Mymy Quotes

I depended on you....You're older, you're supposed to be my...my archive. That's what sisters do, remember for each other.

Hello old friend," he greeted it, "how strange for us to meet again, like this, with the snow blowing so outside." "You know my...my wrench?" "Of course I know it. It was not a wrench when we were last acquainted, but ones friends may change clothes and still one knows them.

Lover?” The boy lifts an eyebrow suggestively. My face grows hot. “He’s my—my friend.” “Then why worry?” The boy flashes a grin tinged with wickedness, and I find myself smiling in return. I glance over my shoulder at Izzi, talking to an earnest-looking Scholar. She laughs at something he says, her hands, for once, not straying to her eyepatch. When she catches me watching, she looks between the Tribal boy and me and waggles her eyebrows. My face goes hot again. One dance can’t hurt; we can leave after. The

Bit of a sore point with me.” He made himself shrug. “My—my mother went mad.” Alice of Battenberg, from one of the German noble houses. “You’ve hardly ever mentioned her.” “She had a breakdown when I was eight or nine. So many doctors—they couldn’t decide if she was neurotic or paranoid schizophrenic or . . .

One day about a month ago, I really hit bottom. You know, I just felt that in a Godless universe, I didn't want to go on living. Now I happen to own this rifle, which I loaded, believe it or not, and pressed it to my forehead. And I remember thinking, at the time, I'm gonna kill myself. Then I thought, what if I'm wrong? What if there is a God? I mean, after all, nobody really knows that. But then I thought, no, you know, maybe is not good enough. I want certainty or nothing. And I remember very clearly, the clock was ticking, and I was sitting there frozen with the gun to my head, debating whether to shoot. [The gun fires accidentally, shattering a mirror] All of a sudden, the gun went off. I had been so tense my finger had squeezed the trigger inadvertently. But I was perspiring so much the gun had slid off my forehead and missed me. And suddenly neighbors were, were pounding on the door, and, and I don't know, the whole scene was just pandemonium. And, uh, you know, I-I-I ran to the door, I-I didn't know what to say. You know, I was-I was embarrassed and confused and my-my-my mind was r-r-racing a mile a minute. And I-I just knew one thing. I-I-I had to get out of that house, I had to just get out in the fresh air and-and clear my head. And I remember very clearly, I walked the streets. I walked and I walked. I-I didn't know what was going through my mind. It all seemed so violent and un-unreal to me. And I wandered for a long time on the Upper West Side, you know, and-and it must have been hours. You know, my-my feet hurt, my head was-was pounding, and-and I had to sit down. I went into a movie house. I-I didn't know what was playing or anything. I just, I just needed a moment to gather my thoughts and, and be logical and put the world back into rational perspective. And I went upstairs to the balcony, and I sat down, and, you know, the movie was a-a-a film that I'd seen many times in my life since I was a kid, and-and I always, uh, loved it. And, you know, I'm-I'm watching these people up on the screen and I started getting hooked on the film, you know. And I started to feel, how can you even think of killing yourself. I mean isn't it so stupid? I mean, l-look at all the people up there on the screen. You know, they're real funny, and-and what if the worst is true. What if there's no God, and you only go around once and that's it. Well, you know, don't you want to be part of the experience? You know, what the hell, it's-it's not all a drag. And I'm thinkin' to myself, geez, I should stop ruining my life - searching for answers I'm never gonna get, and just enjoy it while it lasts. And, you know, after, who knows? I mean, you know, maybe there is something. Nobody really knows. I know, I know maybe is a very slim reed to hang your whole life on, but that's the best we have. And then, I started to sit back, and I actually began to enjoy myself.

To think that you dared—to think that my—my noble boy—" "He wasn't very noble. Mothers don't ever really know their sons, I think." "Shameless girl!" cried Mrs. Morrison, so loud, so completely beside herself, that Priscilla hastily rang her bell... "Open the door for this lady," she said to Annalise, who appeared with a marvellous promptitude; and as Mrs. Morrison still stood her ground and refused to see either Annalise or the door Priscilla ended the interview by walking out herself, with great dignity, into the bathroom.

