Nice Neighbors Quotes

Of course, maybe I'd end up like one of those crazy old people with, like, sixty cats. And one day, the neighbors would complain about the smell, and it would turn out I'd died and the cats had eaten me. Still, it might be nice to have a cat.

Nice people made the best Nazis. My mom grew up next to them. They got along, refused to make waves, looked the other way when things got ugly and focused on happier things than “politics.” They were lovely people who turned their heads as their neighbors were dragged away. You know who weren’t nice people? Resisters.

It’s nice to have eye candy around for my enjoyment.” He looked Brad over. “It wouldn’t kill you to pretty yourself up if you’re going to be in my presence.” “Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Brad said wryly. “See that you do.

You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people anymore, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see? Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it. That’s religion. Anything else is just . . . is just bein’ nice. And a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbors.

A disturbing thought hits me,"but then our only neighbor would be Haymich!" "Ah, that'll be nice,"says Peeta, tightening his arms around me."You and me and Haymich. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays. long winters around the campfire retelling old Hunger Games tales." "I told you he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymich becoming my new pal. "Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta. He's never sober!" I protest. That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you in fire," says Peeta. "On the other hand, Haymich ... well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymich completely. He Hates you." " I thought that you said I was his favorite," I say. "He hates me more," says Peeta, "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing.

Look, over the years, my unique sense of humor and perverse grasp of honesty may have led to some hurt feelings and long-held grudges. But overall, I'm a pretty likable person.

Can we get a whiteboard,like on Law and Order?" Andrea asked. Dick nodded. "I was thinking official 'Keep Jane from Being Murdered Task Force' T-shirts.

I came home to find him propped up on a stack of pillows, sipping blood through a crazy straw (because it amused Zeb) and wearing Star Wars pajamas (because it amused Dick).

...yourself into an information-overload-fueled frenzy, convinced that you could arrange the whole wedding yourself, and eventually killed one of your loved ones in a glue-gun-related mishap

I’m grinning like the town idiot. And now is not the time to be grinning like the town idiot, not when I’m buck naked in a room full of showering dudes and my girlfriend is glaring daggers at me. But I’m so happy to see her that I can’t control my facial muscles. My eyes eat up the sight of her. Her gorgeous face. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail with a pink hair thingie. Infuriated green eyes. She’s so damn hot when she’s mad at me. “It’s nice to see you too, baby,” I answer cheerfully. “How was your break?” “Don’t you baby me. And don’t ask about my break because you don’t deserve to know about it!” Hannah glowers at me, then shifts her attention to the three hockey players in the neighboring stalls. “For the love of Pete, would you guys just rinse off and skedaddle already? I’m trying to yell at your captain.” I choke back a laugh, which ends up spilling out when my teammates snap to attention like they’ve been issued a command by a drill sergeant. Showers turn off and towels come out, and a moment later, Hannah and I are alone.

Miss Gates is a nice lady, ain't she?" Why sure," said Jem. "I liked her when I was in her room." She hates Hitler a lot . . ." What's wrong with that?" Well, she went on today about how bad it was him treating the Jews like that. Jem, it's not right to persecute anybody, is it? I mean have mean thoughts about anybody, even, is it?" Gracious no, Scout. What's eatin' you?" Well, coming out of the courthouse that night Miss Gates was--- she was going' down the steps in front of us, you musta not seen her--- she was talking with Miss Stephanie Crawford. I heard her say it's time somebody time somebody taught 'em a lesson, they were gettin' way above themelves, an' the next thing they think they can do is marry us. Jem, how can you hate Hitler so bad an' then turn around and be ugly about folks right at home---

The ring is a copy of my mother’s. I took the stone from her engagement ring and had a jeweler place it in a titanium setting.” “Titanium?” I asked. “Dick knew a guy." “Of course he did.” “You’re a bit rough and tumble with jewelry, and I knew it would have to be able to stand up to…” “Nuclear winter?” His eyebrow lifted. “I never know with you.

When people think of food stamps they don't envision someone like me, someone plain faced and white, someone like the girl they'd known in highschool, someone who'd been quiet but nice, someone like a neighbor, someone like them. Maybe that made them too nervous about their own situation. Maybe they saw in me the chance of their own fragile circumstances, that with one lost job, one divorce, they'd be in the same place as me.

We're allergic to to silver. Imagine sticking your hand in a hornets' nestand being forced to listen to the Wiggles while the little bastards repeatedly sting you

He pressed another kiss to her lips as he took her hand into his. "I'm sorry for being a jerk last night and almost making the biggest mistake of my life. I was afraid of hurting you. I know what I am and I also know you deserve a guy that can spoil you rotten and take you to all the nice places that you deserve. I-" "Jason, I don't care about those things," she said softly. He shook his head stubbornly. "It doesn't mean that you don't deserve them, but if you give me a chance to make up for my past stupidity, and I'm not just talking about with you, I promise that I will do my best to make you happy." "Jason-" "I want to try this. You and me, I mean. I know I'll most likely fuck up along the way and you'll want to ring my neck, but I want to try. I'll do my best not to hurt you.

