Never Admits Fault Quotes

LAW 46 Never Appear Too Perfect Appearing better than others is always dangerous, but most dangerous of all is to appear to have no faults or weaknesses. Envy creates silent enemies. It is smart to occasionally display defects, and admit to harmless vices, in order to deflect envy and appear more human and approachable. Only gods and the dead can seem perfect with impunity.

I will never have greater respect than for the man that realizes he was wrong and graciously admits it without a single excuse.

Is that why you’re here? To talk about that? Sweet Jesus . . . you men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t ‘hockey’ that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. ‘Religion causes wars,’ ‘guns kill people,’ it’s all the same old bullshit!” “I didn’t mea . . . ,” Sune tries, but has to duck when she tries to slap him again. “Keep your trap shut when I’m talking! Fucking men! YOU’RE the problem! Religion doesn’t fight, guns don’t kill, and you need to be very fucking clear that hockey has never raped anyone! But do you know who do? Fight and kill and rape?” Sune clears his throat. “Men?” “MEN! It’s always fucking men!

There's a reason narcissists don't learn from mistakes and that's because they never get past the first step which is admitting that they made one. It's always an assistant's fault, an adviser's fault, a lawyer's fault. Ask them to account for a mistake any other way and they'll say, 'what mistake?

Perhaps,' said Darcy, 'I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.' 'Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?' said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?' 'I can answer your question,' said Fitzwilliam, 'without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.' 'I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,' said Darcy, 'of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.' 'My fingers,' said Elizabeth, 'do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault -- because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution.' Darcy smiled, and said, 'You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.

... the transition from lost to found is never an easy one. It is never easy to be a prodigal son -- or daughter. It is never easy to say, 'I will arise and go to my father ...' (Luke 15:18, 19). This is never easy, because it is not until our situation becomes completely hopeless that we can humble ourselves to the extent of admitting that such a gross mistake was our own.

There's a reason narcissists don't learn from mistakes and that's because they never get past the first step which is admitting that they made one. It's always an assistant's fault, an adviser's fault, a lawyer's fault. Ask them to account for a mistake any other way and they'll say, 'what mistake?

Now, for example, people with freckles aren’t thought of as a minority by the nonfreckled. They aren’t a minority in the sense we’re talking about. And why aren’t they? Because a minority is only thought of as a minority when it constitutes some kind of a threat to the majority, real or imaginary. And no threat is ever quite imaginary. Anyone here disagree with that? If you do, just ask yourself, What would this particular minority do if it suddenly became the majority overnight? You see what I mean? Well, if you don’t – think it over! “All right. Now along come the liberals – including everybody in this room, I trust – and they say, ‘Minorities are just people, like us.’ Sure, minorities are people – people, not angels. Sure, they’re like us – but not exactly like us; that’s the all-too- familiar state of liberal hysteria in which you begin to kid yourself you honestly cannot see any difference between a Negro and a Swede….” (Why, oh why daren’t George say “between Estelle Oxford and Buddy Sorensen”? Maybe, if he did dare, there would be a great atomic blast of laughter, and everybody would embrace, and the kingdom of heaven would begin, right here in classroom. But then again, maybe it wouldn’t.) “So, let’s face it, minorities are people who probably look and act and – think differently from us and hay faults we don’t have. We may dislike the way they look and act, and we may hate their faults. And it’s better if we admit to disliking and hating them than if we try to smear our feelings over with pseudo liberal sentimentality. If we’re frank about our feelings, we have a safety valve; and if we have a safety valve, we’re actually less likely to start persecuting. I know that theory is unfashionable nowadays. We all keep trying to believe that if we ignore something long enough it’ll just vanish…. “Where was I? Oh yes. Well, now, suppose this minority does get persecuted, never mind why – political, economic, psychological reasons. There always is a reason, no matter how wrong it is – that’s my point. And, of course, persecution itself is always wrong; I’m sure we all agree there. But the worst of it is, we now run into another liberal heresy. Because the persecuting majority is vile, says the liberal, therefore the persecuted minority must be stainlessly pure. Can’t you see what nonsense that is? What’s to prevent the bad from being persecuted by the worse? Did all the Christian victims in the arena have to be saints? “And I’ll tell you something else. A minority has its own kind of aggression. It absolutely dares the majority to attack it. It hates the majority–not without a cause, I grant you. It even hates the other minorities, because all minorities are in competition: each one proclaims that its sufferings are the worst and its wrongs are the blackest. And the more they all hate, and the more they’re all persecuted, the nastier they become! Do you think it makes people nasty to be loved? You know it doesn’t! Then why should it make them nice to be loathed? While you’re being persecuted, you hate what’s happening to You, you hate the people who are making it happen; you’re in a world of hate. Why, you wouldn’t recognize love if you met it! You’d suspect love! You’d think there was something behind it – some motive – some trick…

You’ve got to start admitting it.” “Why are you doing this to me? Are you trying to break me?” “No, you won’t break. You’ll bend, but you won’t break. Because until you admit it, it’ll never really go away,” he said. “You might’ve taken control, but that man took something from you he shouldn’t have. And that’s not your fault—whether or not you gave in is irrelevant. Come to terms with it now, Isabelle, before it’s too late.

But these were days of self-fulfillment, where settling for something that was not quite your first choice of a life seemed weak-willed and ignoble. Somewhere, surrendering to what seemed to be your fate had changed from being dignified to being a sign of your own cowardice. There were times when the pressure to achieve happiness felt almost oppressive, as if happiness were something that everyone should and could attain, and that any sort of compromise in its pursuit was somehow your fault. [...] Would he someday have the courage to give up, and would he be able to recognize that moment, or would he wake one day and look in the mirror and find himself an old man, still trying to call himself an actor because he was too scared to admit that he might not be, might never be?

Bianca, Since you keep running away from me at school, and, if I remember correctly, the sound of my voice causes you to have suicidal thoughts, I decided a letter might be the best way to tell you how I feel. Just hear me out. I’m not going to deny that you were right. Everything you said the other day was true. But my fear of being alone is not the reason I’m pursuing you. I know how cynical you are, and you’re probably going to come up with some snarky reply when you read this, but the truth is, I’m chasing you because I really think I am falling in love with you. You are the first girl who has ever seen right through me. You’re the only girl who has ever called me on my bullshit. You put me in my place, but, at the same time, you understand me better than anyone ever has. You are the only person brave enough to criticize me. Maybe the only person who looks close enough to find my faults—and, clearly, you’ve found many. I called my parents. They’re coming home this weekend to talk to Amy and me. I was afraid to do this at first, but you inspired me. Without you, I never could have done that. I think about you much more than any self-respecting man would like to admit, and I’m insanely jealous of Tucker—something I never thought I’d say. Moving on after you is impossible. No other girl can keep me on my toes the way you can. No one else makes me WANT to embarrass myself by writing sappy letters like this one. Only you. But I know that I’m right, too. I know you’re in love with me, even if you are dating Tucker. You can lie to yourself if you want, but reality is going to catch up with you. I’ll be waiting when it does… whether you like it or not. Love, Wesley p.s.: I know you’re rolling your eyes right now, but I don’t care. Honestly, it’s always been kind of a turn-on.

In attempting to determine how Adolf Hitler had taken control, the US Office of Strategic Services commissioned a report in 1943 that explained his strategy: “Never to admit a fault or wrong; never to accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time; blame that enemy for everything that goes wrong; take advantage of every opportunity to raise a political whirlwind.”8 Soon hyperbole, extremism, defamation, and slander become commonplace and acceptable vehicles of power.

That was my own fault for never saying no to anyone. I took on more and more. I was always the first in the door and the last home. I told myself it was ambition and that’s partly true, but it was also fear.” She could admit that to herself now. “The drive to succeed came from a place of insecurity.

I’m also really sorry that I’ve been so rude to you. I’m not normally. I don’t know where all the sarcasm comes from.” Ren raised an eyebrow. “Okay. I have a cynical, evil side that is normally hidden. But when I’m under great stress or extremely desperate, it comes out.” He set down my foot, picked up the other one, and began massaging it with his thumbs. He didn’t say anything, so I continued, “Being cold-hearted and nasty was the only thing I could do to push you away. It was kind of a dense mechanism.” “So you admit you were trying to push me away.” “Yes. Of course.” “And it’s because you’re a radish.” Frustrated, I said, “Yes! Now that you’re a man again, you’ll find someone better for you, someone who complements you. It’s not your fault. I mean, you’ve been a tiger so long that you just don’t know how the world works.” “Right. And how does the world work, Kelsey?” I could hear the frustration in his voice but pressed on. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but you could be going out with some supermodel-turned-actress. Haven’t you been paying attention?” Angrily, he shouted, “Oh, yes, indeed I am paying attention! What you are saying is that I should be a stuck-up, rich, shallow, libertine who cares only about wealth, power, and bettering my status. That I should date superficial, fickle, pretentious, brainless women who care more about my connections than they do about me. And that I am not wise enough, or up-to-date enough, to know who I want or what I want in life! Does that sum it up?” I squeaked out a small, “Yes.” “You truly feel this way?” I flinched. “Yes.” Ren leaned forward. “Well, you’re wrong, Kelsey. Wrong about yourself and wrong about me!” He was livid. I shifted uncomfortably while he went on. “I know what I want. I’m not operating under any delusions. I’ve studied people from a cage for centuries, and that’s given me ample time to figure out my priorities. From the first moment I saw you, the first time I heard your voice, I knew you were different. You were special. The first time you reached your hand into my cage and touched me, you made me feel alive in a way I’ve never felt before.” “Maybe it’s all just a part of the curse. Did you ever think of that? Maybe these aren’t your true feelings. Maybe you sensed that I was the one to help you, and you’ve somehow misinterpreted your emotions.” “I highly doubt it. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, even before the curse.

