them goad you every single time? I hope you don't, for your sake, but if you do, my condolences.

Looking back, I see that I have lost my childhood friends: one and two at a time—all of them. [...] Life is meant to be difficult: it is too bad that a poem comes so easily to me. [...] Extending a small hand to myself, I offer myself the very first handshake, tears, and condolences.

Pool of memories Like a dry flower petal that flies in the air, Feeling it belongs to the sky, I find her memories floating in my mind everywhere, Whether I am thinking of her or in a vacant state of my mind I lie, The memory, her memory, drifts from one neuron to another, Until it settles where all her memories lie piled up, And then these fragments and bits of memories condole each other, And they all say together, “Hey you amorous soul, never give up!” And all these memories rise and spread across my mind, Hitched to every thought that arises from my cerebral thinking, Though they think of now and sometimes of the future, eventually with her imaginations they all bind, And in this pool of memories, now, time appears to be sinking, So it doesn't matter whether it was yesterday or it is today, Because I have been granted my wish, That to lie immersed in her thoughts everyday, In this pool of her memories the only fish, That swims across it, Feeds on it, and lives in this pool, And then begins the true wonder of it, The wonder of the romantic pool, Where she assumes the form of every drop of memory, And like a fish I swim and dive into her soul freely, In a love’s own nursery, Where I love her and romance her freely!

I look at her and it occurs to me that now is the part where my knees are supposed to go weak, and my breath is expected to catch in my throat, but as much as it pains me to disappoint all you bleeding-heart romantics out there, my knees are fine and the rate of my breathing is undisturbed. The Hallmark Channel has my condolences.

Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language. Why are my sides so sore and achy? It’s from crying, I’m told. I did not know that we cry with our muscles. The pain is not surprising, but itsphysicality is: my tongue unbearably bitter, as though I ate a loathed meal and forgot to clean my teeth; on my chest, a heavy, awful weight; and inside my body, a sensation of eternal dissolving. My heart - my actual physical heart, nothing figurative here - is running away from me, has become its own separate thing, beating too fast, its rhytms at odds with mine. This is an affliction not merely of the spirit but of the body, of aches and lagging strength. Flesh, muscles, organs are all compromised. No physical position is comfortable. For weeks, my stomach is in turmoil, tense and tight with foreboding, the ever-present certainty that somebody else will die, that more will be lost. One morning, Okey calls me a little earlier than usual and I think, Just tell me, tell me immediately, who has died now. Is it Mummy?

An Irishman walks into a Dublin bar, orders three pints of Guinness, and drinks them down, taking a sip from one, then a sip from the next, until they’re gone. He then orders three more. The bartender says, “You know, they’d be less likely to go flat if you bought them one at a time.” The man says, “Yeah, I know, but I have two brothers, one in the States, one in Australia. When we all went our separate ways, we promised each other that we’d all drink this way in memory of the days when we drank together. Each of these is for one of my brothers and the third is for me.” The bartender is touched, and says, “What a great custom!” The Irishman becomes a regular in the bar and always orders the same way. One day he comes in and orders two pints. The other regulars notice, and a silence falls over the bar. When he comes to the bar for his second round, the bartender says, “Please accept my condolences, pal.” The Irishman says, “Oh, no, everyone’s fine. I just joined the Mormon Church, and I had to quit drinking.

Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language. Why are my sides so sore and achy? It’s from crying, I’m told. I did not know that we cry with our muscles. The pain is not surprising, but its physicality is: my tongue unbearably bitter, as though I ate a loathed meal and forgot to clean my teeth; on my chest, a heavy, awful weight; and inside my body, a sensation of eternal dissolving. My heart—my actual physical heart, nothing figurative here—is running away from me, has become its own separate thing, beating too fast, its rhythms at odds with mine. This is an affliction not merely of the spirit but of the body, of aches and lagging strength. Flesh, muscles, organs are all compromised. No physical position is comfortable. For weeks, my stomach is in turmoil, tense and tight with foreboding, the ever-present certainty that somebody else will die, that more will be lost.

Emperor Daksha, Suryavanshi liege, protector of Meluha. Please accept my deep condolences for the dastardly attack on Mount Mandar. Such a senseless assault on peaceful Brahmins cannot but be condemned in the strongest of terms. We are shocked that any denizen of India would stoop to such levels. It is, therefore, with surprise and sadness that I read your letter. I assure you that neither me nor anyone in my command has anything to do with this devious attack. Hence I have to inform you, with regret, that there is nobody I can hand over to you. I hope that you understand the sincerity of this letter and will not make a hasty decision, which may have regrettable consequences for you. I assure you of my empire’s full support in the investigation of this outrage. Please do inform us as to how we can be of assistance to you in bringing the criminals to justice.

Princess... er, Erina." "I'm aware this is terribly belated, but please allow me to offer my sincere condolences on the death of your mother. Now then, do you have any plans for what you'll be doing from here on out?" "Huh? Plans? Me? Um, I don't really have anywhere left to go..." "Really? That's perfect. We were just searching for a chef of exceptional talent. Satisfying the Book Master's exceedingly refined palate is no small feat. We can have no shortage of highly capable chefs on hand to accomplish this task. Besides... If everyone wasn't present for our cozy family meals... ... it'd reflect poorly on the venerable Nakiri Family's good name. And you are family. Isn't that right... ... elder brother Asahi?