And how is Jamie doing?" "Fine. He seems to be spending a lot of time in the shower," I noted quietly, my voice so low that even Jamie's super hearing couldn't pick it up. Dick chuckled, followed by Zeb and Gabriel. "What?" "Remember that summer I turned thirteen and my mom complained that she couldn't ever get me out of the bathroom?" Zeb asked. "Yeah, but that's because you were-" I slapped my hand over my mouth. "Oh!" "Welcome to the wonderful world of parenting," Zeb said. ""It's one big, horrifying miracle." "Augh!" I grumbled.

You'd think the very thought of a romance writer would bring a smile to people's lips. Ah, how nice. Love. Making love. Laughter. Kissing. But no, the world is upside down as far as I can see, and romances and their writers are ridiculed, hisses and generally spat upon. For what reason? One of my favorites is that women who read them might get mixed up about reality and imagine a man is going to rescue them from Life. According to this theory, women are so stupid that they can't tell a story from reality. Is anyone worried that the MEN who read spy thrillers are going to go after their neighbors with an automatic weapon? No, I don't remember anyone thinking that. Nor do I remember anyone worrying about murder mysteries or science fiction. It just seems to be dumb ol' women who might think some gorgeous, thoughtful, giving hunk is going to rescue them. Honey, if any woman thought a gorgeous hunk was going to rescue her, romance novels wouldn’t be forty percent of the publishing industry.

The word thing is an interesting word. At first glance it looks like the front half of one word combined with the last half of another. It's a versatile word. It can be good, as in, "what a nice thing," or "she has a thing for you." Or it can be bad, like "the thing under the bed," or "here's the thing, you're fired and you smell bad." Add an "s" to the back end of it and it becomes something that most people in the world can't get enough of. Things People love things. They collect things. They store things. They cherish things and then move on and cherish other things. People also buy things. Some buy a lot of things simply because their neighbors have those same things--which is a weird thing if you really think about it. It's remarkable what we'll do for the sake of things when in reality things couldn't care less about us.

You play the hand you're dealt just like everyone else in this bloody world. You have gifts people would kill for, no matter that you scorn them. You have a mum who loves you and a nice house to go home to. Sod your backwoods neighbors who look down their ignorant noses at you for your lack of a father. This world is a big place and you've got an important role to play in it. Think everyone goes around whistling about the life they lead? Think everyone is given the power to choose the way their fate goes? Sorry, luv, it doesn't work that way. You hold the ones you love close and fight the battles you can win, and that, Kitten, is how it is.

Most abusive men put on a charming face for their communities, creating a sharp split between their public image and their private treatment of women and children. He may be: Enraged at home but calm and smiling outside Selfish and self-centered with you but generous and supportive with others Domineering at home but willing to negotiate and compromise outside Highly negative about females while on his own turf but a vocal supporter of equality when anyone else is listening Assaultive toward his partner or children but nonviolent and nonthreatening with everyone else Entitled at home but critical of other men who disrespect or assault women The pain of this contrast can eat away at a woman. In the morning her partner cuts her to the quick by calling her a “brainless fat cow,” but a few hours later she sees him laughing with the people next door and helping them fix their car. Later the neighbor says to her, “Your partner is so nice. You’re lucky to be with him—a lot of men wouldn’t do what he does.” She responds with a mumbled “Yeah,” feeling confused and tongue-tied. Back at home, she asks herself over and over again, “Why me?

My color schemes were limited to what would go with the pewter-gray gown...except for the bridesmaids' gowns. I'd already decided that they were going to be a distinctly nonmatchy lemon yellow that Jolene's aunt Vonnie would have to special-order. The kind of yellow one would find on takeout menus or particularly urgent Post-it notes. In fact, if the outdoor lighting failed, we could use the color of their dresses to illuminate the ceremony. And yes, i had to use a vendor who hated me, because Vonnie held the only pattern left in the continental United States for the "Ruffle and Dreams," the very dress I'd had to wear in Jolene's wedding. Revenge would would be mine, for a few months, until i revealed the dove-gray bridesmaids' dresses i actually planned for them to wear.

The place is deserted except for my classmate Asterid March, who’s arranging tiny bottles on a shelf behind the counter. A long blond braid falls down her back, but the damp heat has brought out tendrils of hair that frame her perfect face. Asterid’s the town beauty and rich by District 12 standards. I used to hold that against her, but she showed up one night in the Seam, alone, to treat a neighbor woman who’d been whipped for back-talking a Peacekeeper. She brought some ointment she’d concocted herself, then slipped away, never mentioning payment. Since then, she’s who people turn to for help when a loved one goes under the lash. I guess Asterid has more substance than her pack of snooty town friends suggests. Besides, Burdock’s nuts about her, so I try to be nice even though he’s got about as much chance with her as a mockingjay with a swan. Town girls don’t marry Seam boys, not unless something really goes haywire.

because daytime leaves vampires less than, well, conscious, I told him, “Take your muffins to Boston and shut it, Terrance.” And then I hung up on him.