Człowiek jest panem przeciwieństw, dzięki niemu istnieją, a więc jest od nich dostojniejszy. Dostojniejszy od śmierci, zbyt dostojny dla niej, bo głowa jego jest wolna. Dostojniejszy od życia, zbyt dostojny dla niego, bo serce jego jest pobożne.[...] Nie dam śmierci panować nad mymi myślami! Bo na tym polega dobroć i miłość ludzka, na niczym innym. Śmierć jest wielką potęgą. Odkrywamy przed nią głowę i zbliżamy się do niej na palcach.[...] Rozum niemądrze wygląda wobec śmierci, bo jest jedynie cnotą, śmierć natomiast jest wolnością, ucieczką, bezkształtem i rozkoszą.[...] rozkoszą, a nie miłością. Śmierć i miłość: nie rymują się ze sobą, byłby to niesmaczny i fałszywy rym! Miłość przeciwstawia się śmierci, ona jedna, nie rozum; i jest mocniejsza od śmierci. Ona jedna, nie rozum, budzi dobre myśli.[...]Człowiek w imię dobroci i miłości nie powinien dać śmierci panować nad swoimi myślami. I z tym się budzę...

I half expected her to be gone by the time I came out of the shower. She ran. That’s what she did with me. The half of me that expected her to still be here would have put money on her cleaning the place. But when I came out, she was on the couch. I knew immediately something was wrong. I flew to her side. “Kristen, what is it?” She panted. “I can’t see. My…my eyes are blurry.” She was covered in sweat. Shaking, breathing hard. I pulled back her eyelid and she swatted at me. Combative. Hypoglycemic. I ran to the kitchen, praying that she hadn’t tossed all the trash. I spotted an old In-N-Out cup with Coke in it from yesterday and grabbed it, running back to the couch. “Kristen, I need you to drink this. You’re not going to like it, but I need you to do it.” It was flat, old, and room temp, but it was all I had in the apartment. I put the straw to her lips. She shook her head violently and clenched her teeth. “No.” “Listen, your glucose levels are low. You need sugar. Drink this. You’ll feel better. Come on.” She tried to knock the cup from my hands, and I protected it like it was the cure for cancer. If she didn’t get her blood sugar up, she could have a seizure next. Slip into unconsciousness. And her symptoms were already advanced. Panic overcame me. My heart pounded in my ears. What’s wrong with her? “A few swallows, please,” I begged. She took the straw in her lips and drank, and my relief was palpable. It took a few minutes and a few more sips, but she stopped shaking. I got a wet washcloth and wiped her face as she came back around. I peeled her sweatshirt off her—my sweatshirt. “When’s the last time you ate?” I asked. She was still a little disoriented. When she looked at me, her eyes didn’t really focus. “I don’t know. I didn’t.” I checked my watch. Jesus, it was almost 2:00 p.m. “Come on—I’m taking you to get some food.” I helped her up, putting an arm around her waist. She was so frail. The sides of her stomach were hard. Something is wrong.