I understand it was Derian who spoiled everything. He purposefully tainted your view of me and forced you to go along with him. I know none of what happened was your idea or your desire, Eena.” She didn’t get up, but spoke from her curled position. Her voice was weak, still heavy with despair. “Derian didn’t force me to do anything.” “But if he hadn’t influenced you, we would be enjoying a pleasant dinner again, telling stories and laughing. I’m sure that would be the case. You would be happy……and so would I.” Eena chuckled without amusement. “You have to admit we shared some very enjoyable evenings, didn’t we? There’s really no reason we can’t put this whole mess behind us and start from where we left off.” He sounded genuinely serious. “You forget,” she reminded him, “I heard your conversation with the Ghengats. This isn’t about Derian, it’s about you.” “Alright,” he admitted with an acquiescent sigh, “so I’m not everything you’d hoped for. But really, what man can ever live up to any woman’s terribly high expectations?” This got her attention. She almost stood up to face him, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Leaning forward, she retorted, “Expecting a man to respect you, to be honest with you, and, oh yes, to not be a shameless murderer—I don’t think those are overly high expectations!” He shrugged, casually excusing his faults. “Nobody’s perfect.” “What do you want?” she finally asked, exasperated. He squatted to her level and stated his desire. “I want you.” Eena thought the expression on his face—the look in his weary blue eyes—appeared strangely sincere. But there was one thing she had learned from all this: never trust a master of deceit.

Above all, he liked it that everything was one's own fault. There was only oneself to praise or blame. Luck was a servant and not a master. Luck had to be accepted with a shrug or taken advantage of up to the hilt. But it had to be understood and recognized for what it was and not confused with a faulty appreciation of the odds, for, at gambling, the deadly sin is to mistake bad play for bad luck. And luck in all its moods had to be loved and not feared. Bond saw luck as a woman, to be softly wooed or brutally ravaged, never pandered to or pursued. But he was honest enough to admit that he had never yet been made to suffer by cards or by women. One day, and he accepted the fact, he would be brought to his knees by love or by luck. When that happened he knew that he too would be branded with the deadly question-mark he recognized so often in others, the promise to pay before you have lost: the acceptance of fallibility.

Is that why you’re here? To talk about that? Sweet Jesus … you men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t “hockey” that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. “Religion causes wars”, “guns kill people”, it’s all the same old bullshit!

During one of our infrequent dinners, he had a revelation. After an awkward pause, he stammered, “I’m afraid I ruined your life.” It was the closest he ever got to admitting fault. He looked so small underneath his too-big white polo shirt. He had always been fragile, but now he looked it. “You’re very lucky,” I said. “I turned out fine.” But still, he must have had the sense that there were amends to be made. Because months later, he asked me, “What can I do to be closer to you?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Make a list,” he replied. “Make me a list of what you want, and give it to me, and I’ll do it.” I never made the list. I didn’t make the list because I was confused about what to put on it. What would fix things? Was there really anything that could make up for what had happened?

It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t ‘hockey’ that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. ‘Religion causes wars,’ ‘guns kill people,’ it’s all the same old bullshit! […] YOU’RE the problem! Religion doesn’t fight, guns don’t kill, and you need to be very fucking clear that hockey has never raped anyone! But do you know who do? Fight and kill and rape?” Sune clears his throat. “Men?” “MEN! It’s always fucking men!

"It was hot at the restaurant," I said. "So I rolled up my sleeves." "What?" I pushed my left one up, showing four bruises, dark as ink spots. Simon paled. "My aunt wanted to know what happened. When I wouldn't tell her, she tricked me into admitting it was a boy. She met Derek this morning and he was rude, so she decided it had to be him. I never confirmed it. If he's in trouble, it is not my fault. I had every right to tell someone and I didn't." "Okay, okay." He rubbed his mouth, still staring at my arm. "So he grabbed your arm. That's what it looks like. Right? He just grabbed harder than he thought." "He threw me across the room." Simon's eyes widened, then he lowered his lids to hide his surprise. "But he didn't mean to. If you saw how freaked out he was last night, you'd know that." "So that makes it okay? If I lose my temper and smack you, it's all right, because I didn't mean to, didn't plan to." "You don't understand. He just—" "She's right." Derek's voice preceded him around the corner. I shrank back. I couldn't help it. As I did, a look passed through Derek's eyes. Remorse? Guilt? He blinked it away.

The rival you both share is myself. I do not wish to marry ... First, because my past habituated me to loneliness. I had always thought I hated it. And now I have found I treasure it. I do not want to share my life. I wish to be what I am, not what a husband must expect me to become in marriage. My second reason is my present. I never expected to be happy in life. Yet I find myself happy where I am situated now. I have varied congenial work ... I am admitted to the daily conversation of genius. Such men have their faults. Their vices. But they are not those the world chooses to imagine. I have no genius myself, I have no more than the capacity to aid genius in very small and humble ways ... I believe I owe a debt to good fortune. I am not to seek it elsewhere. I am to see it as precarious, as a thing of which I must not allow myself to be bereft.

Welcome to my world,Gary." Savannah was flashing a mischievous smile. "He considers you family and under his protection now, so he's bound to be impossibly bossy." Gary groaned. "I didn't consider that. Damn. You're right.He can't help himself;it's his nature." "Do not start,you two. I did not think what it would be like to have the two of you driving me insane." Gregori sounded disgusted, but Gary was beginning to understand him a little. He never really changed expression, and his eyes gave nothing away, but Gary could almost feel Gregori's silent laughter. "You do have a sense of humor," he accused him. "Well,do not blame me.It is Savannah's fault.She insists on it," Gregori replied in disgust. "Let us go and get you something decent to eat." "Am I going to crave blood, raw steak, that kind of thing?" Gary asked, straight-faced. "Well,actually..." Savannah started. "I do not have rabies." Gregori silenced her with a look. "I am not contagious." "All the books say if you drink my blood, I get to drink your bloodd, and them I'm like you." Gary sounded slightly disappointed. "Some people grow bat wings," Savannah admitted, her teeth tugging at her lower lip. "That's where Batman came from. And capes,all those swirling capes. A regular epidemic. It's from our blood, a kind of allergic reaction. Don't worry,you would be showing signs already if you were one of those with a problem." "Is she always like this?" Gary aksed Gregori. "She gets worse," Gregori said truthfully.

When did pursuing your ambitions cross the line from brave into foolhardy? How did you know when to stop? In earlier, more rigid, less encouraging (and ultimately, more helpful) decades, things would be much clearer: you would stop when you turned forty, or when you got married, or when you had kids, or after five years, or ten years, or fifteen. And then you would go get a real job, and acting and your dreams for a career in it would recede into the evening, a melting into history as quiet as a briquette of ice sliding into a warm bath. But these were days of self-fulfillment, where settling for something that was not quite your first choice of a life seemed weak-willed and ignoble. Somewhere, surrendering to what seemed to be your fate had changed from being dignified to being a sign of your own cowardice. There were times when the pressure to achieve happiness felt almost oppressive, as if happiness were something that everyone should and could attain, and that any sort of compromise in its pursuit was somehow your fault. Would Willem work for year upon year at Ortolan, catching the same trains to auditions, reading again and again and again, one year maybe caterpillaring an inch or two forward, his progress so minute that it hardly counted as progress at all? Would he someday have the courage to give up, and would he be able to recognize that moment, or would he wake one day and look in the mirror and find himself an old man, still trying to call himself an actor because he was too scared to admit that he might not be, might never be? According

men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t “hockey” that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. “Religion causes wars”, “guns kill people”, it’s all the same old bullshit!