Neighbor: the nicest enemy you will ever get

It would be nice if you considered dating Haley. She’s such a nice woman.

Once while spying on my neighbors I solved for x.

Let’s just wait and see if I like the girls they marry,” she said. “So, that means your dress is new, and the necklace is old and blue. What can you borrow?” “A time machine

Nutty people don't rat on you. Nice, friendly, ordinary next-door neighbor types--they would rat on you and think nothing of it.

To think that this is my twentieth birthday, and that I've left my teens behind me forever," said Anne, who was curled up on the hearth-rug with Rusty in her lap, to Aunt Jamesina who was reading in her pet chair. They were alone in the living room. Stella and Priscilla had gone to a committee meeting and Phil was upstairs adorning herself for a party. "I suppose you feel kind of sorry," said Aunt Jamesina. "The teens are such a nice part of life. I'm glad I've never gone out of them myself." Anne laughed. "You never will, Aunty. You'll be eighteen when you should be a hundred. Yes, I'm sorry, and a little dissatisfied as well. Miss Stacy told me long ago that by the time I was twenty my character would be formed, for good or evil. I don't feel that it's what it should be. It's full of flaws." "So's everybody's," said Aunt Jamesina cheerfully. "Mine's cracked in a hundred places. Your Miss Stacy likely meant that when you are twenty your character would have got its permanent bent in one direction or 'tother, and would go on developing in that line. Don't worry over it, Anne. Do your duty by God and your neighbor and yourself, and have a good time. That's my philosophy and it's always worked pretty well.

Did you see the mailman while doing your rounds yesterday?" Curran's face turned carefully blank. "Yes, I did." "Did you do anything to scare him?" "I was perfectly friendly." "Mhm." Please continue with your nice story. Non-judgemental. "He was putting things into the mailbox. I was passing by and I said, 'Hello, nice night.' And then I smiled. He jumped into his truck and slammed the door." "Rude!" Julie volunteered. "I let it pass," Curran said. "We're new to the neighborhood." The former Beast Lord, a kind and magnanimous neighbor. "So you sneaked up behind him, startled him by speaking, and when he turned around and saw a six-hundred pound talking lion, you showed him your teeth?" "I don't think that's what happened," Curran said. "That's exactly what happened, Your Furriness." I laughed.

Hypercritical, Shaming Parents Hypercritical and shaming parents send the same message to their children as perfectionistic parents do - that they are never good enough. Parents often deliberately shame their children into minding them without realizing the disruptive impact shame can have on a child's sense of self. Statements such as "You should be ashamed of yourself" or "Shame on you" are obvious examples. Yet these types of overtly shaming statements are actually easier for the child to defend against than are more subtle forms of shaming, such as contempt, humiliation, and public shaming. There are many ways that parents shame their children. These include belittling, blaming, contempt, humiliation, and disabling expectations. -BELITTLING. Comments such as "You're too old to want to be held" or "You're just a cry-baby" are horribly humiliating to a child. When a parent makes a negative comparison between his or her child and another, such as "Why can't you act like Jenny? See how she sits quietly while her mother is talking," it is not only humiliating but teaches a child to always compare himself or herself with peers and find himself or herself deficient by comparison. -BLAMING. When a child makes a mistake, such as breaking a vase while rough-housing, he or she needs to take responsibility. But many parents go way beyond teaching a lesson by blaming and berating the child: "You stupid idiot! Do you think money grows on trees? I don't have money to buy new vases!" The only thing this accomplishes is shaming the child to such an extent that he or she cannot find a way to walk away from the situation with his or her head held high. -CONTEMPT. Expressions of disgust or contempt communicate absolute rejection. The look of contempt (often a sneer or a raised upper lip), especially from someone who is significant to a child, can make him or her feel disgusting or offensive. When I was a child, my mother had an extremely negative attitude toward me. Much of the time she either looked at me with the kind of expectant expression that said, "What are you up to now?" or with a look of disapproval or disgust over what I had already done. These looks were extremely shaming to me, causing me to feel that there was something terribly wrong with me. -HUMILIATION. There are many ways a parent can humiliate a child, such as making him or her wear clothes that have become dirty. But as Gershen Kaufman stated in his book Shame: The Power of Caring, "There is no more humiliating experience than to have another person who is clearly the stronger and more powerful take advantage of that power and give us a beating." I can personally attest to this. In addition to shaming me with her contemptuous looks, my mother often punished me by hitting me with the branch of a tree, and she often did this outside, in front of the neighbors. The humiliation I felt was like a deep wound to my soul. -DISABLING EXPECTATIONS. Parents who have an inordinate need to have their child excel at a particular activity or skill are likely to behave in ways that pressure the child to do more and more. According to Kaufman, when a child becomes aware of the real possibility of failing to meet parental expectations, he or she often experiences a binding self-consciousness. This self-consciousness - the painful watching of oneself - is very disabling. When something is expected of us in this way, attaining the goal is made harder, if not impossible. Yet another way that parents induce shame in their children is by communicating to them that they are a disappointment to them. Such messages as "I can't believe you could do such a thing" or "I am deeply disappointed in you" accompanied by a disapproving tone of voice and facial expression can crush a child's spirit.

