Never Expect Anything From Anyone Quotes

She had met people who had tried to fit in. She had met people who tried to stand out. But until then she had never met anyone who simply tried to be themselves without expecting anything from those around them. It was a refreshing experience.

No one will save you. No one will make an effort to understand you. People are basically busy living their lives. So you must realise this and never expect anything from anyone. If you ever believe in the words of people, then you will be dissapointed.

No one will save you. No one will make an effort to understand you. People will be basically busy living their lives. So you must realise this and never expect anything from anyone. If you ever believe in the words of people, then you will be dissapointed.

Harry’s letter to his daughter: If I could give you just one thing, I’d want it to be a simple truth that took me many years to learn. If you learn it now, it may enrich your life in hundreds of ways. And it may prevent you from facing many problems that have hurt people who have never learned it. The truth is simply this: No one owes you anything. Significance How could such a simple statement be important? It may not seem so, but understanding it can bless your entire life. No one owes you anything. It means that no one else is living for you, my child. Because no one is you. Each person is living for himself; his own happiness is all he can ever personally feel. When you realize that no one owes you happiness or anything else, you’ll be freed from expecting what isn’t likely to be. It means no one has to love you. If someone loves you, it’s because there’s something special about you that gives him happiness. Find out what that something special is and try to make it stronger in you, so that you’ll be loved even more. When people do things for you, it’s because they want to — because you, in some way, give them something meaningful that makes them want to please you, not because anyone owes you anything. No one has to like you. If your friends want to be with you, it’s not out of duty. Find out what makes others happy so they’ll want to be near you. No one has to respect you. Some people may even be unkind to you. But once you realize that people don’t have to be good to you, and may not be good to you, you’ll learn to avoid those who would harm you. For you don’t owe them anything either. Living your Life No one owes you anything. You owe it to yourself to be the best person possible. Because if you are, others will want to be with you, want to provide you with the things you want in exchange for what you’re giving to them. Some people will choose not to be with you for reasons that have nothing to do with you. When that happens, look elsewhere for the relationships you want. Don’t make someone else’s problem your problem. Once you learn that you must earn the love and respect of others, you’ll never expect the impossible and you won’t be disappointed. Others don’t have to share their property with you, nor their feelings or thoughts. If they do, it’s because you’ve earned these things. And you have every reason to be proud of the love you receive, your friends’ respect, the property you’ve earned. But don’t ever take them for granted. If you do, you could lose them. They’re not yours by right; you must always earn them. My Experience A great burden was lifted from my shoulders the day I realized that no one owes me anything. For so long as I’d thought there were things I was entitled to, I’d been wearing myself out —physically and emotionally — trying to collect them. No one owes me moral conduct, respect, friendship, love, courtesy, or intelligence. And once I recognized that, all my relationships became far more satisfying. I’ve focused on being with people who want to do the things I want them to do. That understanding has served me well with friends, business associates, lovers, sales prospects, and strangers. It constantly reminds me that I can get what I want only if I can enter the other person’s world. I must try to understand how he thinks, what he believes to be important, what he wants. Only then can I appeal to someone in ways that will bring me what I want. And only then can I tell whether I really want to be involved with someone. And I can save the important relationships for th

I can’t quite shake this feeling that we live in a world gone wrong, that there are all these feelings you’re not supposed to have because there’s no reason to anymore. But still they’re there, stuck somewhere, a flaw that evolution hasn’t managed to eliminate yet. I want so badly to feel bad about getting pregnant. But I can’t, don’t dare to. Just like I didn’t dare tell Jack that I was falling in love with him, wanting to be a modern woman who’s supposed to be able to handle the casual nature of these kinds of relationships. I’m never supposed to say, to Jack or anyone else, ‘What makes you think I’m so rich that you can steal my heart and it won’t mean a thing?’ Sometimes I think that I was forced to withdraw into depression, because it was the only rightful protest I could throw in the face of a world that said it was all right for people to come and go as they please, that there were simply no real obligations left. Deceit and treachery in both romantic and political relationships is nothing new, but at one time, it was bad, callous, and cold to hurt somebody. Now it’s just the way things go, part of the growth process. Really nothing is surprising. After a while, meaning and implication detach themselves from everything. If one can be a father and assume no obligations, it follows that one can be a boyfriend and do nothing at all. Pretty soon you can add friend, acquaintance, co-worker, and just about anyone else to the long list of people who seem to be part of your life, though there is no code of conduct that they must adhere to. Pretty soon, it seems unreasonable to be bothered or outraged by much of anything because, well, what did you expect?

Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos. From the beginning it was never anything but chaos: it was a fluid which enveloped me, which I breathed in through the gills. In the substrata, where the moon shone steady and opaque, it was smooth and fecundating; above it was a jangle and a discord. In everything I quickly saw the opposite, the contradiction, and between the real and the unreal the irony, the paradox. I was my own worst enemy. There was nothing I wished to do which I could just as well not do. Even as a child, when I lacked for nothing, I wanted to die: I wanted to surrender because I saw no sense in struggling. I felt that nothing would be proved, substantiated, added or subtracted by continuing an existence which I had not asked for. Everybody around me was a failure, or if not a failure, ridiculous. Especially the successful ones. The successful ones bored me to tears. I was sympathetic to a fault, but it was not sympathy that made me so. It was purely negative quality, a weakness which blossomed at the mere sight of human misery. I never helped anyone expecting that it would do me any good; I helped because I was helpless to do otherwise. To want to change the condition of affairs seemed futile to me; nothing would be altered, I was convinced, except by a change of heart, and who could change the hearts of men? Now and then a friend was converted: it was something to make me puke. I had no more need of God than He had of me, and if there were one, I often said to myself, I would meet Him calmly and spit in His face.

You okay?" he says, touching my cheek. His hand cradles the side of my head, his long fingers slipping through my hair. He smiles and holds my head in place as he kisses me. Heat spreads through me slowly.And fear, buzzing like an alarm in my chest. His lips still on mine,he pushes the jacket from my shoulders.I flinch when I hear it drop,and push him back,my eyes burning. I don't know why I feel this way. I didn't feel like this when he kissed me on the train.I press my palms to my face,covering my eyes. "What? What's wrong?" I shake my head. "Don't tell me it's nothing." His voice is cold.He grabs my arm. "Hey. Look at me." I take my hands from my face and lift my eyes to his.The hurt in his eyes and the anger in his clenched jaw surprise me. "Sometimes I wonder," I say,as calmly as I can, "what's in it for you. This...whatever it is." "What's in it for me," he repeats. He steps back,shaking his head. "You're an idiot,Tris." "I am not an idiot," I say. "Which is why I know that it's a little weird that,of all the girls you could have chosen,you chose me.So if you're just looking for...um,you know...that..." "What? Sex?" He scowls at me. "You know, if that was all I wanted, you probably wouldn't be the first person I would go to." I feel like he just punched me in the stomach. Of course I'm not the first person he would go to-not the first, not the prettiest,not desirable. I press my hands to my abdomen and look away, fighting off tears. I am not the crying type.Nor am I the yelling type. I blink a few times, lower my hands, and stare up at him. "I'm going to leave now," I say quietly. And I turn toward the door. "No,Tris." He grabs my wrist and wrenches me back. I push him away,hard, but he grabs my other wrist, holding our crossed arms between us. "I'm sorry I said that," he says. "What I meant was that you aren't like that. Which I knew when I met you." "You were an obstacle in my fear landscape." My lower lip wobbles. "Did you know that?" "What?" He releases my wrists, and the hurt look is back. "You're afraid of me?" "Not you," I say. I bite my lip to keep it still. "Being with you...with anyone. I've never been involved with someone before,and...you're older, and I don't know what your expectations are,and..." "Tris," he says sternly, "I don't know what delusion you're operating under,but this is all new to me, too." "Delusion?" I repeat. "You mean you haven't..." I raise my eyebrows. "Oh. Oh.I just assumed..." That because I am so absorbed by him, everyone else must be too. "Um. You know." "Well,you assumed wrong." He looks away. His cheeks are bright,like he's embarrassed. "You can tell me anything, you know," he says. He takes my face in his hands,his fingertips cold and his palms warm. "I am kinder than I seemed in training. I promise." I believe him.But this has nothing to do with his kindness. He kisses me between the eyebrows, and on the tip of my nose,and then carefully fits his mouth to mine. I am on edge.I have electricity coursing through my veins instead of blood. I want him to kiss me,I want him to; I am afraid of where it might go.

I never expected anything from anyone. Which was not the same thing as not wanting, ever, to be surprised.

Never expect anything from anyone, if you wants to live a happy life.

Anyone could say that a miracle is something impossible, but they say it thoughtlessly, mindlessly, because most people have such weak imaginations they couldn’t possibly understand what they’re saying when they say that a miracle is something impossible. Ask anyone what that means, what it means to see a miracle, and they will say that it’s something impossible, but they mean that a miracle is something formerly believed to be impossible that turns out not to be, not to be impossible, in other words, but possible after all. If this were really true, then miracles would be the most ordinary things in the world, the most uninspiring things in the world, and what can one expect from people who have never been anything but ordinary and uninspired.

She started out, then pressed a hand on the door to brace herself. “You think I don’t know, that I don’t understand what that cost you. But you’re wrong.” She couldn’t keep her voice steady, gave up trying. “You’re wrong, Roarke. I do know. There’s no one else in the world who would want, who would need to kill for me. No one else in the world who would step back from it because I asked it. Because I needed it.” She turned, and the first tear spilled over. “No one but you.” “Don’t. You’ll do me in if you cry.” “I never in my life expected anyone would love me, all of me. How would I deserve that? What would I do with it? But you do. Everything we’ve managed to have together, to be to each other, this is more. I’ll never be able to find the words to tell you what you just gave me.” “You undo me, Eve. Who else would make me feel like a hero for doing nothing.” “You did everything. Everything. Are everything.” Mira was right, again. Love, that strange and terrifying entity, was the answer after all. “Whatever there is, whatever happened to me, or how it comes back on me, you have to know, you need to know that what you did here gave me more peace than I ever thought I’d find. You have to know that I can face anything knowing you love me.” “Eve.” He stepped away from the slot, away from what was gone. And toward her, toward what mattered. “I can’t do anything but love you.