THINGS WOULD HAVE TURNED out better if she had lived. As it was, she died when I was a kid; and though everything that’s happened to me since then is thoroughly my own fault, still when I lost her I lost sight of any landmark that might have led me someplace happier, to some more populated or congenial life. Her death the dividing mark: Before and After. And though it’s a bleak thing to admit all these years later, still I’ve never met anyone who made me feel loved the way she did. Everything came alive in her company; she cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary

I know you,” he added, helping to arrange the blanket over my shoulders. “You won’t drop the subject until I agree to check on your cousin, so I’ll do it. But only under one condition.” “John,” I said, whirling around to clutch his arm again. “Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “You haven’t heard the condition.” “Oh,” I said, eagerly. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Thank you. Alex has never had a very good life-his mother ran away when he was a baby, and his dad spent most of his life in jail…But, John, what is all this?” I swept my free hand out to indicate the people remaining on the dock, waiting for the boat John had said was arriving soon. I’d noticed some of them had blankets like the one he’d wrapped around me. “A new customer service initiative?” John looked surprised at my change of topic…then uncomfortable. He stooped to reach for the driftwood Typhon had dashed up to drop at his feet. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, stiffly. “You’re giving blankets away to keep them warm while they wait. When did this start happening?” “You mentioned some things when you were here the last time….” He avoided meeting my gaze by tossing the stick for his dog. “They stayed with me.” My eyes widened. “Things I said?” “About how I should treat the people who end up here.” He paused at the approach of a wave-though it was yards off-and made quite a production of moving me, and my delicate slippers, out of its path. “So I decided to make a few changes.” It felt as if one of the kind of flowers I liked-a wild daisy, perhaps-had suddenly blossomed inside my heart. “Oh, John,” I said, and rose onto my toes to kiss his cheek. He looked more than a little surprised by the kiss. I thought I might actually have seen some color come into his cheeks. “What was that for?” he asked. “Henry said nothing was the same after I left. I assumed he meant everything was much worse. I couldn’t imagine it was the opposite, that things were better.” John’s discomfort at having been caught doing something kind-instead of reckless or violet-was sweet. “Henry talks too much,” he muttered. “But I’m glad you like it. Not that it hasn’t been a lot of added work. I’ll admit it’s cut down on the complaints, though, and even the fighting amongst our rowdier passengers. So you were right. Your suggestions helped.” I beamed up at him. Keeper of the dead. That’s how Mr. Smith, the cemetery sexton, had referred to John once, and that’s what he was. Although the title “protector of the dead” seemed more applicable. It was totally silly how much hope I was filled with by the fact that he’d remembered something I’d said so long ago-like maybe this whole consort thing might work out after all. I gasped a moment later when there was a sudden rush of white feathers, and the bird he’d given me emerged from the grizzly gray fog seeming to engulf the whole beach, plopping down onto the sand beside us with a disgruntled little humph. “Oh, Hope,” I said, dashing tears of laughter from my eyes. Apparently I had only to feel the emotion, and she showed up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you behind. It was his fault, you know.” I pointed at John. The bird ignored us both, poking around in the flotsam washed ashore by the waves, looking, as always, for something to eat. “Her name is Hope?” John asked, the corners of his mouth beginning to tug upwards. “No.” I bristled, thinking he was making fun of me. Then I realized I’d been caught. “Well, all right…so what if it is? I’m not going to name her after some depressing aspect of the Underworld like you do all your pets. I looked up the name Alastor. That was the name of one of the death horses that drew Hades’s chariot. And Typhon?” I glanced at the dog, cavorting in and out of the waves, seemingly oblivious of the cold. “I can only imagine, but I’m sure it means something equally unpleasant.

His primary rules were: never allow the public to cool off; never admit a fault or wrong; never concede that there may be some good in your enemy; never leave room for alternatives; never accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time and blame him for everything that goes wrong; people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one; and if you repeat it frequently enough people will sooner or later believe it.

It has been a long trip,” said Milo, climbing onto the couch where the princesses sat; “but we would have been here much sooner if I hadn’t made so many mistakes. I’m afraid it’s all my fault.” “You must never feel badly about making mistakes,” explained Reason quietly, “as long as you take the trouble to learn from them. For you often learn more by being wrong for the right reasons than you do by being right for the wrong reasons.” “But there’s so much to learn,” he said, with a thoughtful frown. “Yes, that’s true,” admitted Rhyme; “but it’s not just learning things that’s important. It’s learning what to do with what you learn and learning why you learn things at all that matters.” “That’s just what I mean,” explained Milo as Tock and the exhausted bug drifted quietly off to sleep. “Many of the things I’m supposed to know seem so useless that I can’t see the purpose in learning them at all.” “You may not see it now,” said the Princess of Pure Reason, looking knowingly at Milo’s puzzled face, “but whatever we learn has a purpose and whatever we do affects everything and everyone else, if even in the tiniest way. Why, when a housefly flaps his wings, a breeze goes round the world; when a speck of dust falls to the ground, the entire planet weighs a little more; and when you stamp your foot, the earth moves slightly off its course. Whenever you laugh, gladness spreads like the ripples in a pond; and whenever you’re sad, no one anywhere can be really happy. And it’s much the same thing with knowledge, for whenever you learn something new, the whole world becomes that much richer.” “And remember, also,” added the Princess of Sweet Rhyme, “that many places you would like to see are just off the map and many things you want to know are just out of sight or a little beyond your reach. But someday you’ll reach them all, for what you learn today, for no reason at all, will help you discover all the wonderful secrets of tomorrow.

New Rule: Conservatives have to stop rolling their eyes every time they hear the word "France." Like just calling something French is the ultimate argument winner. As if to say, "What can you say about a country that was too stupid to get on board with our wonderfully conceived and brilliantly executed war in Iraq?" And yet an American politician could not survive if he uttered the simple, true statement: "France has a better health-care system than we do, and we should steal it." Because here, simply dismissing an idea as French passes for an argument. John Kerry? Couldn't vote for him--he looked French. Yeah, as a opposed to the other guy, who just looked stupid. Last week, France had an election, and people over there approach an election differently. They vote. Eighty-five percent turned out. You couldn't get eighty-five percent of Americans to get off the couch if there was an election between tits and bigger tits and they were giving out free samples. Maybe the high turnout has something to do with the fact that the French candidates are never asked where they stand on evolution, prayer in school, abortion, stem cell research, or gay marriage. And if the candidate knows about a character in a book other than Jesus, it's not a drawback. The electorate doesn't vote for the guy they want to have a croissant with. Nor do they care about private lives. In the current race, Madame Royal has four kids, but she never got married. And she's a socialist. In America, if a Democrat even thinks you're calling him "liberal," he grabs an orange vest and a rifle and heads into the woods to kill something. Royal's opponent is married, but they live apart and lead separate lives. And the people are okay with that, for the same reason they're okay with nude beaches: because they're not a nation of six-year-olds who scream and giggle if they see pee-pee parts. They have weird ideas about privacy. They think it should be private. In France, even mistresses have mistresses. To not have a lady on the side says to the voters, "I'm no good at multitasking." Like any country, France has its faults, like all that ridiculous accordion music--but their health care is the best in the industrialized world, as is their poverty rate. And they're completely independent of Mid-East oil. And they're the greenest country. And they're not fat. They have public intellectuals in France. We have Dr. Phil. They invented sex during the day, lingerie, and the tongue. Can't we admit we could learn something from them?

The U.S. Office of Strategic Services had picked up on Hitler’s manipulation of his followers when it described Hitler’s psychological profile. It said, “His primary rules were: never allow the public to cool off; never admit a fault or wrong; never concede that there may be some good in your enemy; never leave room for alternatives; never accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time and blame him for everything that goes wrong; people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one; and if you repeat it frequently enough people will sooner or later believe it.

Perhaps that had been one of the ineradicable faults of mankind - for even a convinced atheist had to admit there were faults - that it was never content with a thing as a thing; it had to turn things into symbols of other things. A rainbow was never only a rainbow; a storm was a sign of celestial anger; and even from the puddingy earth came forth dark chthonian gods. What did it all mean? What an agnostic believed and what the willowy parson believed were not only irreconcilable systems of thought: they were equally valid systems of thought because, somewhere along the evolutionary line, man, developing this habit of thinking of symbols, had provided himself with more alternatives than he could manage. Animals moved in no such channel of imagination - they copulated and they ate; but the the saint, bread was a symbol of life, as the phallus was to the pagan. The animals themselves were pressed into symbolic service - and not only in the medieval bestiaries, by any means. Such a usage was a distortion, although man seemed unable to ratiocinate without it. That had been the trouble right from the beginning. Perhaps it had even been the beginning, back among the first men that man could never get clearly defined (for the early men, being also symbols, had to be either lumbering brutes, or timid noble savages, or to undergo some other interpretation). Perhaps the first fire, the first tool, the first wheel, the first carving in a limestone cave, had each possessed a symbolic rather than a practical value, had each been pressed to serve distortion rather than reality. It was a sort of madness that had driven man from his humble sites on the edges of woods into towns and cities, into arts and wars, into religious crusades, into martyrdom and prostitution, into dyspepsia and fasting, into love and hatred, into this present cul-de-sac; it had all come about in pursuit of symbols. In the beginning was the symbol, and darness was over the face of the Earth.

The U.S. Office of Strategic Services had picked up on Hitler’s manipulation of his followers when it described Hitler’s psychological profile. It said, “His primary rules were: never allow the public to cool off; never admit a fault or wrong; never concede that there may be some good in your enemy; never leave room for alternatives; never accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time and blame him for everything that goes wrong; people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one; and if you repeat it frequently enough people will sooner or later believe it.” Parroting the lie becomes a loyalty pledge, even if—especially if—you don’t actually believe it.[6]

you men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t ‘hockey’ that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. ‘Religion causes wars,’ ‘guns kill people,’ it’s all the same old bullshit!” “I didn’t mea…,” Sune tries, but has to duck when she tries to slap him again. “Keep your trap shut when I’m talking! Fucking men! YOU’RE the problem! Religion doesn’t fight, guns don’t kill, and you need to be very fucking clear that hockey has never raped anyone! But do you know who do? Fight and kill and rape?” Sune clears his throat. “Men?” “MEN! It’s always fucking men!

Sweet Jesus...you men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t ‘hockey’ that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. ‘Religion causes wars,’ ‘guns kill people,’ it’s all the same old bullshit!” “I didn’t mea... ,” Sune tries, but has to duck when she tries to slap him again. “Keep your trap shut when I’m talking! Fucking men! YOU’RE the problem! Religion doesn’t fight, guns don’t kill, and you need to be very fucking clear that hockey has never raped anyone! But do you know who do? Fight and kill and rape?” Sune clears his throat. “Men?” “MEN! It’s always fucking men!