Why are you limping?” I demanded. “The arrow didn’t hit you in the leg.” He stopped, his shift in weight pulling me to a halt, too. “I don’t know. It just seems like the thing to do after you’ve received an arrow wound.” I sighed as he straightened his gait and walked normally. “You are so the guy for me.

In the end, Martin Luther’s old formula still sums things up nicely: “We are saved by faith alone [not our works], but not by faith that remains alone.” Nothing we do can merit God’s grace and favor, we can only believe that he has given it to us in Jesus Christ and receive it by faith. But if we truly believe and trust in the one who sacrificially served us, it changes us into people who sacrificially serve God and our neighbors. If we say “I believe in Jesus” but it doesn’t affect the way we live, the answer is not that now we need to add hard work to our faith so much as that we haven’t truly understood or believed in Jesus at all.

Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests, Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.” “Snap ending.” Mildred nodded. “Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs. Montag), whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more.” Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. Beatty ignored her and continued: “Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man’s mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!” Mildred smoothed the bedclothes. Montag felt his heart jump and jump again as she patted his pillow. Right now she was pulling at his shoulder to try to get him to move so she could take the pillow out and fix it nicely and put it back. And perhaps cry out and stare or simply reach down her hand and say, “What’s this?” and hold up the hidden book with touching innocence. “School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?

He had read somewhere that the Eskimos had over two hundred different words for snow, without which their conversation would probably have got very monotonous. So they would distinguish between thin snow and thick snow, light snow and heavy snow, sludgy snow, brittle snow, snow that came in flurries, snow that came in drifts, snow that came in on the bottom of your neighbor’s boots all over your nice clean igloo floor, the snows of winter, the snows of spring, the snows you remember from your childhood that were so much better than any of your modern snow, fine snow, feathery snow, hill snow, valley snow, snow that falls in the morning, snow that falls at night, snow that falls all of a sudden just when you were going out fishing, and snow that despite all your efforts to train them, the huskies have pissed on.

I was living my entire life waiting for a moment to be special enough for me to look, feel and act my best, and the truth is, you don't need a special moment, or any reason at all, to do that. If not now, then when? This saying became my mantra and the answer to a dozen different questions. Should we eat off the nice wedding china or paper plates? Should I dress up for a date with my husband or just wear jeans again? Bake some cookies for the neighbors? The answers to all of these questions is the same: If not now, then when? You could spend forever planning out your someday when right now, today, this second, this is all you've got. Someday isn't guaranteed!

All too frequently in today's world, a Christian is defined on the basis of the horizontal relationship between oneself and "neighbor" rather than the vertical relationship with Deity. In this distorted view of Christianity, our relationship with others becomes more important than loving God, having faith in Christ, and being a devoted disciple of His gospel. If God isn't first, sooner or later He will simply be a nice embellishment to our lives. When we put God first, we are empowered to love each other better, even if our love is not at first understood. The trouble is that too often we ignore things that should be first in our lives and go after secondary things, thereby losing both.

Here’s a nice Irish saying for you: May neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and Heaven accept you.

There's one good thing about snow, it makes your lawn look as nice as your neighbor's. - Clyde Moore

Who cares if my neighbors hear us when they walk down the hall to get their mail? Leonard, grab that package. Wait, do you hear that? I think an animal is dying in 2A.

This won me a couple of fans, notably with new neighbor Delicious, who shouted with surprise, P-I Piper! You got some nice titties! You got those TV titties!! They stand up on they own all perky and everything! Damn!

I've often been told I have a nice face. People say I remind them of their sister's best friend, or their neighbor. More often than not, though, they never remember meeting me in the first place. Nice equaled forgettable, it seemed.

..."Why are you so nice? It doesn't make sense. I'm not your woman. I'm not your people" "We're all each other's people. Just like we're all our brothers' keepers. We forget it sometimes. When everything's going to pieces, people can forget. But in the end? We're all in it together..." "I used to know this Indian guy... the thing he said that stuck with me was that people are one here in America. They're all alone. And they don't trust anyone except themselves, and they don't rely on anyone except themselves. He said that was why he thought India would survive all this apocalyptic shit, but America wouldn't. Because here, no knew their neighbors." He laughed at that. "I can still remember his head wagging back and forth, 'No one is knowing their neighbors.

If more people understood how nice it is to have a sense of home that extends past our locked doors, past our neighbors' padlocks, to the local food co-op and library, the sidewalks busted up by old trees - if we all held home with longer arms - we'd live in a very different place... We wouldn't feel so alone, no matter the size of our houses or our bank accounts, no matter whether we had good health or congestive heart failure. We would begin to see that each moment presents an opportunity to relax, to notice that the wind has shifted and a storm is coming, or that our friend's toddler has decided to wear dinner instead of eating it. We would see that each minute counts for something timeless and, if we want, we all can find our way inside these big, tiny, moments.