I know I get crazy when it comes to you, but God knows I’m tryin’, Pidge. I don’t wanna screw this up.” “Then don’t.” “This is hard for me, ya know. I feel like any second you’re going to figure out what a piece of shit I am and leave me. When you were dancing last night, I saw a dozen different guys watching you. You go to the bar, and I see you thank that guy for your drink. Then that douchebag on the dance floor grabs you.” “You don’t see me throwing punches every time a girl talks to you. I can’t stay locked up in the apartment all the time. You’re going to have to get a handle on your temper.” “I will. I’ve never wanted a girlfriend before, Pigeon. I’m not used to feeling this way about someone…about anyone. If you’ll be patient with me, I swear I’ll get it figured out.” “Let’s get something straight; you’re not a piece of shit, you’re amazing. It doesn’t matter who buys me drinks, or who asks me to dance, or who flirts with me. I’m going home with you. You’ve asked me to trust you, and you don’t seem to trust me.” He frowned. “That’s not true.” “If you think I’m going to leave you for the next guy that comes along, then you don’t have much faith in me.” He tightened his grip. “I’m not good enough for you, Pidge. That doesn’t mean I don’t trust you, I’m just bracing for the inevitable.” “Don’t say that. When we’re alone, you’re perfect. We’re perfect. But then you let everyone else ruin it. I don’t expect a one-eighty, but you have to pick your battles. You can’t come out swinging every time someone looks at me.” He nodded. “I’ll do anything you want. Just…tell me you love me.” “You know I do.” “I need to hear you say it,” he said, his brows pulling together. “I love you,” I said, touching my lips to his. “Now quit being such a baby.” He laughed, crawling into the bed with me. We spent the next hour in the same spot under the covers, giggling and kissing, barely noticing when Kara returned from the shower.

To the one and only Alex Jenkins Reid: Thank you for understanding why this book was so important to me and for being so into it. But more important, thank you for being the kind of man who encourages me to shout louder, dream bigger, and take less shit. Thank you for never making me feel as if I should make myself smaller to make anyone else feel better. It brings me an absolutely unparalleled amount of pride and joy to know that our daughter is growing up with a father who will stick by her side no matter who she is, who will show her how she should expect to be treated by modeling it for her. Evelyn did not have that. I did not have that. But she will. Because of you. And lastly, to my baby girl. You were teeny teeny tiny—I believe the size of half the period on the end of this sentence—when I started writing this book. And when I finished it, you were mere days away from making your entrance. You were with me every step of the way. I suspect it was, in no small part, you who gave me the strength to write it. I promise that I will repay the favor by loving you unconditionally and accepting you always, so that you feel strong enough and safe enough to do anything you set your mind to. Evelyn would want that for you. She would say, “Lilah, go out there, be kind, and grab what you want out of this world with both hands.” Well, she might not have put as big an emphasis on being kind. But as your mother, I must insist.

...if I have a daughter I will tell her she can do anything, and I will mean it, because I have no other intention of informing her otherwise. As my mother did with me, and my mother's mother before her, I shall simply hide the truth from her. I will tell her that despite what others may whisper, there is no difference between her and any boy. I will tell her to work her hardest and try her best. And that if one day she looks around and finds that, despite her very best efforts, lesser men have superseded her, then she probably could have done better. These words may not be true, nor will they be fair, but I would hope that they ensure she never becomes a victim of her own femininity. I hope she will be empowered to pick herself up, study harder, work longer, and exceed her own expectations. I don't want my daughter to break any glass ceilings. I'd rather she never even contemplated their existence. Because glass ceilings, closed doors, and boys clubs are notions, they're ideas, and they're not tangible. You can't see, touch, or feel them. They can only exercise power over us if we choose to believe in them. So why lay down your own gauntlet? The cliche rings true, if you reach for the moon, you might just land on the stars. Throw a glass ceiling into the works, and it can only get in the way. And I suspect that deep down, every woman who ever truly excelled thought exactly this way. I doubt they ever gave much thought to the fact that they are women. I think they just really wanted to rock out. And they did; louder, harder, and better than anyone else around them. And at some point down the line, enough people took note.

Better to live life not expecting anything from anyone. That way you’ll never be upset when they let you down - Will

You had to never get attached to any other person or expect anything good to come to you, and that was how you fell in love with life and how maybe certain fun and good things could happen to you. They only happened as long as you didn't need anything from anyone. As long as you didn't take anything from anyone or give any part of yourself away to another person, but you just sort of met the other person in space, good things could happen. You had to fall in love with quiet first.

Ask anyone what that means, what it means to see a miracle, and they will say that it's something impossible, but they mean that a miracle is something formerly believed to be impossible that turns out not to be, not to be impossible, in other words, but possible after all. If this were really true, then miracles would be the most ordinary things in the world, the most uninspiring things in the world, and what can one expect from people who have never been anything but ordinary and uninspired.

I wish you’d told me this before.” “It wouldn’t have changed anything.” “Maybe not. But talking about wounds can help heal them.” “You don’t talk about yours,” she pointed out. He sat down on the sofa facing her and leaned forward. “But I do,” he said seriously. “I talk to you. I’ve never told anyone else about the way my father treated us. That’s a deeply personal thing. I don’t share it. I can’t share it with anyone but you.” “I’m part of your life,” she said heavily, smoothing her hair back again. “Neither of us can help that. You were my comfort when Mama died, my very salvation when my stepfather hurt me. But I can’t expect you to go on taking care of me. I’m twenty-five years old, Tate. I have to let you go.” “No, you don’t.” He caught her wrists and pulled her closer. He was more solemn than she’d ever seen him. “I’m tired of fighting it. Let’s find out how deep your scars ago. Come to bed with me, Cecily. I know enough to make it easy for you.” She stared at him blankly. “Tate…” She touched his lean cheek hesitantly. He was offering her paradise, if she could face her own demons in bed with him. “This will only make things worse, whatever happens.” “You want me,” he said gently. “And I want you. Let’s get rid of the ghosts. If you can get past the fear, I won’t have anyone else from now on except you. I’ll come to you when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when the world falls on me. I’ll lie in your arms and comfort you when you’re sad, when you’re frightened. You can come to me when you need to be held, when you need me. I’ll cherish you.” “And you’ll make sure I never get pregnant.” His face tautened. “You know how I feel about. I’ve never made a secret of it. I won’t compromise on that issue, ever.” She touched his long hair, thinking how beautiful he was, how beloved. Could she live with only a part of him, watch him leave her one day to marry another woman? If he never knew the truth about his father, he might do that. She couldn’t tell him about Matt Holden, even to insure her own happiness. He glanced at her, puzzled by the expression on her face. “I’ll be careful,” he said. “And very slow. I won’t hurt you, in any way.” “Colby might come back…” He shook his head. “No. He won’t.” He stood up, pulling her with him. He saw the faint indecision in her face. “I won’t ask for more than you can give me,” he said quietly. “If you only want to lie in my arms and be kissed, that’s what we’ll do.” She looked up into his dark eyes and an unsteady sigh passed her lips. “I would give…anything…to let you love me,” she said huskily. “For eight long years…!” His mouth covered the painful words, stilling them.

Books are an escape that beckons the reader from the heavy burdens of this world.’ Isn’t that what you told me once? They can challenge as well as comfort. Entertain and educate. Even save us in ways we’d never expect. You’ve used the words art, oxygen, and life all to describe them. Anyone who can see such value in these pages ought to also see that they could take him away from a future he doesn’t want. If anything, that is what Dickens wrote for his characters. Isn’t that what you wish for yourself?

The trick, I now agreed, was you had to remain unattached to any future wishes or vision. You had to never get attached to any other person or expect anything good to come to you, and that was how you fell in love with life and how maybe certain fun and good things could happen to you. They only happened as long as you didn’t need anything from anyone. As long as you didn’t take anything from anyone or give any part of yourself away to another person, but you just sort of met the other person in space, good things could happen.

When I was a kid, I used to have these panic attacks thinking about how I could never be anyone else. I couldn't be my mom or my dad, and for my whole life, I'd have to walk around inside a body that kept me from ever truly knowing anyone else. It made me feel lonely, desolate, almost hopeless. When I told my parents about this, I expected them to know the feeling I was talking about, but they didn't. "That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with feeling that way, though, sweetie!" Mom insisted. "Who else do you think about being?" my dad said with his particular blunt fascination. The fear lessened, but the feeling never went away. Every once in a while, I'd roll it back out, poke at it. Wonder how I could ever stop feeling lonely when no one could ever know me all the way. When I could never peer into someone else's brain and see it all. And now I'm crying because reading this story makes me feel for the first time that I'm not in body. Like there's some bubble that stretches around me and Alex and makes it so we're just two different colored globs in a lava lamp, mixing freely, dancing around each other, unhindered. I'm crying because I'm relieved. Because I will never again feel as alone as I did during those long nights as a kid. As long as I have him, I will never be alone again.

I want to be married,” I blurted. “I want you to marry me.” Fuuuuuuuck. And so my entire carefully constructed speech was thrown out the window. My grandmother’s antique ring was in a box in the dresser—nowhere near me—and my plan to kneel and do everything right just evaporated. In the circle of my arms, Chloe grew very still. “What did you just say?” I had completely botched the plan, but it was too late to turn back now. “I know we have only been together for a little over a year,” I explained, quickly. “Maybe it’s too soon? I understand if it’s too soon. It’s just that how you feel about the way we kiss? I feel that way about everything we do together. I love it. I love to be inside you, I love working with you, I love watching you work, I love fighting with you, and I love just sitting on the couch and laughing with you. I’m lost when I’m not with you, Chloe. I can’t think of anything, or anyone, who is more important to me, every second. And so for me, that means we’re already sort of married in my head. I guess I wanted to make it official somehow. Maybe I sound like an idiot?” I looked over at her, feeling my heart try to jackhammer its way up my throat. “I never expected to feel this way about someone.” She stared at me, eyes wide and lips parted as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I stood and ran over to the dresser, pulling the box from the drawer and carrying it over to her. When I opened the box and let her see my grandmother’s antique diamond and sapphire ring, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I want to be married,” I said again. Her silence was unnerving, and fuck, I’d completely botched this with my rambling nonsense. “Married to you, I mean.” Her eyes filled with tears and she held them, unblinking. “You. Are such. An ass.” Well, that was unexpected. I knew it might be too soon, but an ass? Really? I narrowed my eyes. “A simple ‘It’s too soon’ would have sufficed, Chloe. Jesus. I lay my heart out on the—” She pushed off the bed and ran over to one of her bags, rummaging through it and pulling out a small blue fabric bag. She carried it back to me with the ribbon hooked over her long index finger, and dangled the bag in my face. I ask her to marry me and she brings me a souvenir from New York? What the fuck is that? “What the fuck is that?” I asked. “You tell me, genius.” “Don’t get smart with me, Mills. It’s a bag. For all I know you have a granola bar, or your tampons, in there.” “It’s a ring, dummy. For you.” My heart was pounding so hard and fast I half wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. “A ring for me?” She pulled a small box out of the bag and showed it to me. It was smooth platinum, with a line of coarse titanium running through the middle. “You were going to propose to me?” I asked, still completely confused. “Do women even do that?” She punched me, hard, in the arm. “Yes, you chauvinist. And you totally stole my thunder.” “So, is that a yes?” I asked, my bewilderment deepening. “You’ll marry me?” “You tell me!” she yelled, but she was smiling. “Technically you haven’t asked yet.” “Goddamnit, Bennett! You haven’t, either!” “Will you marry me?” I asked, laughing. “Will you marry me?” With a growl, I took the box and dropped it on the floor, flipping her onto her back.