But these were days of self-fulfillment, where settling for something that was not quite your first choice of a life seemed weak-willed and ignoble. Somewhere, surrendering to what seemed to be your fate had changed from being dignified to being a sign of your own cowardice. There were times when the pressure to achieve happiness felt almost oppressive, as if happiness were something that everyone should and could attain, and that any sort of compromise in its pursuit was somehow your fault... Would he someday have the courage to give up, and would he be able to recognize that moment, or would he wake one day and look in the mirror and find himself an old man, still trying to call himself an actor because he was too scared to admit that he might not be, might never be?

Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done." "My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution." Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers." Here

It had seemed such a domestic scene and she ached now, as she had ached then, to be a part of it. Instead, she had sat twenty feet away, as far removed from him in spirit as if she had been twenty miles away. Yet she loved him still. Not as she had before, when she had loved him as if he were a prince in a fairy-tale romance. He had been perfection itself. Now she loved him as a woman, with knowledge of all his faults and with full realization that they could never be together again. But she loved him. And for the first time since it had happened, she admitted to herself that she would not have altered any of those events even if she had known of the separation and pain ahead. At least she had known love and at least there was one man in this world who meant everything to her.

I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done." "My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution." Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers." Here

You said not to fall for you. Did you change your mind?' 'Absolutely not.' His jaw tenses. 'Right.' I don't expect that to hurt as much as it does, which is part of the problem. I'm already too emotionally involved to separate out the sex, no matter how phenomenal it is. 'Here's the thing. I don't think I can separate sex from emotion when it comes to you.' Well, shit, now I've said it. 'We're already too close for that, and if we hook up again, I'm going to eventually fall for you.' My heart pounds at the rushed confession, waiting for his response. 'You won't.' Something akin to panic flares in his eyes, and he crosses his arms. I swear I can actually see the man building his defenses against his own feelings. 'You don't really know me. Not at my core.' And whose fault is that? 'I know enough,' I argue softly. 'And we'd have all the time in the world to figure it out if you'd stop acting like such an emotional chickenshit and just admit that you're going to fall for me, too, if we keep this up.' There's no way he would have designed that saddle, spent all that time training me to fight and fly, if he didn't feel something. He's going to have to fight for this, too, or it will never work. 'I have absolutely no intention of falling for you, Sorrengail.' His eyes narrow and he enunciates every word, like I could possibly take that any other way. Fuck. That. He let me in. He told me about his scars. He had an arsenal crafted for me. He cares. He's just as wrapped up in this as I am, even if he's shitty at showing it. 'Ouch,' I wince. 'Well, it's apparent that you're not ready to admit where this is going. So yeah, I think it's best we agree that this was just a onetime thing.' I force my shoulders to shrug. 'We both needed to blow off some steam, and we did, right?' 'Right,' he agrees, apprehension lining his forehead.

But these were days of self-fulfillment, where settling for something that was not quite your first choice of a life seemed weak-willed and ignoble. Somewhere, surrendering to what seemed to be your fate had changed from being dignified to being a sign of your own cowardice. There were times when the pressure to achieve happiness felt almost oppressive, as if happiness were something that everyone should and could attain, and that any sort of compromise in its pursuit was somehow your fault. Would Willem work for year upon year at Ortolan, catching the same trains to auditions, reading again and again and again, one year maybe caterpillaring an inch or two forward, his progress so minute that it hardly counted as progress at all? Would he someday have the courage to give up, and would he be able to recognize that moment, or would he wake one day and look in the mirror and find himself an old man, still trying to call himself an actor because he was too scared to admit that he might not be, might never be?

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I never beheld them in perfection before. The arms altogether were admirably modeled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These were, indeed, the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither too much flesh, nor too little,—neither rudeness nor fragility. I could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os femoris, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly proportioned calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

Joan Blondell had it all: looks, talent, energy, humor. If she never became a top-flight superstar, the fault lies mostly with Warner Brothers. At MGM, Joan could have easily had Jean Harlow’s career; at Paramount, Claudette Colbert’s or Carole Lombard’s; at Fox, Loretta Young’s; at RKO, Ginger Rogers’. Some of the fault lies, too, with Blondell herself, who later admitted, “The instant they said ‘cut!’ I was whammo out of that studio and into the car . . . In order to be a top star and remain a top star and to get all the fantastic roles that you yearned for, you’ve got to fight for it and you’ve got to devote your twenty-four hours to just that; you’ve got to think of yourself as a star, operate as a star; do all the press that is necessary . . . What meant most to me was getting home, and that’s the truth.” But if Joan Blondell got slightly lost in the shuffle at Warners, she still managed to turn in some delightfully snappy performances and typify the warm-hearted, wisecracking Depression dame. And when she aged, she did so with grace and humor.

She sat back, eyeing the flames now leaping upward to lick at the wooden beams of the ceiling. "If this fire gets out of hand, or if the guards take too long to come, you and I may be in a lot of trouble." "We are already in a lot of trouble." "That was my reasoning, too. Of course, if that happens and the fire gets too big before the mighty citizens of Ringhmon stop it, it'll also gut this little palace and destroy everything inside it. Including the enormously expensive Model Six that I just fixed, which they'll be responsible for paying fo, and probably the other Model Six that they openly own." She shrugged, trying to appear unworried. "That'll teach them to kidnap me. But that won't happen. We'll be fine." "You say that and yet you are frightened." "Yes, I'm frightened! I admit it! Happy? No, wait, Mages are never happy. Just try not to die, all right? I don't want that to be my fault." Alain thought through her words. "I will attempt not to die. Your plan appears to be sound, as well as potentially very destructive. I see that it is a mistake to offend you.

And the worst fault I have to find with the world is, that it is dull. Do you know, I am going to justify gambling in spite of you. It is a refuge from dullness." "I don't admit the justification," said Deronda. "I think what we call the dullness of things is a disease in ourselves. Else how can any one find an intense interest in life? And many do." "Ah, I see! The fault I find in the world is my own fault," said Gwendolen, smiling at him. Then after a moment, looking up at the ivory again, she said, "Do _you_ never find fault with the world or with others?" "Oh, yes. When I am in a grumbling mood." "And hate people? Confess you hate them when they stand in your way--when their gain is your loss? That is your own phrase, you know." "We are often standing in each other's way when we can't help it. I think it is stupid to hate people on that ground." "But if they injure you and could have helped it?" said Gwendolen with a hard intensity unaccountable in incidental talk like this. Deronda wondered at her choice of subjects. A painful impression arrested his answer a moment, but at last he said, with a graver, deeper intonation, "Why, then, after all, I prefer my place to theirs." "There I believe you are right," said Gwendolen.

But it’s true that I have faced the Dark Court and lived. I suppose I could survive this peril as well, if need be.” “What? Oh—no. I mean…” Eddi faltered and shook her head. “I’m not good at saying this kind of thing. I always sound stupid or too casual or…” “My poet, betrayed by words?” He smiled crookedly. “I never said I was a poet. Besides, it’s not the same thing. This is public speaking.” She smiled weakly and looked at his ruffles. He set his hands on her shoulders, but they were motionless and weightless. “You’ve kept me alive for the last three months,” Eddie began, groping furiously for the words. “You’ve made me coffee. You’ve carried my amplifier.” A nervous chuckled escaped her. “And you’ve been pretty good company. Even when you were being a jerk, you were pretty good company, now that I look back on it.” “But,” he said without inflection. Eddi looked up at him, alarmed. “But? Oh, hell, I told you I was bad at this! No, no buts. You’re a wonderful person. Even if you are a supernatural being. Damn it, Phouka, how am I going to tell my mother that I’m in love with a guy who turns into a dog?” She blushed; she could feel it. A silence of unreasonable proportions followed; the phouka’s only response was a quick spasm of his fingers on her shoulders. “Are you in love with him, then?” “I said so, didn’t I?” “Not quite.” There was a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. “All right, Al right.” Eddi took a long breath. “I love you.” “There. Now why should that be so hard to say?” “Because it sounds like something out of a soap opera,” Eddi grumbled. “Does it? Not to me. The best line from a favorite song, perhaps.” His smile softened his whole face in a way she hadn’t seen before. “That’s because you’re a damned romantic.” He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear on one side. “Then you’re a doubly damned romantic, my heart, since you won’t even admit it. But perhaps with my excellent example before you…” Eddi caught at his disconcerting fingers, which were now tracing the edge of her ear, and kissed his knuckles. “You’re a jerk,” she said fondly. “Where were we going, when we got distracted?” “Earth and Air, I’d forgotten! It’s your fault, you know. The color of your hair in the moonlight, the curve of your waist, the—” “You’re going to forget again.” “You’re quite right. But I’ll try not to do so for at least a few minutes. You will enjoy this, I think.” He flashed her a grin and folded his fingers around hers. “Come along, then.