I don’t know what to do with you,” he said, his voice growing curt with anger again. “Deceitful little minx. I’m of half a mind to put you to work, milking the goats. But that’s out of the question with these hands, now isn’t it?” He curled and uncurled her fingers a few times, testing the bandage. “I’ll tell Stubb to change this twice a day. Can’t risk the wound going septic. And don’t use your hands for a few days, at least.” “Don’t use my hands? I suppose you’re going to spoon-feed me, then? Dress me? Bathe me?” He inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “Don’t use your hands much.” His eyes snapped open. “None of that sketching, for instance.” She jerked her hands out of his grip. “You could slice off my hands and toss them to the sharks, and I wouldn’t stop sketching. I’d hold the pencil with my teeth if I had to. I’m an artist.” “Really. I thought you were a governess.” “Well, yes. I’m that, too.” He packed up the medical kit, jamming items back in the box with barely controlled fury. “Then start behaving like one. A governess knows her place. Speaks when spoken to. Stays out of the damn way.” Rising to his feet, he opened the drawer and threw the box back in. “From this point forward, you’re not to touch a sail, a pin, a rope, or so much as a damned splinter on this vessel. You’re not to speak to crewmen when they’re on watch. You’re forbidden to wander past the foremast, and you need to steer clear of the helm, as well.” “So that leaves me doing what? Circling the quarterdeck?” “Yes.” He slammed the drawer shut. “But only at designated times. Noon hour and the dogwatch. The rest of the day, you’ll remain in your cabin.” Sophia leapt to her feet, incensed. She hadn’t fled one restrictive program of behavior, just to submit to another. “Who are you to dictate where I can go, when I can go there, what I’m permitted to do? You’re not the captain of this ship.” “Who am I?” He stalked toward her, until they stood toe-to-toe. Until his radiant male heat brought her blood to a boil, and she had to grab the table edge to keep from swaying toward him. “I’ll tell you who I am,” he growled. “I’m a man who cares if you live or die, that’s who.” Her knees melted. “Truly?” “Truly. Because I may not be the captain, but I’m the investor. I’m the man you owe six pounds, eight. And now that I know you can’t pay your debts, I’m the man who knows he won’t see a bloody penny unless he delivers George Waltham a governess in one piece.” Sophia glared at him. How did he keep doing this to her? Since the moment they’d met in that Gravesend tavern, there’d been an attraction between them unlike anything she’d ever known. She knew he had to feel it, too. But one minute, he was so tender and sensual; the next, so crass and calculating. Now he would reduce her life’s value to this cold, impersonal amount? At least back home, her worth had been measured in thousands of pounds not in shillings. “I see,” she said. “This is about six pounds, eight shillings. That’s the reason you’ve been watching me-“ He made a dismissive snort. “I haven’t been watching you.” “Staring at me, every moment of the day, so intently it makes my…my skin crawl and all you’re seeing is a handful of coins. You’d wrestle a shark for a purse of six pounds, eight. It all comes down to money for you.

That’s not right,” Willie was saying, turning to look up at him. “You cast with the left hand. I saw you.” “Aye, but I’m cack-handed, my lord. Most men would cast with the right.” “Cack-handed?” Willie’s mouth curved up again. “I find my left hand more convenient to most purposes than is the right, my lord.” “That’s what I thought it meant. I’m the same.” Willie looked at once rather pleased and mildly shamefaced at this statement. “My—my mother said it wasn’t proper, and that I must learn to use the other, as a gentleman ought. But Papa said no, and made them let me write with my left hand. He said it didn’t matter so much if I should look awkward with a quill; when it came to fighting with a sword, I should be at an advantage.” “Your father is a wise man.” His heart twisted, with something between jealousy and gratitude—but gratitude was far the uppermost.

How the devil do you do that?” Lyle smiled down at her. What a braw lassie she was to own the attraction raging between them. “Magic,” he said, and again, he wasn’t entirely joking. “I don’t want to kiss you,” she growled. “Then you touch me, and—” “The world disappears.” “You feel it, too?” she asked, sounding as displeased as if she’d caught him eating peas off his knife at a state dinner. “My dear, I’m completely besotted.” His declaration didn’t please her. “This is stupid. I don’t know you.” She paused. “I’m not even sure I like you.” “Another kiss might help you decide.” He linked his arms around her waist. “I’m really an excellent fellow.” She regarded him from under lowered brows. “I have my father’s pistol.” The masquerade had served its purpose, but the time for disguises passed. “That’s an odd item for a wee housemaid to have in her possession,” he said in a silky tone. She was so lost in the sensual storm sparking between them, she needed a few seconds to realize what he meant. “My…my father is the gamekeeper here,” she stammered. He grinned with evil satisfaction. “Even odder that he’s got time for that, between the estate, a string of racehorses, and his parliamentary work, Miss Warren.” A beat of silence, while she stared appalled at him. Another. “You know who I am.” She sounded like she accused him of murder.