5. The “No Talk” Rule. This rule prohibits the full expression of any feeling, need or want. In shame-based families, the members want to hide their true feelings, needs or wants. Therefore, no one speaks of his loneliness and sense of self-rupture. 6. The “No Listen” Rule. Everyone is so busy using their energy to defend themselves or play their rigid roles, no one really hears anything from the other’s true self. 7. Don’t Make Mistakes. Mistakes reveal the flawed, vulnerable self. To acknowledge a mistake is to open oneself to scrutiny. Cover up your own mistakes, and if someone else makes a mistake, shame him. 8. Unreliability. Don’t expect reliability in relationships. Don’t trust anyone, and you will never be disappointed. The parents didn’t get their developmental dependency needs met and will not be there for their children to depend on. The distrust cycle goes on. 9. Don’t Trust. Since no one feels validated or listened to, and there is unpredictability and unreliability on the part of the source figures, no one develops basic trust in themselves or others.

You’re the only person who doesn’t see the advantage in such a match.” “That’s because I don’t believe in marriages of convenience. Given your family’s history, I’d think that you wouldn’t either.” She colored. “And why do assume it would be such a thing? Is it so hard to believe that a man might genuinely care for me? That he might actually want to marry me for myself?” “Why would anyone wish to marry the reckless Lady Celia, after all,” she went on in a choked voice, “if not for her fortune or to shore up his reputation?” “I didn’t mean any such thing,” he said sharply. But she’d worked herself up into a fine temper. “Of course you did. You kissed me last night only to make a point, and you couldn’t even bear to kiss me properly again today-“ “Now see here,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t kiss you ‘properly’ today because I was afraid if I did I might not stop.” That seemed to draw her up short. “Wh-What?” Sweet God, he shouldn’t have said that, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking she was some sort of pariah around men. “I knew that if I got his close, and I put my mouth on yours…” But now he was this close. And she was staring up at him with that mix of bewilderment and hurt pride, and he couldn’t help himself. Not anymore. He kissed her, to show her what she seemed blind to. That he wanted her. That even knowing it was wrong and could never work, he wanted to have her. She tore her lips from his. “Mr. Pinter-“ she began in a whisper. “Jackson,” he growled. “Let me hear you say my name.” Backing away from him, she cast him a wounded expression. “Y-you don’t have to pretend-“ “I’m not pretending anything, damn it!” Grabbing her by the sleeves, he dragged her close and kissed her again, with even more heat. How could she not see that he ached to take her? How could she not know what a temptation she was? Her lips intoxicated him, made him light-headed. Made him reckless enough to kiss her so impudently that any other woman of her rank would be insulted. When she pulled away a second time, he expected her to slap him. But all she did was utter a feeble protest. “Please, Mr. Pinter-“ “Jackson,” he ordered in a low, unsteady voice, emboldened by the melting look in her eyes. “Say my Christian name.” Her lush dark lashes lowered as a blush stained her cheeks. “Jackson…” His breath caught in his throat at the intimacy of it, and fire exploded in his brain. She wasn’t pushing him away, so to hell with trying to be a gentleman. He took her mouth savagely this time, plundering every part of its silky warmth as his blood pulsed high in his veins. She tasted of red wine and lemon cake, both tart and sweet at once. He wanted to eat her up. He wanted to take her, right here in this room. So when she pulled out of his arms to back away, he walked after her. She didn’t stop backing away, but neither did she turn tail and run. “Last night you claimed this wouldn’t happen again.” “I know. And yet it has.” Like someone in an opium den, he’d been craving her for months. And how that he’d suddenly had a taste of the very thing he craved, he had to have more. When she came up against the writing table, he caught her about the waist. She turned her head away before he could kiss her, so he settled for burying his face in her neck to nuzzle the tender throat he’d been coveting. With a shiver, she slid her hands up his chest. “Why are you doing this?” “Because I want you,” he admitted, damning himself. “Because I’ve always wanted you.” Then he covered her mouth with his once more.

The same song was playing the second I met my ex–best friend and the moment I realized I’d lost her. I met my best friend at a neighborhood cookout the year we would both turn twelve. It was one of those hot Brooklyn afternoons that always made me feel like I'd stepped out of my life and onto a movie set because the hydrants were open, splashing water all over the hot asphalt. There wasn't a cloud in the flawless blue sky. And pretty black and brown people were everywhere. I was crying. ‘What a Wonderful World’ was playing through a speaker someone had brought with them to the park, and it reminded me too much of my Granny Georgina. I was cupping the last snow globe she’d ever given me in my small, sweaty hands and despite the heat, I couldn’t help imagining myself inside the tiny, perfect, snow-filled world. I was telling myself a story about what it might be like to live in London, a place that was unimaginably far and sitting in the palm of my hands all at once. But it wasn't working. When Gigi had told me stories, they'd felt like miracles. But she was gone and I didn't know if I'd ever be okay again. I heard a small voice behind me, asking if I was okay. I had noticed a girl watching me, but it took her a long time to come over, and even longer to say anything. She asked the question quietly. I had never met anyone who…spoke the way that she did, and I thought that her speech might have been why she waited so long to speak to me. While I expected her to say ‘What’s wrong?’—a question I didn’t want to have to answer—she asked ‘What are you doing?’ instead, and I was glad. “I was kind of a weird kid, so when I answered, I said ‘Spinning stories,’ calling it what Gigi had always called it when I got lost in my own head, but my voice cracked on the phrase and another tear slipped down my cheek. To this day I don’t know why I picked that moment to be so honest. Usually when kids I didn't know came up to me, I clamped my mouth shut like the heavy cover of an old book falling closed. Because time and taught me that kids weren't kind to girls like me: Girls who were dreamy and moony-eyed and a little too nice. Girls who wore rose-tonted glasses. And actual, really thick glasses. Girls who thought the world was beautiful, and who read too many books, and who never saw cruelty coming. But something about this girl felt safe. Something about the way she was smiling as she stuttered out the question helped me know I needn't bother with being shy, because she was being so brave. I thought that maybe kids weren't nice to girls like her either. The cookout was crowded, and none of the other kids were talking to me because, like I said, I was the neighborhood weirdo. I carried around snow globesbecause I was in love with every place I’d never been. I often recited Shakespeare from memory because of my dad, who is a librarian. I lost myself in books because they were friends who never letme down, and I didn’t hide enough of myself the way everyone else did, so people didn’t ‘get’ me. I was lonely a lot. Unless I was with my Gigi. The girl, she asked me if it was making me feel better, spinning the stories. And I shook my head. Before I could say what I was thinking—a line from Hamlet about sorrow coming in battalions that would have surely killed any potential I had of making friends with her. The girl tossed her wavy black hair over her shoulder and grinned. She closed her eyes and said 'Music helps me. And I love this song.' When she started singing, her voice was so unexpected—so bright and clear—that I stopped crying and stared at her. She told me her name and hooked her arm through mine like we’d known each other forever, and when the next song started, she pulled me up and we spun in a slow circle together until we were both dizzy and giggling.

From the beginning it was never anything but chaos: it was a fluid which rnvcloped me, which I breathed in through the gills. In the substrata, where the moon shone steady and opaque, it was smooth and fecundating; above it was a jangle and a discord. In everything I (plickly saw the opposite, the contradiction, and between the real and the unreal the irony, the paradox. I was my own worst enemy. There was nothing I wished to do which I could just as well not do. Even as a child, when I lacked for nothing, I wanted to die: I wanted to surrender because I saw no sense in struggling. I felt that nothing would be proved, substantiated, added or subtracted by continuing an existence which I had not asked for. Everybody around me was a failure, or if not a failure, ridiculous. Especially the successful ones. The successful ones bored·me to tears. I was sympathetic to a fault, but it was not sympathy that made me so. It was a purely negative quality, a weakness which blossomed at the mere sight of human misery. I never helped anyone expecting that it would do any good; I helped because I was helpless to do otherwise. To want to change the condition of affairs seemed futile to me; nothing would be altered, I was convinced, except by a change of heart, and who could change the hearts of men?

Part of the problem is the extraordinary place that economics currently holds in the social sciences. In many ways it is treated as a kind of master discipline. Just about anyone who runs anything important in America is expected to have some training in economic theory, or at least to be familiar with its basic tenets. As a result, those tenets have come to be treated as received wisdom, as basically beyond question (one knows one is in the presence of received wisdom when, if one challenges some tenet of it, the first reaction is to treat one as simply ignorant—“You obviously have never heard of the Laffer Curve”; “Clearly you need a course in Economics 101”—the theory is seen as so obviously true that no one exposed to it could possibly disagree). What’s more, those branches of social theory that make the greatest claims to “scientific status”—“rational choice theory,” for instance—start from the same assumptions about human psychology that economists do: that human beings are best viewed as self-interested actors calculating how to get the best terms possible out of any situation, the most profit or pleasure or happiness for the least sacrifice or investment—curious, considering experimental psychologists have demonstrated over and over again that these assumptions simply aren’t true.2

And you must appear willing to marry me,” Oliver said. “I understand.” “Do you? It means you’ll have to act as if you enjoy my company.” To his surprise, a small smile curved her lips. “I believe I can manage that.” Then, as if realizing she was softening, she wiped the smile from her face. “But you must behave responsibly, too.” “By not trying to seduce you, you mean.” She started. “No! I mean, yes…I mean, you already said you have more urgent concerns.” Alarm rose in her cheeks. “Oh dear, I forgot that you also said you have no honor or morals.” He’d made similar assertions half his life, yet tonight he regretted making them. Shocking young ladies seemed to have lost some of its appeal. “All the same, Miss Butterfield, I promise that your virtue is safe from me.” When she looked skeptical, he added, “You’re not the sort of woman I prefer.” A respectable woman came with strings attached. “Of course I’m not,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Anyone can see that.” That took him aback. She went on. “A man with no morals isn’t going to want a woman who has them. She’d never let him do anything wicked.” Freddy coughed, as if choking on something. Oliver understood why. Miss Butterfield had an unnerving way of cutting everything down to its essence. “Yes,” he said, for lack of a better response. “Quite.” Then he narrowed his gaze on her. “So what did you mean when you said I had to ‘behave responsibly’?” “You promised to find my fiancé, and I expect you to hold to your word.” “Ah, right. Your fiancé?” He kept forgetting about that. It was hard to imagine any woman sailing off across the ocean to hunt down her fiancé. No female would ever do such a thing for him. Not that he’d want her to. That would mean someone cared for him more than was wise, given his character.