Long story short, I got lured into a trap. A Mage using that concealment spell tried to knife me. Then someone else tried to blow my brains out with a bullet." "A Mage attacked you?" Alain asked, feeling a sick sensation inside. "She tried. I knew they'd been watching me. I didn't give them any reason to try to kill me." Mari looked at him. "Did I?" "It is my fault," Alain admitted. "Even though I have tried to keep them from finding out who you are, they still believe that you are dangerous." She gave him another look, then shook her head. "From the looks of things, I'm mainly dangerous to my friends and myself. Just how much trouble did you actually get in because of spending time with me in Dorcastle?" Alain looked into the fire. "My Guild did not believe that I had been with you in Dorcastle. The elders thought that the woman I had been seen with in that city was a common I had sought out because she researched the Mechanic I had met in Ringhmon." "Why would you want to find a common who looked like me?" Mari asked. "For physical satisfaction." The simple statement would have created no reaction in a Mage, but he saw the outraged look in Mari's face and hurriedly added more. "I would not have done that. But the elders assumed that I did. I told you that they believed I was attracted to you." "Alain, 'attracted to' doesn't bring to mind the idea of finding another woman who resembles me so that you can pretend that you're—" she choked off the words, glaring into the night. "The elders assumed that. I never wanted it. I would never do it. There is no other woman like you." Somehow he must have said the right thing, because she relaxed. "But because of that belief of theirs," Mari said, "your elders thought you might look for me again." "They actually thought that you would seek me," Alain explained. "They were very concerned that you would..." His "social skills" might need work, but Alain realized that he probably should not say the rest. Too late. Mari bent a sour look his way. "What did they think I would do?" "It is not important." "Alain..." He exhaled slowly, realizing that Mari would not give up on this question. "The elders thought that you would seek to ensnare me, using your physical charms, and through me work to strike at the Mage Guild." She stared back in disbelief. "Ensnare? They actually used the word ensnare?" "Yes. Many times." "Using my physical charms?" Mari seemed unable to decide whether to laugh or get angry. She looked down at herself. "I'm a little low on ammunition when it comes to physical charms, or hadn't these elders of yours noticed?" "You are beautiful beyond all other women," Alain objected. Mari rolled her eyes. "And you ate seriously deluded. I hadn't realized how badly until this moment.

thepsychchic chips clips ii If you think of yourself instead as an almost-victor who thought correctly and did everything possible but was foiled by crap variance? No matter: you will have other opportunities, and if you keep thinking correctly, eventually it will even out. These are the seeds of resilience, of being able to overcome the bad beats that you can’t avoid and mentally position yourself to be prepared for the next time. People share things with you: if you’ve lost your job, your social network thinks of you when new jobs come up; if you’re recently divorced or separated or bereaved, and someone single who may be a good match pops up, you’re top of mind. This attitude is what I think of as a luck amplifier. … you will feel a whole lot happier … and your ready mindset will prepare you for the change in variance that will come … 134-135 W. H. Auden: “Choice of attention—to pay attention to this and ignore that—is to the inner life what choice of action is to the outer. In both cases man is responsible for his choice and must accept the consequences.” Pay attention, or accept the consequences of your failure. 142 Attention is a powerful mitigator to overconfidence: it forces you to constantly reevaluate your knowledge and your game plan, lest you become too tied to a certain course of action. And if you lose? Well, it allows you to admit when it’s actually your fault and not a bad beat. 147 Following up on Phil Galfond’s suggestion to be both a detective and a storyteller and figure out “what your opponent’s actions mean, and sometimes what they don’t mean.” [Like the dog that didn’t bark in the Sherlock Holmes “Silver Blaze” story.] 159 You don’t have to have studied the description-experience gap to understand, if you’re truly expert at something, that you need experience to balance out the descriptions. Otherwise, you’re left with the illusion of knowledge—knowledge without substance. You’re an armchair philosopher who thinks that just because she read an article about something she is a sudden expert. (David Dunning, a psychologist at the University of Michigan most famous for being one half of the Dunning-Kruger effect—the more incompetent you are, the less you’re aware of your incompetence—has found that people go quickly from being circumspect beginners, who are perfectly aware of their limitations, to “unconscious incompetents,” people who no longer realize how much they don’t know and instead fancy themselves quite proficient.) 161-162 Erik: Generally, the people who cash the most are actually losing players (Nassim Taleb’s Black Swan strategy, jp). You can’t be a winning player by min cashing. 190 The more you learn, the harder it gets; the better you get, the worse you are—because the flaws that you wouldn’t even think of looking at before are now visible and need to be addressed. 191 An edge, even a tiny one, is an edge worth pursuing if you have the time and energy. 208 Blake Eastman: “Before each action, stop, think about what you want to do, and execute.” … Streamlined decisions, no immediate actions, or reactions. A standard process. 217 John Boyd’s OODA: Observe, Orient, Decide, and Act. The way to outmaneuver your opponent is to get inside their OODA loop. 224 Here’s a free life lesson: seek out situations where you’re a favorite; avoid those where you’re an underdog. 237 [on folding] No matter how good your starting hand, you have to be willing to read the signs and let it go. One thing Erik has stressed, over and over, is to never feel committed to playing an event, ever. “See how you feel in the morning.” Tilt makes you revert to your worst self. 257 Jared Tindler, psychologist, “It all comes down to confidence, self-esteem, identity, what some people call ego.” 251 JT: “As far as hope in poker, f#¢k it. … You need to think in terms of preparation. Don’t worry about hoping. Just Do.” 252

I can admit my faults with no need to minimize, hide, or give way to paralyzing guilt. I can confess that I need to grow without beating myself up. I can cry out when life is hard but accept responsibility for the way I deal with it. I don’t have to cover my sin, polish my reputation, and keep a record of my successes. I can look at my tomorrows with enthusiasm and hope. Yes, I am still a flawed person in a broken world. But my view of myself is not dark and depressed because the gospel has infused it with hope. Christ is with me and in me, and I will never be in a situation where he isn’t redemptively active. Though change is needed in many ways, I am not discouraged. I am in the middle of a work of personal transformation. This process is often painful, but always beneficial.

What happened between us was my fault.” “No, it wasn’t. I said I wouldn’t marry you. What else could I expect? Your only fault was in leaving without saying good-bye. That made it terrible.” “I’m sorry, Livy. I behaved like a spiteful boy.” “Yes, you did.” She agreed much too easily, he thought. She might be more gracious about it. “My uncle was right. A man should never meddle in women’s affairs.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that it was foolish of me to speak to you of marriage. Only an older woman would have known how to calm your fears.” “No amount of talk from anyone could do that, Rising Hawk. I wish it would,” she admitted with a sigh. He reached for her hands. He pulled gently, but she set her heels and wouldn’t budge, so he did. Coming as close as he dared, he whispered, “Do you remember our last day at Jenuchshadego? You fought like a demon.” “It wasn’t just me. We all went crazy.” “But you most of all.” She laughed, and he remembered how desolate winter had been without her. “You fought like a demon. Everyone was astonished. Me most of all. The violence of your tongue I was used to, but this! When it was over, you rose from the floor and looked at me.” She laughed again. It was like a familiar birdsong, lost for the winter, now returned. “And at that moment, the light of your eyes went into mine, and mine into yours in return.” Timidly, he touched her cheek, and felt ready to cry with relief when she raised her hand and touched his. “That sounds very pretty, Rising Hawk,” she said gently, “but it’s not enough to trade my life for.” “Livy, we both know that once this happens, one is blind without the other. What do you need for proof? Another winter like this past one? Listen, I never would have come back like this, been so sure, if something hadn’t happened to make me realize I had to. That you wanted me to.

THE DANGERS OF HUMAN PRAISE Showing sorrow for sin and undergoing other humiliating circumstances are far more profitable than success. You know that your troubles made you find out what you never knew before about yourself, and I am afraid that the authority, the success, and the admiration that have now come your way will make you self-satisfied. Such self-satisfaction will mar the best-ordered life, because it is incompatible with humility. We can be humble only so long as we give attention to all our own infirmities. The consciousness of these should be predominant; the soul should feel burdened by them and groan under them, and that groaning should be as a perpetual prayer to be set free from “its bondage to decay,” and admitted into the “glorious freedom of the children of God.” 3 Overwhelmed by its own faults, the soul should feel it deserves no deliverance by the great mercy of Jesus Christ. Woe to the soul that is self-satisfied, that treats God’s gifts as its own merits, and forgets what is due to God! Set apart regular seasons for reading and prayer. Involve yourself in outward matters when it is really necessary, and attend more to softening the harshness of your judgment, to restraining your temper, and to humbling your mind than to upholding your opinion even when it is right. Finally, humble yourself whenever you find that an undue interest in the affairs of others has led you to forget the one all-important matter of yourself: eternity.

Never perform another fault or mistake to hide your first ones. Just admit it and express your regret for that. It is a way of the realistic and the great people.