Be happy. Do things that make you happy within the confines of the legal system. Do things that make you feel good and proud. It can be almost anything. Name something. Yes, sure, try that. Contribute to the world. Help people. Help one person. Help someone cross the street today. Help someone with directions unless you have a terrible sense of direction. Help someone who’s trying to help you. Just help. Make an impact. Show someone you care. Say yes instead of no. Say something nice. Smile. Make eye contact. Hug. Kiss. Get naked. Laugh. Laugh as much as you can. Laugh until you cry. Cry until you laugh. Keep doing it even if people are passing you on the street saying, “I can’t tell if that person is laughing or crying but either way they seem crazy, let’s walk faster.” Emote. It’s okay. It shows you are thinking and feeling. Find out who you are and figure out what you believe in. Even if it’s different from what your neighbors believe in and different from what your parents believe in. Stay true to yourself. Have your own opinion. Don’t worry about what people say about you or think about you. Let the naysayers nay. They will eventually grow tired of naying. I don’t mean to tell you what to do or how to live your lives, but those are some of the things that have worked for me. And I believe with all my heart and soul that even if we try the teeniest tiniest bit we can make this world a much happier and healthier one. And if we try even harder, we can do some pretty spectacular things. I know sometimes it seems like a world that has a blanket with sleeves can’t get any better, but I think it can.

If more people understood how nice it is to have a sense of home that extends past our locked doors, past our neighbors' padlocks, to the local food co-op and library, the sidewalks busted up by old trees - if we all held home with longer arms - we'd live in a very different place.

Now if I'd seen him, really there, really alive, it'd be in me like a fever. If I thought there was some god who really did care two hoots about people, who watched 'em like a father and cared for 'em like a mother . . . well, you wouldn't catch me saying things like 'there are two sides to every question' and 'we must respect other people's beliefs.' You wouldn't find me being gen'rally nice in the hope that it'd all turn out right in the end, not if that flame was burning in me like an unforgivin' sword. And I did say burnin', Mister Oats, 'cos that's what it'd be. You say that you people don't burn folk and sacrifice people anymore, but that's what true faith would mean, y'see. Sacrificin' your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin' the truth of it, workin' for it, breathin' the soul of it . . . That's religion. Anything else is . . . is just bein' nice. And just a way of keepin' in touch with the neighbors. "Anyway, that's what I'd be, if I really believed. And I don't think that's fashionable right now, 'cos it seems that if you sees evil you have to wring you rhands and say 'oh deary me, we must debate this.' That my two penn'orth, Mister Oats.

Imagine for a moment that I live right here, was born here, that my parents always have had a shop here, and on Boulevard du Temple there’s a bistro with a nice young waitress—I’ll be there. Imagine that there’s no such thing as Eastern Europe, no cellars for hiding neighbors, no transports, no round-ups, never any dreams of going from house to house—for a moment suppose it looks like this: a cat stretches its neck in sunlight on a porch, a secret game of chess unfolds between the waitress and that guy. He tracks her moves, she brings him coffee, as if by chance her hip jostles the board. T. Różycki, Colonies translated by Mira Rosenthal

Her father's old books were all she could command, and these she wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and often coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girls whose one ambition was to "get married," and whose only subjects of conversation were "smart bonnets" and "nice dresses." She tried to believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers was worth striving for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she found it impossible to accept for her life's companion a man whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big turnips.

Look around at the trees, at the nice even sidewalks. Wave to your neighbors and think about what a lucky girl you are. What a lucky baby she is. She has a drawer full of clothes already. Francis is a good man. Repeat it to yourself again and again. Go into the shops. Tell them your name and that you just moved here. Everybody loves a new baby.” Lena began to cry.

Over the years, numerous times, too many times to count, just as I was about to reach my breaking point, just when I thought I couldn't take another minute, another second, out of nowhere-at the grocery store, at the park, at restaurants-angel, Ethan's angels, would appear and safe us: strangers in stores would stop to talk to Ethan; neighbors took him for a walk...

But the Levittowns were, with Levitt's willing acquiescence, segregated throughout their early years. Daisy and Bill Myers, the first black family to move into Levittown, Pennsylvania, were greeted with protests and a burning cross. A neighbor who opposed the family said that Bill Myers was "probably a nice guy, but every time I look at him, I see $2,000 drop off the value of my house.

Andre always seemed bent on asserting his individuality and independence, while I tried to submerge my individuality and accepted the loss of some personal freedoms. Andre was Joe Frazier to my Muhammad Ali, although the personalities were kind of flipped around because Andre was the showman and I was the craftsman. Wherever you lived, we were your neighbors: I was the nice, quiet kid next door on one side, and Andre was the rebellious teenager on the other.