For years before the Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps won the gold at the 2008 Beijing Olympics, he followed the same routine at every race. He arrived two hours early.1 He stretched and loosened up, according to a precise pattern: eight hundred mixer, fifty freestyle, six hundred kicking with kickboard, four hundred pulling a buoy, and more. After the warm-up he would dry off, put in his earphones, and sit—never lie down—on the massage table. From that moment, he and his coach, Bob Bowman, wouldn’t speak a word to each other until after the race was over. At forty-five minutes before the race he would put on his race suit. At thirty minutes he would get into the warm-up pool and do six hundred to eight hundred meters. With ten minutes to go he would walk to the ready room. He would find a seat alone, never next to anyone. He liked to keep the seats on both sides of him clear for his things: goggles on one side and his towel on the other. When his race was called he would walk to the blocks. There he would do what he always did: two stretches, first a straight-leg stretch and then with a bent knee. Left leg first every time. Then the right earbud would come out. When his name was called, he would take out the left earbud. He would step onto the block—always from the left side. He would dry the block—every time. Then he would stand and flap his arms in such a way that his hands hit his back. Phelps explains: “It’s just a routine. My routine. It’s the routine I’ve gone through my whole life. I’m not going to change it.” And that is that. His coach, Bob Bowman, designed this physical routine with Phelps. But that’s not all. He also gave Phelps a routine for what to think about as he went to sleep and first thing when he awoke. He called it “Watching the Videotape.”2 There was no actual tape, of course. The “tape” was a visualization of the perfect race. In exquisite detail and slow motion Phelps would visualize every moment from his starting position on top of the blocks, through each stroke, until he emerged from the pool, victorious, with water dripping off his face. Phelps didn’t do this mental routine occasionally. He did it every day before he went to bed and every day when he woke up—for years. When Bob wanted to challenge him in practices he would shout, “Put in the videotape!” and Phelps would push beyond his limits. Eventually the mental routine was so deeply ingrained that Bob barely had to whisper the phrase, “Get the videotape ready,” before a race. Phelps was always ready to “hit play.” When asked about the routine, Bowman said: “If you were to ask Michael what’s going on in his head before competition, he would say he’s not really thinking about anything. He’s just following the program. But that’s not right. It’s more like his habits have taken over. When the race arrives, he’s more than halfway through his plan and he’s been victorious at every step. All the stretches went like he planned. The warm-up laps were just like he visualized. His headphones are playing exactly what he expected. The actual race is just another step in a pattern that started earlier that day and has been nothing but victories. Winning is a natural extension.”3 As we all know, Phelps won the record eight gold medals at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. When visiting Beijing, years after Phelps’s breathtaking accomplishment, I couldn’t help but think about how Phelps and the other Olympians make all these feats of amazing athleticism seem so effortless. Of course Olympic athletes arguably practice longer and train harder than any other athletes in the world—but when they get in that pool, or on that track, or onto that rink, they make it look positively easy. It’s more than just a natural extension of their training. It’s a testament to the genius of the right routine.

The story really is short. Nine pages, about a boy who was born with a pair of wings. All his life, people tell him that this means he should try to fly. He’s afraid to. When he finally does, jumps off a two-story roof, he falls. He breaks his legs and wings. He never gets them reset. As he recovers, the bone heals in its misshapen form. Finally, people stop telling him that he must’ve been born to fly. Finally, he’s happy. When Alex comes back out, I’m crying. He asks me what’s wrong. I say, “I don’t know. It just speaks to me.” He thinks I’m making a joke and chuckles along, but for once, I wasn’t referencing the gallery girl who tried to sell us a twenty-one-thousand-dollar bear sculpture. I was thinking about what Julian used to say about art. How it either makes you feel something or it doesn’t. When I read his story, I started crying for a reason I can’t totally explain, not even to Alex. When I was a kid, I used to have these panic attacks thinking about how I could never be anyone else. I couldn’t be my mom or my dad, and for my whole life, I’d have to walk around inside a body that kept me from ever truly knowing anyone else. It made me feel lonely, desolate, almost hopeless. When I told my parents about this, I expected them to know the feeling I was talking about, but they didn’t. “That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with feeling that way, though, sweetie!” Mom insisted. “Who else do you think about being?” my dad said with his particular blunt fascination. The fear lessened, but the feeling never went away. Every once in a while, I’d roll it back out, poke at it. Wonder how I could ever stop feeling lonely when no one could ever know me all the way. When I could never peer into someone else’s brain and see it all. And now I’m crying because reading this story makes me feel for the first time that I’m not in my body. Like there’s some bubble that stretches around me and Alex and makes it so we’re just two different colored globs in a lava lamp, mixing freely, dancing around each other, unhindered. I’m crying because I’m relieved. Because I will never again feel as alone as I did during those long nights as a kid. As long as I have him, I will never be alone again.

It’s no wonder your grandmother despairs of you. God only knows what a trial you are to your poor parents.” The humor vanished abruptly from his face. “Sadly, my parents are too dead to be overly concerned about my behavior.” His words were flip, but the sudden glint of grief in his eyes told another tale. “Please forgive me,” she said hastily, cursing her quick tongue. “It’s awful to lose your parents. I know that better than anyone.” “No need for apologies.” He pushed away from the door. “They despaired of me long before they died, so you weren’t far off the mark.” “Still, it was very wrong of me to-“ “Come now, Miss Butterfield, this has naught to do with my proposal. Will you pretend to be my fiancée or not?” When she hesitated, he went on with a hint of anger, “I don’t see why you make such a fuss over it. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything wicked.” That ridiculous remark banished her brief moment of sympathy. “You’re asking me to lie! To deceive a woman for the sake of your purpose, whatever that is. It goes against every moral principle-“ “And threatening to stab a man does not?” He cast her a thin smile. “Think of it as playing a role, like an actress. You and your cousin will be guests at my estate for a week or two, entirely at your leisure.” A dark gleam shone in his eyes. “I can even set up an effigy of myself for you to stab at will.” “That does sound tempting,” she shot back. “As for Freddy there, he can ride and hunt and play cards with my brothers. It’s better entertainment than he’d find in the gaol.” “As long as you feed me, sir,” Freddy said, “I’ll follow you anywhere.” “Freddy!” Maria cried. “What? That blasted inn where we’re staying is flea-ridden and cold as a witch’s tit. Plus, you keep such tight hold on my purse strings that I’m famished all the time. What’s wrong with helping this fellow if it means we finally sleep in decent beds? And it’s not a big thing, your pretending to be betrothed to him.” “I’m already betrothed, thank you very much,” she shot back. “And what about Nathan? While we’re off deceiving this man’s poor grandmother, Nathan might be hurt or in trouble. You expect me just to give up searching for him so you can get a decent meal?” “And keep from being hanged,” Freddy pointed out. “Let’s not forget that.” “Ah, the missing fiancé,” Lord Stoneville said coldly. “I did wonder when you would bring him back into it.” She glowered at him. “I never let him out of it. he’s the reason I’m here.” “So you say.” That inflamed her temper. “Now see here, you insufferable, arrogant-“ “Fine. If you insist on clinging to your wild story, how about this: while you pretend to be my fiancée, I’ll hire someone to look for fiancé. A simple trade of services.

Even so, most of the stories people told about Amos [Tversky] had less to do with what came out of his mouth than with the unusual way he moved through the world. He kept the hours of a vampire. He went to bed when the sun came up and woke up at happy hour. He ate pickles for breakfast and eggs for dinner. He minimized quotidian tasks he thought a waste of time—he could be found in the middle of the day, having just woken up, driving himself to work while shaving and brushing his teeth in the rearview mirror. “He never knew what time of the day it was,” said his daughter, Dona. “It didn’t matter. He’s living in his own sphere and you just happened to encounter him there.” He didn’t pretend to be interested in whatever others expected him to be interested in—God help anyone who tried to drag him to a museum or a board meeting. “For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like,” Amos liked to say, plucking a line from the Muriel Spark novel The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. “He just skipped family vacations,” says his daughter. “He’d come if he liked the place. Otherwise he didn’t.” The children didn’t take it personally: They loved their father and knew that he loved them. “He loved people,” said his son Oren. “He just didn’t like social norms. A lot of things that most human beings would never think to do, to Amos simply made sense. For instance, when he wanted to go for a run he . . . went for a run. No stretching, no jogging outfit or, for that matter, jogging: He’d simply strip off his slacks and sprint out his front door in his underpants and run as fast as he could until he couldn’t run anymore. “Amos thought people paid an enormous price to avoid mild embarrassment,” said his friend Avishai Margalit, “and he himself decided very early on it was not worth it.” What all those who came to know Amos eventually realized was that the man had a preternatural gift for doing only precisely what he wanted to do. Varda Liberman recalled visiting him one day and seeing a table with a week’s worth of mail on it. There were tidy little stacks, one for each day, each filled with requests and entreaties and demands upon Amos’s time: job offers, offers of honorary degrees, requests for interviews and lectures, requests for help with some abstruse problem, bills. When the new mail came in Amos opened anything that interested him and left the rest in its daily pile. Each day the new mail arrived and shoved the old mail down the table. When a pile reached the end of the table Amos pushed it, unopened, off the edge into a waiting garbage can. “The nice thing about things that are urgent,” he liked to say, “is that if you wait long enough they aren’t urgent anymore.” “I would say to Amos I have to do this or I have to do that,” recalled his old friend Yeshu Kolodny. “And he would say, ‘No. You don’t.’ And I thought: lucky man!