But it’s true that I have faced the Dark Court and lived. I suppose I could survive this peril as well, if need be.” “What? Oh—no. I mean…” Eddi faltered and shook her head. “I’m not good at saying this kind of thing. I always sound stupid or too casual or…” “My poet, betrayed by words?” He smiled crookedly. “I never said I was a poet. Besides, it’s not the same thing. This is public speaking.” She smiled weakly and looked at his ruffles. He set his hands on her shoulders, but they were motionless and weightless. “You’ve kept me alive for the last three months,” Eddie began, groping furiously for the words. “You’ve made me coffee. You’ve carried my amplifier.” A nervous chuckled escaped her. “And you’ve been pretty good company. Even when you were being a jerk, you were pretty good company, now that I look back on it.” “But,” he said without inflection. Eddi looked up at him, alarmed. “But? Oh, hell, I told you I was bad at this! No, no buts. You’re a wonderful person. Even if you are a supernatural being. Damn it, Phouka, how am I going to tell my mother that I’m in love with a guy who turns into a dog?” She blushed; she could feel it. A silence of unreasonable proportions followed; the phouka’s only response was a quick spasm of his fingers on her shoulders. “Are you in love with him, then?” “I said so, didn’t I?” “Not quite.” There was a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. “All right, All right.” Eddi took a long breath. “I love you.” “There. Now why should that be so hard to say?” “Because it sounds like something out of a soap opera,” Eddi grumbled. “Does it? Not to me. The best line from a favorite song, perhaps.” His smile softened his whole face in a way she hadn’t seen before. “That’s because you’re a damned romantic.” He reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear on one side. “Then you’re a doubly damned romantic, my heart, since you won’t even admit it. But perhaps with my excellent example before you…” Eddi caught at his disconcerting fingers, which were now tracing the edge of her ear, and kissed his knuckles. “You’re a jerk,” she said fondly. “Where were we going, when we got distracted?” “Earth and Air, I’d forgotten! It’s your fault, you know. The color of your hair in the moonlight, the curve of your waist, the—” “You’re going to forget again.” “You’re quite right. But I’ll try not to do so for at least a few minutes. You will enjoy this, I think.” He flashed her a grin and folded his fingers around hers. “Come along, then.

It is wrong to believe that such men suffer in the conscience for what they do … it is only regret at being caught that troubles them. And they never admit it was any fault of their own … it was always chance, bad luck.… The criminal does not regret his crime, he only regrets failure.

During one of our infrequent dinners, he had a revelation. After an awkward pause, he stammered, “I’m afraid I ruined your life.” It was the closest he ever got to admitting fault. He looked so small underneath his too-big white polo shirt. He has always been fragile, but now he looked it. “You’re very lucky,” I said. “I turned out fine.” But still, he must have had the sense that there were amends to be made. Because months later, he asked me, “What can I do to be closer to you?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Make a list,” he replied. “Make a list of what you want, and give it to me, and I’ll do it.” I never made the list. I didn’t make the list because I was confused about what to put on it. What would fix things? Was there really anything that could make up for what had happened? Remember my birthday? Be there for me when I’m falling apart? Come visit me one time? Decide that for just one Christmas, shit, even one minor holiday, you’re going to spend it with me? Call me, text me, just to ask how I am? Fully acknowledge all the things you’ve done wrong instead of minimising them and claiming that I’m obsessed with the past? Acknowledge how much this hurts?

I’ve heard what Rapskal says. That we have to plunge ourselves into the city’s memories if we are to learn how to live here as Elderlings. But I also remember all the warnings I heard in Trehaug. What Leftrin told us before he left, that lingering too long near memory stone can drown you. That you can lose your own life in remembering someone else’s.” Thymara was silent for moment. Tats had put a precise finger on her own fear, the one she didn’t like to admit. “But we are Elderlings. It’s different for us.” “Is it? I know Rapskal says that, but is it? Did the Elderlings prize having their own lives, or did they grow up so saturated in other people’s experiences that they didn’t realize what was theirs and what they’d absorbed? I like being me, Thymara. I want to still be Tats, no matter how long I live and tend my dragon. And I want to share those years with Thymara. I don’t need to soak you in someone’s else’s life when I’m with you.” He paused, letting her feel the sting of that little barb. Then he added, “My turn for a question. Are you living your life, Thymara? Or avoiding it by living someone else’s?” He knew. She hadn’t confided in him about the memory columns and her visits there with Rapskal. But somehow he knew. A deep blush heated her face. As her silence became longer, the hurt in his eyes deepened. She tried to tell herself that she’d done nothing wrong, that his hurt was not her fault. He spoke while she struggled to find words. “It’s pretending, Thymara.” His voice was low but not gentle. “It’s not plunging into this life in Kelsingra. It’s letting go of now, and living the past, a past that will never return. It’s not even really living. You don’t make decisions there, and if the consequences become too dark, you can run away. You take on a style of thinking, and when you come back to this world, it sways you. But worst of all is, while you are swimming in memories, what are you not doing here? What experiences are you missing, what chances pass you by? A year from now, what will you say about these seasons, what will you remember?” She was moving from embarrassed to angry. Tats had no right to rebuke her. He might think she was doing something foolish, but she hadn’t hurt anyone with it. Well, only him, and only his feelings. And wasn’t that partially his own fault, for caring about such things? He knew she was getting angry. She saw how he tightened his shoulders and heard his voice deepen a notch. “When you’re with me, Thymara…if you ever decide to be with me… I won’t be thinking of anyone else except you. I won’t call you by someone else’s name, or do something to you because it’s what someone else liked a long, long time ago.

February 18: Marilyn stays home without notifying the studio. When she doesn’t answer his knock at her residence, Montand slips a note under her door: “Don’t leave me to work for hours on end on a scene you’ve already decided not to do the next day. I’m not your enemy, I’m your pal. And capricious little girls have never amused me.” Monroe calls Miller in Ireland, and he in turn calls the Montands, asking them to return to her door. Ashamed, she begs their forgiveness, admits her fault, and promises not to do it again.

Resistant people, on the other hand, are exhausting. They hate to admit their mistakes and will more easily pass the blame than admit a fault. Resistance is basically pride, which shows itself as insecurity. These people do not want to appear weak, so they would rather exasperate others than get to the peace that comes from admission. Resistance will fight rather than resolve, blame rather than admit, and run away rather than run toward reconciliation.

People should never be punished permanently for their mistakes. It takes a strong person to admit their faults, but it takes an even bigger person to forgive and really let it go.

Split infinitive This, the saying or writing of to really think, to boldly go, etc., is the best known of the imaginary rules that petty linguistic tyrants seek to lay upon the English language. There is no grammatical reason whatever against splitting an infinitive and often the avoidance of one lands the writer in trouble, as in Fowler’s example: The men are declared strongly to favour a strike. Here, in the course of evading the suspect to strongly favour, the writer has left the reader in some doubt whether strongly applies to the declaring or the favouring. As Fowler remarks elsewhere in his article: It is of no avail merely to fling oneself desperately out of temptation; one must do it so that no traces of the struggle remain; that is, sentences must be thoroughly remodelled instead of having a word lifted from its original place and dumped elsewhere. A warning that every writer, at least, should take generally to heart. Towards the end of the piece, Fowler lays down his recommended policy: We will split infinitives rather than be barbarous or artificial; more than that, we will freely admit that sufficient recasting will get rid of any s[plit] i[nfinitive] without involving either of those faults, [and] yet reserve to ourselves the right of deciding in each case whether recasting is worth while. The whole Fowler notice deserves and repays perusal, all 1800-odd words of it. See MEU, pp. 558–561. That last sentence of his is as true as any such sentence can be. But although he was writing nearly seventy years ago, the ‘rule’ against split infinitives shows no signs of yielding to reason. This fact prompts some gloomy conclusions. One such is that anti-split-infinitive fanatics are beyond reason. Another is that, whatever anybody may say, split infinitives are still to be avoided in most circumstances. Consider: people with strong erroneous views about ‘correct’ English are just the sort of people who consider your application for a job, decide whether you are ‘educated’ or not, wonder about your general suitability for this and that (e.g. your inclusion in a reading list). Do you want to be right or do you want to get on? – sorry, to succeed. I personally think that to split an infinitive is perfectly legitimate, but I do my best never to split one in public and I would certainly not advise anybody else to do so, even today. Today we have reached a point at which some of our grammatical martinets have not actually been taught grammar, with the result that they are as hard as ever on the big SI without being at all clear what it is. Indeed, even their slightly better-educated predecessors were often shaky on the point, seeming to think that a phrase like ‘X is thought to be easily led’ contained an example. Any ungainly departure from natural word-order is likely to betray a fear that a splittable infinitive may be lurking somewhere in the reeds. When a correspondent, a self-declared Yorkshireman, demands of the editor of The Times, ‘Have you lost completely your sense of proportion?’ seasoned campaigners will sniff the air, in this case and others without result. But nobody is ever quite safe.