It is not for us to know who does and does not manage to accept forgiveness, but if the love really never stops, if God really does long for every lost soul, then in principle God regards as forgivable a whole load of stuff we really don’t want forgiven, thank you. People who use airliners to murder thousands of office workers, people who strut about Norwegian summer camps stealing the lives of teenagers with careful shots to the head, people who drive over their gay neighbor in their pick-up truck and then reverse and do it again, people who torture children for sexual pleasure: God is apparently ready to rush right in there and give them all a hug, the bastard. We don’t want that. We want justice, dammit, if not in this world then in the next. We want God’s extra-niceness confined to deserving cases such as, for example, us, and a reliable process of judgment put in place which will ensure that the child-murderers are ripped apart with red-hot tongs.

Isn't that a beautiful tale, grandfather," said Heidi, as the latter continued to sit without speaking, for she had expected him to express pleasure and astonishment. "You are right, Heidi; it is a beautiful tale," he replied, but he looked so grave as he said it that Heidi grew silent herself and sat looking quietly at her pictures. Presently she pushed her book gently in front of him and said, "See how happy he is there," and she pointed with her finger to the figure of the returned prodigal, who was standing by his father clad in fresh raiment as one of his own sons again. A few hours later, as Heidi lay fast asleep in her bed, the grandfather went up the ladder and put his lamp down near her bed so that the light fell on the sleeping child. Her hands were still folded as if she had fallen asleep saying her prayers, an expression of peace and trust lay on the little face, and something in it seemed to appeal to the grandfather, for he stood a long time gazing down at her without speaking. At last he too folded his hands, and with bowed head said in a low voice, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee and am not worthy to be called thy son." And two large tears rolled down the old man's cheeks. Early the next morning he stood in front of his hut and gazed quietly around him. The fresh bright morning sun lay on mountain and valley. The sound of a few early bells rang up from the valley, and the birds were singing their morning song in the fir trees. He stepped back into the hut and called up, "Come along, Heidi! the sun is up! Put on your best frock, for we are going to church together!" Heidi was not long getting ready; it was such an unusual summons from her grandfather that she must make haste. She put on her smart Frankfurt dress and soon went down, but when she saw her grandfather she stood still, gazing at him in astonishment. "Why, grandfather!" she exclaimed, "I never saw you look like that before! and the coat with the silver buttons! Oh, you do look nice in your Sunday coat!" The old man smiled and replied, "And you too; now come along!" He took Heidi's hand in his and together they walked down the mountain side. The bells were ringing in every direction now, sounding louder and fuller as they neared the valley, and Heidi listened to them with delight. "Hark at them, grandfather! it's like a great festival!" The congregation had already assembled and the singing had begun when Heidi and her grandfather entered the church at Dorfli and sat down at the back. But before the hymn was over every one was nudging his neighbor and whispering, "Do you see? Alm-Uncle is in church!" Soon everybody in the church knew of Alm-Uncle's presence, and the women kept on turning round to look and quite lost their place in the singing. But everybody became more attentive when the sermon began, for the preacher spoke with such warmth and thankfulness that those present felt the effect of his words, as if some great joy had come to them all.

Father, oh Father, teach me to smile. Grin in the mirror with me awhile. Father, oh Father, teach me to jest. Indulge my silly giggle requests. Father, oh Father, teach me to say thank you, excuse me, have a nice day. Father, oh Father, teach me to learn. Pass along wisdom. Foster concern. Father, oh Father, teach me to serve. Care for our neighbors while I observe. Father, oh Father, teach me to love, without exception like God above. Father, oh Father, teach me to pray, kneeling beside you at close of day.

Is there something I can do for you?” he said. “Good morning.” I straightened myself. “I’m Soo-Lin Lee-Segal, the new admin.” “Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand. “We’ve actually met. I have a son, Lincoln, at Galer Street, in Bee’s class.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course.” The Dev lead, Pablo, popped his head in. “It’s a beautiful day, neighbor.” (Everyone on the team teases Elgin with Mr. Rogers references. It’s a quirk of Elgin’s, apparently, that as soon as he gets inside, like Mr. Rogers, he removes his shoes. Even on his TEDTalk, which I just rewatched, Elgin is standing there in his socks. In front of Al Gore and Cameron Diaz!)

It is not quite true that the Swiss do not have a government. What they do not have is a large central government, or what the common discourse describes as “the” government— what governs them is entirely bottom-up, municipal of sorts, regional entities called cantons, near-sovereign mini-states united in a confederation. There is plenty of volatility, with enmities between residents that stay at the level of fights over water fountains or other such uninspiring debates. This is not necessarily pleasant, since neighbors are transformed into busybodies— this is a dictatorship from the bottom, not from the top, but a dictatorship nevertheless. But this bottom-up form of dictatorship provides protection against the romanticism of utopias, since no big ideas can be generated in such an unintellectual atmosphere— it suffices to spend some time in cafés in the old section of Geneva, particularly on a Sunday afternoon, to understand that the process is highly unintellectual, devoid of any sense of the grandiose, even downright puny (there is a famous quip about how the greatest accomplishment of the Swiss was inventing the cuckoo clock while other nations produced great works— nice story except that the Swiss did not invent the cuckoo clock). But the system produces stability— boring stability— at every possible level.