What lesson is this?” she choked out. His wild gaze met hers. “That even a low bastard can be tempted above his station when a lady is as lovely as you.” “A lady? Not a tomboy?” “I wish you were a tomboy, sweeting,” he said bitterly. “Then you wouldn’t have viscounts and earls and dukes vying for your favors.” Was he jealous? Oh, how wonderful if he was! “And Bow Street Runners?” she prodded. He shot her a dark glance that was apparently supposed to serve as her answer, for he then bent to close his mouth over one linen-draped breast. Good. Heavens. What deliciousness what this? She shouldn’t allow it. But the man she’d been fascinated with for months was treating her as if he truly found her desirable, and she didn’t want it to stop. Clutching his head to her, she exulted in the hungry way he sucked her breast through her chemise, turning her knees to water and her blood to stream. He pleasured her breast with teeth and tongue as his hand found her other breast and teased the nipple to arousal. Her pulse leapt so high she feared she might faint. “Jackson…ohhh, Jackson…I thought you…despised me.” “Does this feel like I despise you?” he murmured against her breast, then tongued it silkily for good measure. A sensual tremor swept through her. “No.” But then, she’d been a fool before with men. She wasn’t good at understanding them when it came to this. “If you desired me all along, why didn’t you…say anything before?” “Like what? ‘My lady, I keep imagining you naked in my bed?’” He slid one hand down to her hip. “I’m not fool enough to risk being shot for impertinence.” Should she be thrilled or disappointed to hear that he imagined her in his bed? It was more than she’d expected, yet not enough. She dug her fingers into his shoulder. “How do you know I won’t try shooting you now?” He nuzzled her breast. “You left your pistol on the breakfast table.” A strange excitement coursed through her. It made no sense, considering what had happened the last time a man had got her alone and helpless. “Perhaps I have another hidden in this room.” He lifted his head to gaze steadily into her eyes. “Then I’d best keep you too busy to use it.” Suddenly he was kissing her again, hard, hungry kisses…each more intoxicating than the last. He filled his hands with her breasts and fondled them shamelessly, distracting her from anything but the taste and feel of him. A moan escaped her, and he tore his mouth from hers. “You shouldn’t let me touch you this way.” “Yet I am,” she gasped against his cheek. “And you aren’t stopping, either.” “Say the word, and I will.” Yet he dragged her skirts up and pressed forward between her legs. “This is mad. We’re both mad.” “Are we?” she asked, hardly conscious anymore of what she was aying. Because it felt utterly right to be in his arms, as if she’d waited ages to be there. Her heart had never clamored so for anyone else. “I don’t generally take advantage of my clients’ sisters,” he rasped as his hands slid to grip her thighs. “It’s unwise.” “I’m your client, too. Do I look as if I’m complaining?” she whispered and drew his head down to hers.

The messianic Son had finally been born, but the setting of the birth gives Luke’s readers the first real hint that this King may not fit everyone’s expectations. We will come back to this issue of expectations later, but for now it is worth reflecting on our expectations of God, his character, and his actions. Wrong expectations are a key source of disillusionment and disappointment. A cynical person might argue that we should never expect anything from anyone in order to avoid being let down. Such an approach to people and God, however, will surely lead to a bitter and lonely life. We need each other, and we need God. What happens, then, when God fails to meet our expectations or to act in the way that we thought, hoped, and prayed that he would? In such instances, we need to reevaluate our expectations to make sure they align with the promises of God. God has not promised us that we will be free from all sickness and have lots of money in this lifetime. He has not promised that bad things will not happen to good people. He has not promised that we and our loved ones will never die. In this present age life is fatal; no one gets out alive. He has promised that he will be with us no matter what and that nothing can ever separate us from his love.34 He has promised that resurrection will triumph over death and that there will be a future day when he will personally wipe every tear from every eye and remove sickness and death from his creation forever.35 We will not always understand why things happen, but we can trust that God will fulfill his promises. He is faithful.36

I can’t afford you, so I guess I will have to steal you.” “Nah, I’m cheap, you don’t have to steal,” muttered Zak, slowly driving into the garage, which was cluttered by tools and all kinds of trash that he didn’t find interesting at all. He exhaled and stopped the car, pulling out the key. It felt like driving into the dragon’s lair. Even more so when Stitch pressed on the button again and the garage door started closing. The lair had a drawbridge and it was being pulled up. “You’re priceless to me,” Stitch said quietly, his eyes shining and aware. Zak stared at him, his lungs emptying so much they started burning. With his throat tight, he turned to Stitch, overwhelmed by the intensity in those deep brown eyes. Stitch wasn’t lying. It was the raw truth presented on a platter along with a still-beating heart. Zak never expected to hear anything like this, from anyone, and as much as he liked to listen to reason, the confession sent his mind into chaos. “I’m gonna kill you if you’re just trying to get into my pants by saying stuff like that.” Stitch smirked and leaned over to kiss Zak’s lips. It was the slightest brush of mouths, but it sent a powerful charge all the way to Zak’s feet. “I’ll die a happy man,” he said and left the car.

he may have crossed the borderline into insanity.” Henderson wasn’t in Hitler’s thrall. But did he think Hitler had dishonorable intentions toward Czechoslovakia? No. Hitler, he believed, “hates war as much as anyone.” Henderson, too, read Hitler all wrong.2 The blindness of Chamberlain and Halifax and Henderson is not at all like Puzzle Number One, from the previous chapter. That was about the inability of otherwise intelligent and dedicated people to understand when they are being deceived. This is a situation where some people were deceived by Hitler and others were not. And the puzzle is that the group who were deceived are the ones you’d expect not to be, while those who saw the truth are the ones you’d think would be deceived. Winston Churchill, for example, never believed for a moment that Hitler was anything more than a duplicitous thug. Churchill called Chamberlain’s visit “the stupidest thing that has ever been done.” But Hitler was someone he’d only ever read about. Duff Cooper, one of Chamberlain’s cabinet ministers, was equally clear-eyed. He listened with horror to Chamberlain’s account of his meeting with Hitler. Later, he would resign from Chamberlain’s government in protest. Did Cooper know Hitler? No. Only one person in the upper reaches of the British diplomatic service—Anthony Eden, who preceded Halifax as foreign secretary—had both met Hitler and saw the truth of him. But for everyone else? The people who were right about Hitler were those who knew

Lady Meliara?” There was a tap outside the door, and Oria’s mother, Julen, lifted the tapestry. Oria and I both stared in surprise at the three long sticks she carried so carefully. “More Fire Sticks?” I asked. “In midwinter?” “Just found them outside the gate.” Julen laid them down, looked from one of us to the other, and went out. Oria grinned at me. “Maybe they’re a present. You did save the Covenant last year, and the Hill Folk know it.” “I didn’t do it,” I muttered. “All I did was make mistakes.” Oria crossed her arms. “Not mistakes. Misunderstandings. Those, at least, can be fixed. Which is all the more reason to go to Court--” “And what?” I asked sharply. “Get myself into trouble again?” Oria stood silently, and suddenly I was aware of the social gulf between us, and I knew she was as well. It happened like that sometimes. We’d be working side by side, cleaning or scraping or carrying, and then a liveried equerry would dash up the road with a letter, and suddenly I was the countess and she the servant who waited respectfully for me to read my letter and discuss it or not as I saw fit. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately, stuffing the Marquise’s letter into the pocket of my faded, worn old gown. “You know how I feel about Court, even if Bran has changed his mind.” “I promise not to jaw on about it again, but let me say it this once. You need to make your peace,” Oria said quietly. “You left your brother and the Marquis without so much as a by-your-leave, and I think it’s gnawing at you. Because you keep watching that road.” I felt my temper flare, but I didn’t say anything because I knew she was right. Or half right. And I wasn’t angry with her. I tried my best to dismiss my anger and force myself to smile. “Perhaps you may be right, and I’ll write to Bran by and by. But here, listen to this!” And I picked up the book I’d been reading before the letter came. “This is one of the ones I got just before the snows closed the roads: ‘And in several places throughout the world there are caves with ancient paintings and Iyon Daiyin glyphs.’” I looked up from the book. “Doesn’t that make you want to jump on the back of the nearest horse and ride and ride until you find these places?” Oria shuddered. “Not me. I like it fine right here at home.” “Use your imagination!” I read on. “‘Some of the caves depict constellations never seen in our skies--’” I stopped when we heard the pealing of bells. Not the melodic pattern of the time changes, but the clang of warning bells at the guardhouse just down the road. “Someone’s coming!” I exclaimed. Oria nodded, brows arched above her fine, dark eyes. “And the Hill Folk saw them.” She pointed at the Fire Sticks. “‘Them?’” I repeated, then glanced at the Fire Sticks and nodded. “Means a crowd, true enough.” Julen reappeared then, and tapped at the door. “Countess, I believe we have company on the road.” She looked in, and I said, “I hadn’t expected anyone.” Then my heart thumped, and I added, “It could be the fine weather has melted the snows down-mountain--d’you think it might be Branaric at last? I don’t see how it could be anyone else!” “Branaric needs three Fire Sticks?” Oria asked. “Maybe he’s brought lots of servants?” I suggested doubtfully. “Perhaps his half year at Court has given him elaborate tastes, ones that only a lot of servants can see to. Or he’s hired artisans from the capital to help forward our work on the castle. I hope it’s artisans,” I added. “Either way, we’ll be wanted to find space for these newcomers,” Julen said to her daughter. She picked up the Fire Sticks again and looked over her shoulder at me. “You ought to put on one of those gowns of your mother’s that we remade, my lady.” “For my brother?” I laughed, pulling my blanket closer about me as we slipped out of my room. “I don’t need to impress him, even if he has gotten used to Court ways!

Ren? Talk to me.” His lips twitched before he finally spoke in a low tone. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing again and make you cry more.” The pure innocent sweetness of that wrenched another sob from her. “Ah, see now what I did. I’m sorry, Kateri. I won’t say anything else. I promise.” She laid her head down on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s so not you, baby. You did nothing, absolutely nothing wrong.” She squeezed him tight, wishing she could make him understand. “All you’ve been is wonderful.…” Ren knew she was speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words. Not after she’d called him baby and sweetie. No one had ever used an endearment for him before. Until now, the closest anyone had come was to call him friend or brother. But baby … He’d never been anyone’s baby. “Are you listening to me?” You should probably say yes. That would be the smartest thing to do. But for some stupid reason the truth came out before he could stop it. “Um … no.” “Why are you tuning me out?” she snapped as fury lit up her eyes. Ren moved his jaw, trying to explain, but no words would leave his lips as he stammered over the word I. Why do I always do this shit when I least want to look like an idiot? He expected her to be angry. Instead, she kissed him senseless. Every part of him went into overdrive as his cock hardened. She pulled back. “What were you trying to say?” Heat scalded his face. “I didn’t hear anything after you called me baby.