I don’t trust the goddess,” Annabeth admitted. “But I do trust my friends. This isn’t a trick, Reyna. We can work together.” Reyna finished her cup of chocolate. She set the cup on the terrace railing and gazed over the valley as if imagining battle lines. “I believe you mean it,” she said. “But if you go to the ancient lands, especially Rome itself, there is something you should know about your mother.” Annabeth’s shoulders tensed. “My—my mother?” “When I lived on Circe’s island,” Reyna said, “we had many visitors. Once, perhaps a year before you and Percy arrived, a young man washed ashore. He was half mad from thirst and heat. He’d been drifting at sea for days. His words didn’t make much sense, but he said he was a son of Athena.” Reyna paused as if waiting for a reaction. Annabeth had no idea who the boy might have been. She wasn’t aware of any other Athena kids who’d gone on a quest in the Sea of Monsters, but still she felt a sense of dread. The light filtering through the grapevines made shadows writhe across the ground like a swarm of bugs. “What happened to this demigod?” she asked.

Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.” Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--” The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.” Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?” “Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?” Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out. Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed. “Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?” Joseph stared down the wide St. Lawrence in the direction of Montreal. He was fighting for composure and losing. Each breath shuddered visibly through his ribs. The Indian men who never seemed to do anything but smoke and lounge around joined them silently. How runty the French looked next to the six-foot Indians; how gaudy and ridiculous their ruffled and buckled clothing. The Indians were not painted and they wore almost nothing. Neither were they armed. And yet they came as warriors. Two of their children were threatened. It could not be tolerated. Tannhahorens put one hand on Joseph’s shoulder and the other on Mercy’s. He was not ordering them around, and yet he did not seem to be protecting them. He was, it dawned on Mercy, comforting them. In Tannhahorens’s eyes, we are Indian children, thought Mercy. Her hair prickled and her skin turned to gooseflesh. She had spent the summer forgetting to be English--and Tannhahorens had spent the summer forgetting the same thing.

Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees “It’s me! Mercy Carter! Oh, Mr. Williams! Do you have news?” She flung herself on top of him. Oh, his beautiful beard! The beard of a real father, not a pretend Indian father or a French church father. “My brothers,” she begged. “John and Sam and Benny. Have you seen them? Have you heard anything about them? Do you know what happened to the little ones? Daniel? Have you found Daniel?” Mercy had forgotten that she had taken off her tunic to go swimming. That Joseph did not even have on his breechclout. That Mercy wore earrings and Joseph had been tattooed on his upper arms. That they stank of bear. Mr. Williams did not recognize Joseph, and Mercy he knew only by the color of her hair. He was stupefied by the two naked slimy children trying to hug him. In ore horror than even Ruth would have mustered, he whispered, “Your parents would be weeping. What have the savages done to you? You are animals.” Despair and shock mottled Mr. Williams’s face. Mercy stumbled back from him. Her bear grease stained his clothing. “Mercy,” he said, turning away from her, “go cover yourself.” Shame covered her first. Red patches flamed on her cheeks. She ran back to the swimmers, fighting sobs. She was aware of her bare feet, hard as leather from no shoes. Savage feet. Dear Lord in Heaven, thought Mercy, Ruth is right. I have committed terrible sins. My parents would be weeping. She did not look at Snow Walker but yanked on the deerskin tunic. She had tanned the hide herself, and she and Nistenha had painted the rows of turtles around the neckline and Nistenha had tied tiny tinkling French bells into the fringe. But it was still just animal skin. To be wearing hides in front of Mr. Williams was not much better than being naked. Snow Walker burst out of the water. “The white man? Was he cruel? I will call Tannhahorens.” No! Tannhahorens would not let her speak to Mr. Williams. She would never find out about her brothers; never redeem herself in the minister’s eyes. Mercy calmed down with the discipline of living among Indians. Running had shown weakness. “Thank you, Snow Walker,” she said, striving to be gracious, “but he merely wanted me to be clothed like an English girl. There is no need to call Tannhahorens.” She walked back. On the jetty, Joseph stood with his eyes fixed on the river instead of on his minister. He had not fled like Mercy to cover himself. He was standing his ground. “They aren’t savages, Mr. Williams. And they aren’t just Indians. Those children over there are Abenaki, the boy fishing by the rocks is Pennacook, and my own family is Kahnawake Mohawk.” Tears sprang into Mr. Williams’s eyes. “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.” Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--” The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.” Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?” “Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?” Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out. Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed. “Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?