You really love him, huh? Not just the sweet ‘oh, we met in high school and just couldn’t seem to find someone else’ sort of love, but the epic, desperate, ‘move mountains and cross oceans’ sort of love.” I chuckled. “I think that would be an apt description. When you realize that someone would do anything for you, even if it means separating themselves from you, risking that you’ll never love them again, just to make sure you’re safe and well . . . There’s no coming back from that. You’ll do whatever it takes to be with them. You might want to kick their ass a few times along the way. But when you find that, you don’t let it go.” Jamie shuddered. “Too mushy?” I asked. “I’ll survive.

She seemed nice, but she was most likely one of those American women whose knowledge of Africa was based largely on movies and National Geographic and thirdhand information from someone who knew someone who had been to somewhere on the continent, usually Kenya or South Africa. Whenever Jende met such women (at Liomi’s school; at Marcus Garvey Park; in the livery cab he used to drive), they often said something like, oh my God, I saw this really crazy show about such-and-such in Africa. Or, my cousin/friend/neighbor used to date an African man, and he was a really nice guy. Or, even worse, if they asked him where in Africa he was from and he said Cameroon, they proceeded to tell him that a friend’s daughter once went to Tanzania or Uganda. This comment used to irk him until Winston gave him the perfect response: Tell them your friend’s uncle lives in Toronto. Which was what he now did every time someone mentioned some other African country in response to him saying he was from Cameroon. Oh yeah, he would say in response to something said about Senegal, I watched a show the other day about San Antonio. Or, one day I hope to visit Montreal. Or, I hear Miami is a nice city. And every time he did this, he cracked up inside as the Americans’ faces scrunched up in confusion because they couldn’t understand what Toronto/San Antonio/Montreal/Miami had to do with New York.

A Girl's Garden" A neighbor of mine in the village Likes to tell how one spring When she was a girl on the farm, she did A childlike thing. One day she asked her father To give her a garden plot To plant and tend and reap herself, And he said, 'Why not?' In casting about for a corner He thought of an idle bit Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood, And he said, 'Just it.' And he said, 'That ought to make you An ideal one-girl farm, And give you a chance to put some strength On your slim-jim arm.' It was not enough of a garden Her father said, to plow; So she had to work it all by hand, But she don't mind now. She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow Along a stretch of road; But she always ran away and left Her not-nice load, And hid from anyone passing. And then she begged the seed. She says she thinks she planted one Of all things but weed. A hill each of potatoes, Radishes, lettuce, peas, Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn, And even fruit trees. And yes, she has long mistrusted That a cider-apple In bearing there today is hers, Or at least may be. Her crop was a miscellany When all was said and done, A little bit of everything, A great deal of none. Now when she sees in the village How village things go, Just when it seems to come in right, She says, 'I know! 'It's as when I was a farmer...' Oh never by way of advice! And she never sins by telling the tale To the same person twice.

Dorothy Law Nolte has written a poem: CHILDREN LEARN WHAT THEY LIVE If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn. If children live with hostility, they learn to fight. If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy. If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty. If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence. If children live with tolerance, they learn patience. If children live with praise, they learn appreciation. If children live with acceptance, they learn to love. If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves. If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness. If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them. If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live. If we are to offer this kind of respect and integrity to our children, we have to slow down, to make time for our children, to participate in their schools. If you don’t have a child of your own, befriend a neighbor’s child, or help the children of a refugee family in your community. Often we think that we’re too busy, that we should be working longer hours to earn more money; there’s great social pressure to work and to produce. Let’s not fall for that. Let’s take the time to raise our kids, to play with them, to read to them. Let’s allow our children to help each of us reclaim the spirit of our child.

I felt a numb shock as I drove home anxious to get my chocolate flowers and wondering how my mother arranged to get them delivered to me at the exact time of her passing as promised. I arrived home to a note on my door to go to the neighbor on the right. I knocked at the door and the grouchy older man answered. Without saying a word, he went to his refrigerator, opened it and said, "I think these are for you." He handed me the large bouquet of fruits all cut out like flowers and dipped in chocolate."It looks like chocolate flowers." he said with a grin, adding "I had a few, and they were great!" I held my delivery. I opened the small envelope and read the card: Dear Jori, We appreciate you showing us homes and although it has been months, we thought of you and wanted to do something nice for you today. I hope you remember us. The Johnsons This was a previous client who was a pastor. He never knew I had a mother who had cancer nor did I ever mention the conversation about the chocolate flowers. It had been several months since I had heard from this couple who were considering purchasing a home. I called the client, whom I haven't spoken to in such a long time. I was confused and wanted to know what made them decide to send me chocolate flowers, and why that day, of all days? He said it was his wife's idea to do something nice for someone and they agreed it on it being me. Mrs. Johnson thought of the chocolate flowers.