Lottie strode to the center of the study and stared at Gentry expectantly. She made her manner brisk. “When shall we leave?” Gentry emerged from the corner. She saw from the flicker in his eyes that he had half-expected her to change her mind after speaking with Westcliff. Now that her choice had been reaffirmed, there was no turning back. “Now,” he said softly. Her lips parted in the beginnings of an objection. Gentry intended to sweep her away without allowing any opportunity to say good-bye to anyone in the household, not even Lady Westcliff. On the other hand, it would be easier for her to simply disappear without having to explain anything to anyone. “Isn’t it rather dangerous to travel at night?” she asked, then quickly answered her own question. “Never mind. If we met with a highwayman, I would probably be safer with him than you.” Gentry grinned suddenly. “You may be right.” -Lottie & Nick

he first time I ever laid eyes on you, you were jogging with your friend, Hilary,” he murmured. I lowered my gaze back to the tiny shoe and smiled. “The first time I ever had the pleasure of hearing your voice,” he titled his head in thought, “you ended up tripping and needed bandaged.” His finger brushed over the tiny silver Band-Aid. Tears began pooling in my eyes. His gift was unlike anything I ever expected. I wasn’t sure what to think or even feel in that moment. “The first time I knew you were more than a pretty face,” he smiled, his thumb caressing my cheek for the briefest moment, “you brought Oliver and me muffins.” His voice cracked and I bit my bottom lip as he touched upon the tiny muffin. The burn of a stray tear as it slipped down my cheek pulled my gaze to my lap. Quickly, I wiped it away. Next, he held up the miniature swimming pool in his hand and I laughed, looking up at him. “This one speaks for itself, sweetheart.” His smile widened into a broad grin. “It was a night I’ll never forget…and one I wouldn’t mind experiencing again next summer.” My head shot down, heat creeping up my cheeks. I shook my head, chuckling. “This,” he held up a music note, “is for the first time we danced.” He lowered the bracelet and looked me in the eyes. “I wanted you that night, Cassandra. More than I’ve ever wanted any woman. But I’m thankful every day that you wouldn’t let me have my way.” He sighed. “We wouldn’t be here today if I had slept with you then.” He looked back down, frowning. “I can’t image you not being here today.” My heart swelled helping me find my voice. “The pumpkin patch,” I said, running my fingers over the shiny jack-o-lantern. “Yes, the first day I realized I wanted nothing more than to protect you. From your ex, from anyone that could hurt you.” I smiled, his words soothing every part of my soul. “The carnival.” I smiled, remembering our day together. The charm was of a Ferris wheel and the only one that was gold. Logan took my hand and clasped the bracelet around my wrist. He looked up at me, my hand still in his. “The first day I knew Oliver was falling in love with you.

He swallowed hard, and stared into the corner. “I never wanted you to see me like that. When a man faces death, he meets the animal lurking inside him. When it’s hand to hand, blade to blade, kill or be killed . . .” Defiant green eyes met hers, and he slapped a hand to his scar. “The man who did this to me— I killed him. With his bayonet stuck in my flesh, I reached out and grabbed him by the throat and watched his eyes bulge from his skull as he suffocated at my hand.” She would not react, Cecily told herself, calmly dabbing at his wound. That’s what he expected, what he feared— her reaction of revulsion or disgust. “And he wasn’t the only one,” he continued. “To learn what violence you’re truly capable of, in those moments . . . It’s a burden I’d not wish on anyone.” She risked a glance at him then. “Burdens are lighter when they’re shared.” Luke swore. “I’ve shared too much of it with you already. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” “You can tell me anything. I’ll still love you. And I warn you, I’ve learned something of tenacity in the past four years. I’m not going to let you go.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Sometimes, I scarcely feel human anymore. The brutal way I took down that boar, Cecily. That barbarism with the stocking . . .” “Ah, yes.” She put aside her handkerchief and stood. “The stocking.” She propped one boot on the stool and slowly rucked up her skirts to reveal her stocking-clad leg. “Cecy . . .” “Yes, Luke?” She leaned over to untie the laces of her boot, giving him an eyeful of her décolletage. He groaned. “Cecy, what are you doing?” “Tending to your wounds,” she said, slipping the boot from her foot. With sure fingers, she unknotted the ribbon garter at her thigh, then eased the stocking down her leg. “Making it better.” Skirts still hiked thigh-high, she straddled his legs and nestled on his lap. “Shh.” She quieted his objection, then deftly wound the length of flannel around his injured arm, tucking in the end to secure it. “There,” she said in a husky voice, lowering her lips to the underside of his wrist. “All better.” “I wasn’t after your damn stocking,” he blurted out. “When I took you to the ground last night and pushed up your skirts. By all that’s holy, I wanted—” With a muttered oath, he gripped her by the shoulders, hauling her further into his lap. Until she felt the hard ridge of his arousal, pressing insistently against her cleft. “Cecily, what I want from you is not tender. It’s not romantic in the least. It’s plunder. It’s possession. If you had the least bit of sense, you’d turn and run from—” She kissed him hard, raking his back with her fingernails and clutching his thighs between hers like a vise. Boldly, she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and gave it a sharp nip, savoring his startled moan. Wriggling backward, she placed her hands over his, dragging them downward and molding his fingers around her breasts. “For God’s sake, Luke. You’re not the only one with animal urges.” He took her mouth, growling against her lips as he did.

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.

Kat jerked her head up to see Deep lounging in the bedroom doorway, one broad shoulder pressed against the door jam. There was a mocking look on his dark face but his eyes were fierce. “Well, well,” he murmured. “You two look so cozy. I’d join you but I don’t think that bed is big enough for three.” Lock sat up, shielding Kat protectively with his arm. “What are you doing here?” he snarled. “The same thing you are, dear brother. Little Kat’s pain called to me—dragged me like a magnet all the way across the ship from the Unmated Males section.” Lock’s brown eyes flashed. “What were you doing there? You’re not unmated!” Deep raised an eyebrow. “I practically am. Anyway, why should you care?” Kat looked back and forth between them uneasily. She wasn’t sure exactly what went on in the Unmated Males area—but she thought there must be some kind of sexual element to it. She’d never heard of prostitutes aboard the Mother ship but vague whispers and rumors seemed to indicate that there was some form of release available to the unmated warriors. Which made sense when you considered the uncharted amount of testosterone in the average alpha male Kindred. “I care because it’s disrespectful to the lady Kat,” Lock growled. “But why should I expect anything different? You disrespect everything and everyone. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Deep threw up his hands. “That’s me—I’m just a self-centered bastard, pissing on everything you hold dear. Ruining your life.” “Yes, you are!

Rachel,” he said, cutting me off. Abruptly he’d stopped pacing and placed a hand on each side of me, his face directly in front of me. “I refuse to take care of myself alone. You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you, and together we’ll take care of Trip.” “Okay . . .” “And don’t ever tell me again to love another woman the way I have loved you, and will always love you. There is no way you could have expected me to move on after you.” “You say that now, but you don’t know how you would have felt in a few years.” He grabbed my face in his hands and his voice shook as he shouted, “I don’t give a shit! I know I don’t know how I would feel in that situation, there’s no way to know that. But I know that no matter what happens in our lives, if you were taken from me for good, there would never be anyone else like you. There would never be anyone else I could love the way I love you.” “Kash, okay. I’m sorry,” I whispered and brushed the tips of my fingers against the angry set of his face. Something in my touch broke him, because a pained cry burst from his chest at the same time heavy tears fell down his cheeks. He dropped to his knees on the floor and pressed his head against my stomach, his hands gripping my back as he cried into my lap. “I’ve come too close to losing you too many times,” he forced out. “I will do anything to keep you by my side for the rest of my life.” Looking up at me, I felt helpless staring back at his broken expression. “Knowing that you even had to consider me moving on with someone else because you might die, kills me. I hate that you went through that, and I hate that you prepared yourself for that.” “Okay, but I’m—” My voice gave out and I had to clear my throat. “I’m here, we’re together.” “I’m not letting you go, Rachel, for anything. It’s you and me. Always, got it?” I nodded, unable to respond, and his head dropped back against my stomach as another sob ripped through him. I’d only ever seen Kash begin to cry twice. Usually when he was upset, he got angry. So to see him break like this was absolutely breaking my heart. I kept one hand holding his head in my lap, and ran the other over his back. The muscles bunched and shuddered beneath my fingertips as he let everything out. As

Brittany’s tongue snakes out to wet her perfect heart-shaped lips, which are now shiny and oh, so inviting. “Don’t tease me like that,” I groan, my lips inches from hers. Her books hit the carpet. Her eyes follow, but if I lose her attention, I may never get this moment back. My fingers move to her chin, gently urging her to look at me. She looks up at me with those vulnerable eyes. “What if it means something?” she asks. “What if it does?” “Promise me it won’t mean anything.” I lean my head back on the couch. “It won’t mean anythin’.” Aren’t I supposed to be the guy in this scenario, laying down the no-commitment rules? “And no tongue,” she adds. “Mi vida, if I kiss you, I guarantee there’s gonna be tongue.” She hesitates. “I promise it won’t mean anythin’,” I assure her again. I really don’t expect her to do it. I think she’s teasing me, testing to see how much I can take before I crack. But as her eyelids close and she leans closer, I realize it’s going to happen. This girl of my dreams, this girl who is more like me than anyone I’ve ever met, wants to kiss me. I take over control as soon as she tilts her head. Our lips touch for the briefest moment before I lace my fingers in her hair and keep kissing her soft and gentle. I cup her cheek in my palm, feeling her baby-soft skin against my rough fingers. My body urges me to take advantage of the situation, but my brain (the one inside my head) keeps me in check. A satisfied sigh escapes Brittany’s mouth, as if she’s content to stay in my arms forever. I brush the tip of my tongue against her lips, enticing her to open her mouth. She tentatively meets my tongue with her own. Our mouths and tongues mingle in a slow, erotic dance until the sound of the front door opening makes her jerk away.

I twittered, “Did anything develop from the liaisons?”               “No. We never exchanged words about it. It was purely to get our rocks off. But…” he went silent.               “But? Carry on,” I encouraged.               “It was difficult. I cried and missed him terribly after he returned to the States.”               “Did he write to you?”               He said remorsefully, “He wrote me a generic letter but mentioned nothing about our encounters.”               “Do you still miss him?” I asked.               The boy sobbed quietly before replying. “I haven’t told anyone about this until now.”               Putting my arm around him, I enquired, “Would you like to have a fling with Jules?”               “I can’t. It’s not allowed.” My tent-mate turned away uneasily.               “Not allowed by whom?” I questioned.               “By the authorities.”               “The only authority that’s stopping you is you. Are all Singaporeans afraid of authority?”               He hadn’t expected me to ask such an unorthodox question. “You don’t know who is listening or watching your every move,” he shushed.               “Where I come from, we speak our minds.”               “You are one of the lucky ones to go to school in England. I wish I could go to an American school.” He paused before resuming, “My parents are very strict. That’s why I’m here at OBSS.”               I injected, “You don’t want to be here?”               He shook his head timidly. “Neither do I. Let’s do something roguish and get expelled together,” I joked. The lad exclaimed, thinking my deliberation serious. “Good god, No! My parents will be furious. They’ll lose face and be devastated if I misbehave.” “Are you going to be forever under your parents’ control?” I voiced. “You are here to learn to take responsibility for yourself. Now is the perfect time to come into your own,” I championed. “Do something you truly desire, not what others want you to do.” The lad did not know how to respond to my suggestion. Neither did he contradict me. When Jules entreated me privately for an after-dinner stroll that evening, little did I imagine what would happen.