Our children are going to be remarkably stubborn,” he commented as they started down the main street of town. Lily tried to ignore the avid stares of passers-by. “We aren’t going to have any children,” she said. Some instinct caused her to lie. “My—my monthly arrived today.” Caleb fell silent, and in a sidelong glance Lily saw his disappointment. She laid a hand on his arm but could not. bring herself to admit the truth. If the major believed there was no child—indeed, no possibility of a child—he might stop pursuing Lily. The sooner he gave up, the sooner she could get on with building up her homestead and finding her sisters. She bit down on her lower lip. Of course, if there was a baby growing inside her, would it be fair to let Caleb go back to Fox Chapel without ever knowing he was about to become a father? The

You know me as Wyatt,” I say finally. “You know my name. What about my…my old name?"
 The goddess tilts her head to one side. “Wyatt is who you are. Perhaps you were once addressed by something else, but it was not you. I’ve no reason to know that mistake.” She doesn’t know my deadname. I’m sitting here at a dining room table with a goddess and she doesn’t know my deadname because it doesn’t matter to her.

Do you…do you know how long I’ll have?” Emyr asks here, and his claws dig into my thigh. I reach down and put my hand over his. I don’t pull his fingers away. “I know that resurrection magic is rarely permanent. My—my mother—” Vorgaine reaches across the table and lays her hand across the back of Emyr’s. He stills under her touch, and tilts his head up to stare into her eyes. “I am sorry about your mother, Emyr. That never should have happened.” She shakes her head. “But I can tell you this. Wyatt’s energy is permanently, and inextricably, tangled with yours. For as long as one of you lives, the other cannot die.” And just like that, with one sentence, a thousand pounds of invisible weight, sitting on my chest for the last few weeks, disappears. Our world is on fire. Everything we’ve ever known is a lie. We could both die tomorrow.
 But Emyr isn’t going anywhere without me. I am not going to lose him. Never again.

Talked to my mom today, who is now feeling much better, post-covid, even though it was the “sickest she’d ever been.” She was telling me how nice it was to be in Texas: it’s so different, everyone goes out to restaurants and no one wears masks. She wanted me to visit sometime soon, and I was all, “Well, once it’s safe,” and then she told me she was worried about my/my husband’s mental health from being such shut-ins and that.... I shouldn’t “live in fear” about covid. I told her I don’t live in fear, I live in science, like I have been doing all this time, trying my hardest not to kill anyone else. It was hard not to throw my phone across my backyard at that point, really. Jesus wept. Can’t wait to go back to work tomorrow and take care of people who apparently did or did not fear covid an appropriate amount, thus ending their lives precipitously.

My…my father used to call imagination heavenly magic—something that makes humans more like their Creator,

iam a student of intermediate and am a nul student in my.my friends loafing me.my this condition.

You’re doing the right thing. If you really care for this girl, you need to respect her boundaries.” “But how do I get her to understand that I want to be more than friends--” The plate slips from my dad’s grip sending a wave of dishwater to the floor. “Really,” I say dryly. “You’re so fucking shocked by me wanting a relationship with a girl that you drop a damn plate?” “It was slippery.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, I need her to know I’m in this for the long haul. However long it takes, I want to be with her. Committed. I want her to be my…my…” “Girlfriend,” Jack pipes up from the opposite side of the kitchen with his back facing us. “You got fucking bat ears or something?” He waves a finger indicating the walls. “Good acoustics in here.” “Suck a dick, Daniels. You hear that?” “I did, but you know that’s your sister’s job – ouch!” He rubs his arms where I just landed a solid punch. “You deserved that,” my dad says to him.