It’s all right, Alera. I don’t need a family.” “Maybe you don’t need one,” I said with a shrug, playing with the fabric of the quilt that lay between us. “But you deserve one.” I thought for a moment I had hit a nerve, but instead he made a joke out of it. “Just think--if I’d had Koranis as my father, I might have turned into him by now. I’d be brutish and pretentious, but at least my boastful garb would distract you from those flaws. Oh, and this hair you love? It would be gone.” I laughed at the ounce of truth in his statement, then fell silent, for some reason feeling sadder about his situation than he was. He reclined upon the pillows, considering me. “You know, in Cokyri, fathers don’t raise their children. I think maybe it’s better that way.” “How can you think that?” I asked, troubled by the decided tenor of his voice, and he sat up again, not having expected this reaction from me. “Your father controlled you and forced you to marry Steldor. How can you disagree with me after living through that?” “Because…” I faltered. “Because I love my father for all the good things he’s done. Because he made me laugh when I was a child. That’s what I think about when I see him. Not his mistakes.” “I couldn’t forgive him like you do.” “Could you forgive me? I mean, if I did something awful.” Narian did not immediately respond, unsettling me, but it was in his nature to weigh all things. “I don’t know,” he slowly answered. “But I would still love you.” He looked at me, an epiphany in his eyes, finally understanding my connection to my family. Then his expression changed, and I knew he was going to raise a difficult issue. “Explain this then. If that is how families are supposed to function, and you would forgive your father anything, and clearly my mother would forgive me anything, then Koranis fails because he won’t accept me. The women, you and my mother, are loving, but the man fails.” “Yes, but not all men fail.” “Prove it. Your father sold you into marriage, and the only father figures I’ve known have respectively made my life hell and rejected me.” He lay back once more, watching me, and though he had caught me off guard, I was determined to make my point. “Cannan is a just and fair man.” “Whose son is Steldor.” “Who has faults, yes--” “As all men do.” Frustrated, I threw my hands in the air. “Are you going to keep interrupting me?” “No, he said apologetically. “Go on.” “What about you? Am I, the woman who is in love with you, supposed to believe you’re a terrible person when I know better?” “I would be a terrible father,” he said, shifting onto his side. “What?” “Come, Alera, you have to admit it.” “I don’t have to admit anything, especially when I think you’re wrong.” “On what grounds?” I was so exasperated I wanted to tear my hair out. And his bemused visage only made it worse. “Because I saw you with that little girl this afternoon! You were perfect with her. And if you can be perfect with a stranger’s child, how could you be any different with our own?” “It’s different raising a child than talking with one,” he contended. “I never had a father, Alera. No one taught me how to be one.” “And did anyone teach you how to love me?” This stopped him short. “No.” “Well, you’re pretty good at it. So be quiet, and accept that our children are going to love you.” Narian’s eyebrows rose, and I started laughing. Taking my hand, he pulled me toward him and I lay down beside him, mirroring his position. “I’m sorry for yelling at you,” I murmured, giving him a light kiss. “You never know where a conversation is going to take you,” he said, gazing into my dark eyes. “I’m rather glad you did.

I'm the same way," Lana admitted. "I keep picking guys who are bad bets because they do what I expect them to screw me over. That way, It's never my fault when the relationship fails.

I…I thought you were going to heal my lip.” Sylvan stroked her hair which had come loose from the knot at the back of her neck and now cascaded down her shoulders in soft chestnut waves. “I thought your heart needed healing first.” She shifted against him, getting more comfortable. “This is nice,” she admitted softly. “I…I’m sorry I freaked out on you.” “The fault is entirely mine,” Sylvan murmured. “The urlich aroused my protective rage. And then I got so completely focused on marking you I forgot to consider your feelings. Can you forgive me?” “I…I think so.” She looked up at him. “I guess you can’t help the way you get when there’s an enemy around. But please just…don’t come at me that way again.” “I won’t. I swear it.” He meant it from the bottom of his heart and Sophia seemed to sense his sincerity. “Thank you,” she whispered, her gaze still locked with his. “I…I appreciate that.” “I don’t want you to fear me.” Sylvan heard the break in his own voice but he couldn’t help it. “I would die to protect you, Sophia. To think you would believe I could hurt you in any way—especially that way…” But he couldn’t go on. “Sylvan…” She was looking at him with something like wonder on her face. “You…you’re crying,” she whispered. She sounded like she could hardly believe it. Sylvan didn’t believe it himself. “No, I’m not.” He had never given in to such emotion, never allowed himself such weakness before. Even after his father’s passing and Feenah’s betrayal, not so much as a single tear had come to his eyes. But Sophia was nodding. “Yes, you are. Or at least, you’re sort of leaking a little.” Reaching up, she brushed lightly at his cheek. “See?” She held out her hand. To his surprise her fingertips were wet. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “Why?” Sophia sounded genuinely curious. He shook his head. “To show such weakness before one I am supposed to protect…it is unacceptable. Unforgivable.” “No, it’s not.” Suddenly she put her arms around his neck and hugged him. “It’s not, Sylvan,” she whispered in his ear, pressing her soft cheek against his. “Not at all, I promise you.” His heart swelled until he thought it might burst and he hugged her back carefully. He no longer cared if the urlich and the AllFather with all his hellish legions came upon him and killed him. At that moment, with Sophia willingly in his arms and her sweet feminine fragrance invading his senses, he knew he could die a happy and contented male.

You act as a CEO only under two circumstances, neither during “normal” times. First, when you make a decision, and second, when you make mistakes. Always admit your mistakes and never look to find fault with your employees’ execution or to blame your subordinates. A CEO shouldn’t be preoccupied with claiming “success.

You seem…calmer lately,” she ventured, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. “I mean, since we came back to the Mother ship. On Earth you were, well…” “I was out of control,” he admitted candidly. “My blood was burning and I had no way to quench the flames.” “Oh.” Sophie looked down at her hands. “That was my fault, I guess.” “Of course not.” He sounded almost fierce and she looked up again, wide-eyed. “Don’t ever take the blame for any of my actions on yourself,” he said sternly. “But I thought you were…that because I wouldn’t let you…you know…” “You weren’t ready.” Sylvan looked back at the controls. The red wound in space was growing closer. “You may never be, I see that now.” “I…I don’t understand,” Sophie faltered. He glanced at her again. “I saw the look on your face after I came back from dealing with your attacker.” “About that,” Sophie began haltingly. “I’m really sorry I freaked out on you. Seeing him again just…brought everything back.” “I thought it was probably something like that,” Sylvan said grimly. “I’m sorry I was the cause of your fear and pain.” “No, really. I—” “But that isn’t the only reason I spoke as I did. When I had to inject you with the translation bacteria, your fear and dread were almost overwhelming.” He shook his head. “Do you think I want to see those emotions in your eyes when I take you? When I make love to you, Sophia?” “I…no,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together nervously. “No, I guess not.” “I told you I didn’t want to cause you pain.” Sylvan looked back at the fold in space which was almost upon them now. “And I meant it. I’ll leave you alone from now on—I swear it.” Oh

Remember when I said I was a bit scattered? It wasn’t just when it came to jobs. I had a slew of strange ex-boyfriends, too. There was George, who liked to wear my underwear . . . everyday. Not just to prance around in—he wore them under his Levi’s at work. As a construction worker. That didn’t go over well with his co-workers once they found out. He works at Jamba Juice now. I don’t think anyone cares about what kind of underwear he wears at Jamba Juice. Then there was Curtis. He had an irrational fear of El Caminos. Yes, the car. He just hated them so much that he became really fearful of seeing one. He’d say, “I don’t understand, is it a car or a truck?” The confusion would bring him to tears. When we were walking on the street together, I had to lead him like a blind person because he didn’t want to open his eyes and spot an El Camino. If he did, it would completely ruin his day. He would cry out, “There’s another one. Why, God?” And then he would have to blink seven times and say four Hail Marys facing in a southerly direction. I don’t know what happened to Curtis. He’s probably in his house playing video games and collecting disability. After Curtis came Randall, who will never be forgotten. He was an expert sign spinner. You know those people who stand on the corner spinning signs? Randall had made a career of it. He was proud and protective of his title as best spinner in LA. I met him when he was spinning signs for Jesus Christ Bail Bonds on Fifth Street. He was skillfully flipping a giant arrow that said, “Let God Free You!” and his enthusiasm struck me. I smiled at him from the turn lane. He set the sign down, waved me over, and asked for my phone number. We started dating immediately. He called himself an Arrow Advertising executive when people would ask what he did for a living. He could spin, kick, and toss that sign like it weighed nothing. But when he’d put his bright-red Beats by Dre headphones on, he could break, krump, jerk, turf, float, pop, lock, crip-walk, and b-boy around that six-foot arrow like nobody’s business. He was the best around and I really liked him, but he dumped me for Alicia, who worked at Liberty Tax in the same strip mall. She would stand on the opposite corner, wearing a Statue of Liberty outfit, and dance to the National Anthem. They were destined for each other. After Randall was Paul. Ugh, Paul. That, I will admit, was completely my fault.

Sweet Jesus ... you men. It's never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn't 'hockey' that raises these boys, it's YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I've come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. 'Religion causes wars,' 'guns kills people,' it's all the same old bullshit!' 'I didn't mea ...,' Sune tries, but has to duck when she tries to slap him again. 'Keep your trap shut when I'm talking! Fucking men! YOU'RE the problem! Religion doesn't fight, guns don't kill, and you need to be very fucking clear that hockey has never raped anyone! But do you know who do? Fight and kill and rape?' Sune clears his throat. 'Men?' 'MEN! It's always fucking men!

The clerical power of the Roman priesthood culminated in the erection of the confessional. That confessional was itself borrowed from Babylon. The confession required of the votaries of Rome is entirely different from the confession prescribed in the Word of God. The dictate of Scripture in regard to confession is, "Confess your faults one to another" (James v. 16), which implies that the priest should confess to the people, as well as the people to the priest, if either should sin against the other. This could never have served any purpose of spiritual despotism; and therefore, Rome, leaving the Word of God, has had recourse to the Babylonian system. In that system, secret confession to the priest, according to a prescribed form, was required of all who were admitted to the "Mysteries;" and till such confession had been made, no complete initiation could take place.

Some people never admitted a fault, which let you know right off that they were untrustworthy.

In attempting to determine how Adolf Hitler had taken control, the US Office of Strategic Services commissioned a report in 1943 that explained his strategy: “Never to admit a fault or wrong; never to accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time; blame that enemy for everything that goes wrong; take advantage of every opportunity to raise a political whirlwind.