As life goes on, we start to learn more and more about it. And each day gives us a new lesson, sometimes we take it by heart immediatly, and sometimes we fail...thoes who learn keep searchin' for new lessons, and thoes who fail almost quite the game, but there are always some good players who knows that after every failure there's a success, so they keep tryin' over and over again, till they cross the finish line, till they save the princesse, and till the sun shines again. it may be difficult, u may collapse, and u may get so tired of tryin'..but it's about patience,it's about standin' in the dark waitin' for the light, And it's about bein' proud of who u are...between the startin' and the finish line there will always be a lot of obstacles, so make this period full of struggle, full of hope, and full of faith. it's not about who gonna cross the finish line first, it's about crossin' it, stop lookin' at 'em, stopin' wishin' u were somebody else, what they have is no one of ur business, look at those who don't have what u have, are u satisfied now ? Absolutely YES! Have u learned from that ? Absolutely NO! simply cos u will never know if u never try...imagine u are a point placed down The letter V, done? now open ur eyes, there's two roads in front of u, are u gonna take the left or the right way ? are u gonna follow those who failed or those who successed ? Those who successed of course, but what if the letter V has turned around ? are u still goin' on the right way ? follow no one, create ur own way, how they made things is no one of ur business...have some respect for urself, so they'll respect u, give as much as u can, and don't expect anything from anyone, be thankful to god for what u have before it's too late, be urself and don't worry about what they will think of you. never wait for their comments, don't make urself as a post on facebook, be proud of who u are..

I wanna hear about yer brothers," Mira said.  "Are they all like Lucien?" Charles made a noise of amusement.  "Thank God, no.  I'm the second oldest, and then there's Gareth.  He's the black sheep of the family and leads a group of ne'er do wells who've styled themselves after the Hellfire Club and call themselves the Den of Debauchery.  Gareth is irresponsible and dissolute, and Lucien despairs of him ever making anything of himself besides a general public nuisance — but I have rather more faith in him than that." "And what do the villagers call him?" "The Wild One." "He sounds fun," Mira said.  "Is he betrothed?" Charles laughed.  "No mama in her right mind would want their daughter married to Gareth.  His reputation is not undeserved."  He leaned back, his elbows sinking into the sand, the sun warming his upturned face.  "And then of course there's Andrew, my youngest brother, who aspires to be an inventor and is, according to the last letter I received from him, hoping to construct a flying machine." "A flying machine?" cried both girls in unison. "Yes.  A preposterous notion, isn't it?  However, I suppose that if anyone can do it, Andrew can.  He has a clever brain, and did very well at Oxford." "What's his nickname?" "The Defiant One." "Why?" "Because he is fiery and independent, and is ever at odds with Lucien." There was long silence.  And then, softly, Amy said, "And what did the villagers call you, Charles?" Everything stilled inside him.  He sat up, feeling a sudden rush of self-loathing and loss.  "The Beloved One," he said quietly.  Head bent, he picked up a handful of sand, letting it trickle out through his fingers.  "Because I always did everything right, always lived up to what everyone expected of me, always succeeded at whatever I put my mind to — and never let anyone down."  He turned his face toward the salty breeze.  "Until now." Even

They have a piano in town," Cade said. He'd stood outside Clark's barn any number of times, listening to the intertwining of notes, contemplating making such a joyful noise. The player hadn't been expert, but he'd never heard anything like it before. Apparently this was news to Lily. She looked up at Cade with something akin to excitement burning in the pale blue of her eyes. "Really? Why didn't anyone tell me?" Then she shut up and her gaze drifted to the pasture beyond the trees. Her husband had known. He could see that suspicion forming on her face. "I suppose that's what they do in town on Saturday nights," she murmured. "Jim told me it was too rowdy to stay after dark." "The other women stay," Cade said without inflection. Lily had never been close to her sisters, but she had grown up in a household of females and missed the feminine discussions and laughter and shared secrets. Juanita couldn't fill that need entirely; she had been too damaged by her past. Lily didn't know much about the town ladies, but there was no reason she couldn't meet them somehow, if she put her mind to it. "I wish I could hear the piano," Lily said. Actually, she wished she had a right to play the piano, but that was beyond her ability to speak. "I'll take you in if you wish to go." Lily surprised herself by saying, "I would like that, thank you. I don't think Juanita would mind watching Serena, and my father can look after Roy. Do they have other instruments besides the piano?" Cade stroked the flute as he gazed on the woman sitting boldly in the grass before him. He had never met anyone quite like her before. She was white and female, which should put her completely out of bounds for any conversation at all. But she was his boss, and as such, there had to be a certain amount of communication. She wore trousers like a man, and to a certain extent she spoke like a man, but he couldn't treat her with the same deference as Ralph Langton or with the scorn he felt for the ignorant farmhands he worked with. If she had been a whore, he could have had certain expectations, but she was a lady. How the hell should he treat a lady who wore pants? "Fiddles, sometimes," he responded while he struggled with the problem. "Is there dancing?" she asked anxiously. It was then that Cade realized that this woman didn't see categories as other people did. She saw people through the eyes of a child, as they related to her. It was rather amusing to realize that he had been avoiding her to keep from offending her ladylike sensibilities, when she was more likely offended by his avoidance than his presence. That's what he got for assuming all white women were alike. "They dance," he agreed. Cade

Step #10 - Make yourself happy No one can make you happy but yourself. Don’t think that your happiness is dependent on other people. Happiness is a state of the mind and doesn’t depend on how rich, how successful or how intelligent you are. It’s a choice that you have to make consciously. Do it for yourself and not for anyone else. This time, you should not expect anything from other people, so that you won’t get disappointed in the end.

There was no way he was going to… But that was exactly what he did. I gasped when I felt his tongue tentatively flick over my hole. I’d never had anyone do this to me before and I had no idea what to expect. I’d never even been sure it was something I wanted because the idea of someone like Reggie rimming me had been a huge turn-off. And I definitely wouldn’t have thought someone who was just starting to explore another side of his sexuality would do anything so intimate. But after the first soft caress, another one followed, then another. And it wasn’t just the tip of Hawke’s tongue that was exploring me. His whole tongue, lips, teeth, they all worked together to put me in an agonizingly blissful haze of sensual pleasure. I felt fingers drifting over my cock and balls and then Hawke fisted my shaft as he continued to play with my hole. I gripped the bedding in between my fingers as the coil of need inside of me started to grow. And then I felt it…Hawke’s tongue probing my hole more forcefully. Before I could even consider what was happening, I felt it push into me and I cried out at the sensation. Hands clamped down on my hips to hold me still, but that didn’t stop me from trying to push back farther on the tongue that was thrusting in and out of me. “Fuck,

ALTHOUGH writers and publishers like to grumble about the proliferation of libel lawsuits in this country, few would seriously propose that anything be done to reverse the trend. The Ayatollah’s death sentence on Salman Rushdie brings into relief the primitive feeling that lies behind every libel suit, and makes the writer only too grateful for the mechanism the law provides for transforming the displeased subject’s impulse to kill him into the move civilized aim of extracting large sums of money from him. Although the money is rarely collected—most libel suits end in defeat for the plaintiff or in a modest settlement—the lawsuit itself functions as a powerful therapeutic agent, ridding the subject of his feelings of humiliating powerlessness and restoring to him his cheer and amour propre. From the lawyer who takes him into his care he immediately receives the relief that a sympathetic hearing of one’s grievances affords. Conventional psychotherapy would soon veer off into an unpleasurable examination of the holes in one’s story, but the law cure never ceases to be gratifying; in fact, what the lawyer says and writes on his client’s behalf is gratifying beyond the latter’s wildest expectations. The rhetoric of advocacy law is the rhetoric of the late-night vengeful brooding which in life rarely survives the skeptical light of morning but in a lawsuit becomes inscribed, as if in stone, in the bellicose documents that accrue while the lawsuit takes its course, and proclaims with every sentence “I am right! I am right! I am right!” On the other side, meanwhile, the same orgy of self-justification is taking place. The libel defendant, after an initial anxious moment (we all feel guilty of something, and being sued stirs the feeling up), comes to see, through the ministrations of his lawyer-therapist, that he is completely in the right and has nothing to fear. Of pleasurable reading experiences there may be none greater than that afforded by a legal document written on one’s behalf. A lawyer will argue for you as you could never argue for yourself, and, with his lawyer’s rhetoric, give you a feeling of certitude that you could never obtain for yourself from the language of everyday discourse. People who have never sued anyone or been sued have missed a narcissistic pleasure that is not quite like any other.

I learned never to expect anything from anyone. Since then, I've only had surprises, never disappointments.

Sometimes she could she her brother, mother and grandmother pull away, almost recoil from her, when she said or did something they weren't expecting, which could be just about anything. It didn't really hurt her feelings. It was always just a fleeting look or feeling, anyway, and she never doubted the love her family felt for her- even when she was mad with all of them. She just figured their reactions were part of the way life was, like her seeing ghosts and knowing not to tell anyone about it.

Sumitra helped her get up, and they proceeded ahead, finally reaching the hut. At the door, they heard Rama telling Bharata: “You cannot blame Our father for what has happened to Me nor can you blame mother Keikeyi. Neither can you blame yourself for all this. Destiny alone is solely responsible for everything in this world. Human beings are pawns at the hands of higher powers. My forest life, too, is destined by higher powers, Daiva (the hands of God). As far as the death of Our father is concerned, it is the act of time, kala kritha. When both destiny and time are not in Our hands, what purpose does blaming anyone serve? When tiny humans set certain expectations from life and the higher powers that control both destiny and time have contrary plans, there is a disturbance. The disturbance is never in the plans of higher powers but always in our mental expectations. The frustrated human tends to thrust the blame for his failed hopes on people who are just instruments of destiny and time. Bharata, don’t blame your holy mother because of the frustration of your expectations. And definitely don’t blame our respectable father for what has happened to Me. They are absolutely free to give any instruction for the welfare of their children. A son should neither analyze the orders of his parents nor criticize them. But more than anything else, never blame yourself. Align your expectations with higher plans. 16 Don’t ask Me to commit the sin of disobedience to My parents by returning to the kingdom.

Choosing authenticity is not an easy choice. E. E. Cummings wrote, “To be nobody-but-yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody but yourself—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight—and never stop fighting.” “Staying real” is one of the most courageous battles that we’ll ever fight. When we choose to be true to ourselves, the people around us will struggle to make sense of how and why we are changing. Partners and children might feel fearful and unsure about the changes they’re seeing. Friends and family may worry about how our authenticity practice will affect them and our relationships with them. Some will find inspiration in our new commitment; others may perceive that we’re changing too much—maybe even abandoning them or holding up an uncomfortable mirror. It’s not so much the act of authenticity that challenges the status quo—I think of it as the audacity of authenticity. Most of us have shame triggers around being perceived as self-indulgent or self-focused. We don’t want our authenticity to be perceived as selfish or narcissistic. When I first started mindfully practicing authenticity and worthiness, I felt like every day was a walk through a gauntlet of gremlins. Their voices can be loud and unrelenting: “What if I think I’m enough, but others don’t?” “What if I let my imperfect self be seen and known, and nobody likes what they see?” “What if my friends/family/co-workers like the perfect me better … you know, the one who takes care of everything and everyone?” Sometimes, when we push the system, it pushes back. The pushback can be everything from eye rolls and whispers to relationship struggles and feelings of isolation. There can also be cruel and shaming responses to our authentic voices. In my research on authenticity and shame, I found that speaking out is a major shame trigger for women. Here’s how the research participants described the struggle to be authentic: Don’t make people feel uncomfortable but be honest. Don’t upset anyone or hurt anyone’s feelings but say what’s on your mind. Sound informed and educated but not like a know-it-all. Don’t say anything unpopular or controversial but have the courage to disagree with the crowd. I also found that men and women struggle when their opinions, feelings, and beliefs conflict with our culture’s gender expectations. For example, research on the attributes that we associate with “being feminine” tells us that some of the most important qualities for women are thin, nice, and modest.1 That means if women want to play it totally safe, we have to be willing to stay as small, quiet, and attractive as possible. When looking at the attributes associated with masculinity, the researchers identified these as important attributes for men: emotional control, primacy of work, control over women, and pursuit of status.2 That means if men want to play it safe, they need to stop feeling, start earning, and give up on meaningful connection.

1. Judges self harshly. 2. Fears criticism and judgment, but driven to be critical and judgmental of others. 3. Feels a sense of urgency; impulsive; impatient; compelled to seek immediate rather than delayed gratification. 4. Fears failure but unconsciously sabotages own success. 5. Fears disapproval and rejection, so unknowingly creates characteristics acceptable to others. 6. Fears commitment. 7. Feels inadequate/low self-esteem. Sometimes has to compensate by appearing superior. 8. Fears discovery of real self will cause rejection. 9. Fears intimacy. Unable to form close, loving, intimate relationships. 10. Fears loving and being loved. 11. Fears dependency on anyone or anything, yet are dependent personalities. 12. Fears abandonment but compelled to become involved with compulsive personalities that play out this fear. 13. Frightened of angry people. 14. Afraid to trust due to lack of trust in self. 15. Afraid to reveal inner secrets for fear of rejection or disapproval.  16. Afraid of people and authority figures. 17. Feels different/separated from others due to own feelings, which leads to depression. Isolates self. 18. Assumes responsibility for others’ feelings and behavior. 19. Grieves for the family they never had. 20. Unable to identify or ask for own wants and needs. Unconsciously denies them, for experience has taught that they will not be met. 21. Feels guilty when standing up for self, therefore has to give in to others. 22. Unable to feel or express true feelings as adults, because to feel at all is unbearably painful. In “denial.” 23. Unknowingly driven to build up barriers to protect self from own insecurities.  24. Unable or doesn’t know how to let go, relax, play or have fun. 25. Learns to criticize and blame self and others. 26. Has to make excuses for others’ weaknesses;  has unreasonable expectations of self and others. 27. Tries to find own identity in doing things, but finds it difficult to accept honest praise. 28. Desperately wants control and yet over-reacts to changes they can’t control. 29. Continually seeks outside approval by doing. 30. Takes things literally; it’s either right or wrong, black or white. 31. Takes self very seriously. 32. Distorted sense of responsibility. Concerned more for others than self. (Keeps one from the pain of looking too closely at self and own problems.) 33. Tends to repeat relationship patterns. 34. Has a need to help and seeks people who are victims. Are attracted by that weakness in love and friendship relationships. 35. Doesn’t know self or innate rights. Doesn’t realize it’s all right to make mistakes.  36. Craves validation of self-worth from others, not received as child. 37. Extremely loyal, even when loyalty is unjustified or even harmful. 38. Guesses at what normal or appropriate is. 39. Tends to be a perfectionist. 40. Unable to trust loved ones, authority figures or peers.

Awakening is simple, enlightenment is simple. Do not believe those teaching you complex practices. It is simple. It is already in your original nature. You just forgot it, you are sleeping, blocked by ideas, constantly digesting the past. Start awaken your memory, you were born with it, enlightenment start with sitting silently, observe your thinking. thoughts are like clouds in the sky ,never try to fight them ,just sit silently and observe them , slowly your thoughts will separate from the observer ,laugh at them , you will lose your fear and when the sky is clear you can see the light , it is just a silent flash of joy taking over you , suddenly you become love ,you give without expecting anything , excepting who you are, now there are no masks ,you are innocent ,nothing can break you .imagine a garden with hundreds of flowers ,each one have its own colors, its own uniqueness ,and you are there enjoying this beauty ,you are one of them. No need to follow anyone, you have your way they have their way just sit quiet and watch everything, listen to your breathing, relax, now you are enlighten…even for a few second, even for few moments, keep the flame going ..it will slowly take over you ….

Awakening is simple, enlightenment is simple. Do not believe those teaching you complex practices. It is simple. It is already in your origin nature. You forgot it, you are sleeping, blocked by ideas, constantly digesting the past. awaken your memory, you were born with it, you can recall it now, enlightenment start with sitting silently, observe your thinking , thoughts are like clouds in the sky ,never try to fight them ,just sit silently and observe them , slowly thoughts separate from the observer ,laugh at them , and when the sky is clear you can see the light , it is just a silent flash of joy taking over you , suddenly you become love ,you give without expecting anything , excepting who you are, now there are no masks ,you are innocent ,nothing can break you .imagine a garden with hundreds of flowers ,each one have its own colors, its own uniqueness ,and you are there enjoying this beauty ,you are one of them. No need to follow anyone, you have your way they have their way just sit quiet and watch everything, listen to your breathing, relax, now you are enlighten…even for a few second, even for few moments, keep the flame going ..it will slowly take over you ….

I’ve learned never to expect anything from anyone,” I

I’ve learned never to expect anything from anyone

To Scarlett, In this life, one of the greatest lessons we must learn is to say no—to people, situations, and demands that don’t align with our well-being or respect our boundaries. Too often, people expect the maximum from us without considering the toll it takes. They don’t care if it overwhelms us, makes us unhappy, or even harms our health. Many are self-centered, focused solely on their own interests. That’s why it’s so important to protect your comfort zone, to prioritize your happiness, and to cherish your peace of mind. Scarlett, please always remember to take care of yourself. Your health, both physical and mental, is your most valuable treasure. Be kind to yourself, and don’t let anyone guilt you into giving more than you can. You’ve already given the world so much—your talent, your beauty, your incredible energy. But you owe no one anything beyond what you willingly choose to share. Spend time with your kids, Scarlett. These moments are precious, fleeting, and irreplaceable. What you do with them now, the love, the laughter, and the memories you create together, will be imprinted on their hearts forever. Long after they’ve grown, they will carry these moments with them, drawing strength and joy from the foundation of love you’ve built. Money, success, and fame are wonderful, but they pale in comparison to the love of family. In the end, it’s the people who love us unconditionally who make life worth living. You’ve inspired countless people, including me, with your talent and grace, but I hope you never forget how deeply you are loved for simply being yourself. I love you, Scarlett, not for the roles you’ve played or the fame you’ve achieved, but for the person you are—the person I’ve come to admire deeply. Be safe, be happy, and always remember that you deserve every ounce of love and care that comes your way. With all my heart, Someone who will always cherish you

HOW TO HIRE A GENUINE CRYPTO RECOVERY EXPERT; USDT RECOVERY EXPERT HIRE CYBER CONSTABLE INTELLIGENCE As a 67-year-old ex-military veteran from Georgia, I never imagined that I would fall victim to a scam that would cost me my entire life savings of $120,000.The emotional toll was unbearable, and I felt completely lost, with no idea where to turn. Finding someone who could genuinely help was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Many people I reached out to seemed more interested in taking my money than actually helping me recover what I had lost. Then, by chance, I came across Cyber Constable Intelligence. It turned out to be the best decision I made during this incredibly difficult time. From the very beginning, Cyber Constable Intelligence treated me with kindness and respect. They didn’t just treat me like another case; they treated me like a person who had made a mistake but was still worth helping. They explained the entire process in clear, simple terms, making sure I understood what was happening every step of the way. Their patience and genuine concern for my situation made a world of difference during a time when I felt incredibly low. What stood out the most about Cyber Constable Intelligence was the constant communication and follow-up. They called me daily, checking in to make sure I was okay, answering questions, and providing updates. I never felt abandoned or ignored. Even when I was passed along to their legal team for further assistance, Wizard Web Recovery made sure to stay in touch, ensuring that I was still receiving the help I needed. The team at Cyber Constable Intelligence went above and beyond to help me recover my funds. Their empathy, and dedication were beyond anything I had expected from a recovery service. It was clear that they truly cared about their clients and were invested in getting results. I'm incredibly grateful to Cyber Constable Intelligence and would highly recommend them to anyone who has fallen victim to a scam. If you're in a similar situation, don’t hesitate to reach out to them. They made a tough situation manageable and gave me hope when I had none left. I can’t thank them enough for their outstanding support. Reach out to their Info below WhatsApp: 1 252378-7611 Website info; www cyberconstableintelligence com Email Info cyberconstable@coolsite net

HOW TO HIRE A GENUINE CRYPTO RECOVERY EXPERT; USDT RECOVERY EXPERT HIRE CYBER CONSTABLE INTELLIGENCE As a 67-year-old ex-military veteran from Georgia, I never imagined that I would fall victim to a scam that would cost me my entire life savings of $120,000.The emotional toll was unbearable, and I felt completely lost, with no idea where to turn. Finding someone who could genuinely help was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Many people I reached out to seemed more interested in taking my money than actually helping me recover what I had lost. Then, by chance, I came across Cyber Constable Intelligence. It turned out to be the best decision I made during this incredibly difficult time. From the very beginning, Cyber Constable Intelligence treated me with kindness and respect. They didn’t just treat me like another case; they treated me like a person who had made a mistake but was still worth helping. They explained the entire process in clear, simple terms, making sure I understood what was happening every step of the way. Their patience and genuine concern for my situation made a world of difference during a time when I felt incredibly low. What stood out the most about Cyber Constable Intelligence was the constant communication and follow-up. They called me daily, checking in to make sure I was okay, answering questions, and providing updates. I never felt abandoned or ignored. Even when I was passed along to their legal team for further assistance, Cyber Constable Intelligence made sure to stay in touch, ensuring that I was still receiving the help I needed. The team at Cyber Constable Intelligence went above and beyond to help me recover my funds. Their empathy, and dedication were beyond anything I had expected from a recovery service. It was clear that they truly cared about their clients and were invested in getting results. I'm incredibly grateful to Cyber Constable Intelligence and would highly recommend them to anyone who has fallen victim to a scam. If you're in a similar situation, don’t hesitate to reach out to them. They made a tough situation manageable and gave me hope when I had none left. I can’t thank them enough for their outstanding support. Reach out to their Info below WhatsApp: 1 252378-7611 Website info; www cyberconstableintelligence com Email Info cyberconstable@coolsite net