When Holden learned about Ryan’s dilemma, he was deeply perturbed. “You can’t let the Mob push you around,” Holden told him. “They’ll destroy you.” “It’s my own fault,” admitted Ryan. “I should never have got involved with them.” “Damn it, you need to go to the police,” said Holden. Ryan reported the extortion attempt to the FBI, saying he refused to be shaken down by a bunch of crooks. Ryan’s only option, the Bureau informed him, was to press charges in federal court. The FBI gave Ryan round-the-clock protection, and he hired an armed bodyguard who followed him everywhere. Nothing deterred him, not even warnings from Johnny Roselli and Sam Giancana that, if he persisted in his court action, they would alert the IRS to go after him. During the ensuing trial, Ryan testified that he believed he was the victim of a setup. He had been the object of shakedowns in the past, Ryan told the court, but he had never paid anyone a penny. The judge believed him. Caifano received a ten year sentence and Delmonico got five years. The two men went to prison in 1966.

Stop blaming your friends, your family, or the circumstances that you live in, for not being where you’ve always wanted to be. It is your fault, admit it. You chose to be here when you knew that every choice had consequences. But it is not the end of the world. It is never too late to change your life, or to improve yourself. You are only one decision away from a completely different life. Your future depends on the choices you make today – every single choice matter. So, when you are about to make a decision, take it first under consideration; weigh up the consequences that will follow, but don’t overthink, and whether it is worth living with any of them, and then choose wisely

Never perform another fault or mistake, to hide your first ones. Just admit it, and express your regret, for that. It is a way of the realistic, and the great people.

You must never, never, never think of anything like that again!’ I spoke. ‘No matter what might ever happen to me, you are not allowed to hurt yourself!’ ‘I'll never put you in danger again, so it's a moot point.’ ‘Put me in danger! I thought we'd established that all the bad luck is my fault?’ I was getting angrier. ‘How dare you even think like that?’ The idea of Marcel ceasing to exist, even if I were dead, was impossibly painful. ‘What would you do, if the situation were reversed?’ He asked. ‘That's not the same thing.’ He didn't seem to understand the difference. He chuckled. ‘What if something did happen to you?’ I blanched at the thought. ‘Would you want me to go off myself?’ A trace of pain touched his perfect features. ‘I guess I see your point… a little,’ he admitted. ‘But what would I do without you?’ ‘Whatever you were doing before I came along and complicated your existence.’ He sighed. ‘You make that sound so easy.’ ‘It should be. I'm not that interesting.’ He was about to argue, but then he let it go. ‘Moot point,’ he reminded me. Abruptly, he pulled himself up into a more formal posture, shifting me to the side so that we were no longer touching. ‘Mr. Anderson?’ I guessed.

Narcissists are actors playing a part. They are expert liars, and, even worse, they believe their own lies. Practiced in dishonesty, they can’t tell the difference between their own version of truth and a falsehood. They may take the past and rearrange it to make themselves look good. They rarely if ever admit fault, and they never say they’re sorry. —Rokelle Lerner, author of The Object of My Affection Is in My Reflection: Coping with Narcissists

Ash, you’ve been nothing but perfect since you decided to grow up. Sure, you used to help me put frogs in people’s mailboxes, but that girl’s gone. You wanted to be perfect, and you achieved it.” She laughed and sat back up. I chanced a glance over at her. The dimple was there tucked into her cheek as she gazed down at the water. “If you only knew,” was all she said. “Tell me.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Why?” Because I want you. Just you. The girl I know is in there hiding from the world. I want my Ash back. I couldn’t say it like that. She’d see too much. I had to protect myself. “Because I’d like to know you aren’t so perfect. I’d like to know the girl who I once knew was still in there somewhere.” She laughed again and pulled her legs up to rest her chin on them. “There’s no way I’m admitting all my faults to you. Considering most of them are just in my thoughts and I’ve never acted on them.” What I would give to know what bad thoughts Ashton kept locked away. I doubted they were anything as bad as I wanted them to be. But hell, just a little bit of naughty would drive me crazy. “I’m not asking for your deep dark secrets, Ash. I just want to know what you could possibly do wrong that makes you feel that Sawyer’s got to keep you in line.” Her cheeks turned pink, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. She wasn’t going to tell me. I hadn’t really expected her to. Ashton had been hiding inside herself for years now. It still hurt so fucking bad when I thought of the girl I’d lost. The one she wouldn’t let me see anymore. After a few minutes of silence, I stood up and stretched. I couldn’t do this. I built a wall three years ago to keep from getting hurt. Only Ashton held the power to hurt me. I couldn’t let her do it again. “That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t really need you to tell me how you don’t always remember to take the buggy back to the return place in the parking lot or you don’t make it to the nursing home every week.” I started to walk away, angry at myself for sounding like a jerk but needing to get the hell away from her. This had been a mistake. A big-ass mistake that I was going to pay for. “Those are things Sawyer has to help me remember…But I wasn’t exactly referring to them.” She said it so softly I almost didn’t hear her. I should keep walking. I needed to stop this. But I never did the right thing.

Not knowing your self worth will only make people treat you worst. Girls will always take advantage of you. Boys will always lie and tell a different story about the nature of your relationship. The funny part is…. I heard and read and was told every single word they told about me, but they always kept denying it and I always kept playing fool and apologized for it. What hurts the most, none of them swallowed his/her pride for once, admitted his/ her fault and apologized for it. I even lost my writing talents because of the desperate articles I kept writing about them, trying to convince myself not to lose my principles to their misdeeds… If those couple of years taught me something, is that I should value myself above all else. I should never help anyone even if I know I’d be their last resort. Nobody deserves my sacrifices. I quit my job, not feeling a single regret for it. I’m starting a new life. I’m setting myself free…. Dear self, fly high…

Not knowing yourself worth will only make people treat you worst. Girls will always take advantage of you. Boys will always lie and tell a different story about the nature of your relationship. Funniest thing above all else, is that I know every single word they said about me, but they always keep denying it and I always keep playing fool and make it look like I’m a doubtful person and apologize for it. What hurts the most, none of them swallowed his/her pride for once, admitted his/ her fault and apologized for it. I even lost my art of writing because of the desperate articles I kept writing about them, trying to convince myself about not losing my principles to their misdeeds. If those couple of years taught me something, is that I should value myself above all else. I should never help anyone even if I know I’d be their last resort. Nobody deserves my sacrifices. I quit my job, not feeling a single regret for it. I’m starting a new life. I bought new clothes. I’m trying a new Look. I don’t wanna see that wrecked girl in the mirror anymore. Dear self, fly high…

Have you had any recent contact with Oliver?’ She started quickly. ‘Did he reach out to you, to tell you he was in trouble, or—’ ‘We hadn’t heard from him in months…’ He swallowed again, fighting the catch in his throat. ‘The last time we… the last time I spoke to him, he asked me for… God… money.’  Jamie didn’t press him. It was best to just to let people speak sometimes.  ‘He wouldn’t tell me what for, but… but we knew that he was… you know… using that stuff…’ Acceptance was hard. He went on. ‘We knew he was. We had a call from the hospital — he’d been admitted for an overdose. That was when we confronted him, and — since, he just… We didn’t know where he was, or…’ His voice was barely a whisper, the words near incoherent. She thought he meant back when Oliver had first started using. But she didn’t interrupt. ‘That was why he left, you know? We thought that… I thought that giving him an ultimatum would… would… make him see, you know?’ She set her jaw, trying to keep perspective. She’d been through this herself. Felt this herself. ‘I know.’  She felt like saying ultimatums don’t work on addicts — they never do. But it’s not your fault for trying. It’s what everyone does. It makes sense to us. But addicts think differently. Their logic works differently.  ‘We barely heard from him after he left. Once he turned up at Maggie’s work — you know? Asking for money. Thought that if I wasn’t there… Of course she gave him some — told him to come home for dinner. But that night we had a call from you — the police, I mean — saying that he’d been found… And… Uh… I’m sorry —’ ‘Take your time,’ Jamie said softly. ‘It’s okay.’ ‘So we said that we wouldn’t, you know, help him any more — give him anything else. But that

The threat of litigation is another incentive to shy away from a proper mea culpa. Insurance companies advise clients never to admit blame at the scene of a traffic accident, even if the crash was clearly their fault. Remember how long it took BP to issue anything resembling an official apology for the Deepwater Horizon oil spill? Nearly two months. Behind the scenes, lawyers and PR gurus pored over legal precedents to fashion a statement that would appease public opinion without opening the door to an avalanche of lawsuits. Nor is it just companies that shrink from accepting blame.

Is that why you’re here? To talk about that? Sweet Jesus… you men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t ‘hockey’ that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. ‘Religion causes wars,’ ‘guns kill people,’ it’s all the same old bullshit!” “I didn’t mea…,” Sune tries, but has to duck when she tries to slap him again. “Keep your trap shut when I’m talking! Fucking men! YOU’RE the problem! Religion doesn’t fight, guns don’t kill, and you need to be very fucking clear that hockey has never raped anyone! But do you know who do? Fight and kill and rape?” Sune clears his throat. “Men?” “MEN! It’s always fucking men!

Is that why you’re here? To talk about that? Sweet Jesus… you men. It’s never your fault, is it? When are you going to admit that it isn’t ‘hockey’ that raises these boys, it’s YOU LOT? In every time and every place, I’ve come across men who blame their own stupidity on crap they themselves have invented. ‘Religion causes wars,’ ‘guns kill people,’ it’s all the same old bullshit!