I was just settling into the salons of Austenian Bath when Gabriel muttered, "This is strange." I looked up to see him pulling a long blue-gray thread from between the nearly translucent pages. My jaw dropped, and I was kneeling on the chaise in a flash. "Is the binding coming loose? No, don't pull it! I can take it to my book doctor tomorrow night." "Stop hyperventilating, sweetheart. I think it's a bookmark," he said, pulling on the thread until he stretched it to my hand. "Here." I wound the thread around my finger. "What passage was it marking?" He scanned the page and lifted an eye. "It's an Edward and Jane scene. I know how you love those. Edward's saying, 'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you---especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.'" I was so caught up in watching his lips as they formed the words that I barely noticed the sudden tension on the fiber wound around my finger. I realized now that Gabriel had slipped a ring onto the thread and was sliding it toward me. I watched as the respectable diamond twinkled in the light of the oil lamp. "I'm not Edward, " Gabriel promised. "I'm not afraid the thread will break and leave me bleeding. Our thread's already been tested. And it will hold up. I'm asking you to make the link permanent. Please, marry me.

There's one thing you ought to know about old people," Alberto Terégo told me on our early morning walk on the beach. "Like what?" I asked my friend in reply. "Like old people don't mind if you kill them," Terégo said. "Just don't give them any more crap while you're doing it." "Are you talking about yourself?" I said. "You're telling me you'd rather have someone kill you than give you a hard time?” My head was starting to hurt. It usually did when I talked with Terégo, but never so soon into our daily conservation. He was grinning now, knowing he had me again. I just stared at him. He has this uncanny knack of making me feel he's laid a booby trap of punji sticks on which I'm about to impale myself. “That's ridiculous," I said finally, feeling like a kid for not being able to come up with a better response to his bizarre suggestion. “No, it's life,” Terégo said, his grin growing larger. “What's life?” I said. “Taking crap,” he said. "Taking crap is life?" I said. The grin hung ear to ear now. “It's what nice people do,” Terégo said. “There's an 18th century proverb that says we all have to eat a peck of dirt before we die. We do it from an early age, so old people have been doing it for a very long time, way beyond the proverbial amount that broke the camel's back.” “Eating dirt is life?” I said, feeling the pain grow under my arched eyebrows. "That's right," he said. "Eating dirt?" I repeated dully. "We do it to be team players, so we don’t rock the boat, to go with the flow," Terégo said. "We put up, shut up, get along--no matter what--with people even the Dalai Lama would slap silly. We defer to their foolishness, stupidity, biases, racism, ego, telling them what they want to hear, keeping quiet when we ought to be speaking up loud and clear. We put a sock in it even though it chokes us. We do it so we won’t offend, to fit in, be neighborly, sociable, kind. We do it so people will like us, love and reward and hire and promote us. We do it to be successful, secure, happy." "We eat dirt to be happy," I said, my eyes starting to glaze over like frost on window panes in deep winter. "You see the supreme irony in that," Terégo said, the triumph in his voice almost palpable, galling me no end.

In terms of the Trinity, I believe in the Father and the Holy Ghost but not really Jesus that much. Yes, Jesus was pretty badass because he stood up for what he believed in and was definitely an alpha and a man of his convictions, and all that respectable shit, and he took a hell of a beating in the end, but his message was wrong. All that turn the other cheek and love thy neighbor nonsense; be a lamb and so on. It’s silly and doesn’t work. The God of the Old Testament, the Father, that guy makes a lot more sense to me. He had it in him to be mean and spiteful. I get that I was made in the image of a guy who’d fuck over a nobody like Job basically for fun and to prove a point to a rival. I get that I was made in the image of a guy who’d kick two shitheads out of the Garden of Eden for disobeying Him. I get the idea of Him laying waste to entire cities with fireballs or whatever because He didn’t very much like the type of people that lived there (though Sodom and Gomorrah seem like just the sort of places I’d like to hang out). If God is love, it ain’t Jesus’. The Father’s love, tough love, is what works. Sometimes there’s difficulty distinguishing it from hate, and that’s why it applies to the way I live my life. Jesus’ message just makes people nice, makes them pussies, and while I’m thankful for it because it’s given me the upper hand throughout my life in very Christian America, believing in it, really, would be idiotic for anyone like me, a winner. And I believe in the Holy Ghost too mostly because I’ve felt Him working through me while doing really cool shit, like playing football and writing good songs or whatever. He’s what people mean when they say God-given talent, which I have a lot of.

To understand and criticise intelligently so vast a work, one must not forget an instant the drift of things in the later sixties. Lee had surrendered, Lincoln was dead, and Johnson and Congress were at loggerheads; the Thirteenth Amendment was adopted, the Fourteenth pending, and the Fifteenth declared in force in 1870. Guerrilla raiding, the ever-present flickering after-flame of war, was spending its forces against the Negroes, and all the Southern land was awakening as from some wild dream to poverty and social revolution. In a time of perfect calm, amid willing neighbors and streaming wealth, the social uplifting of four million slaves to an assured and self-sustaining place in the body politic and economic would have been a herculean task; but when to the inherent difficulties of so delicate and nice a social operation were added the spite and hate of conflict, the hell of war; when suspicion and cruelty were rife, and gaunt Hunger wept beside Bereavement,—in such a case, the work of any instrument of social regeneration was in large part foredoomed to failure. The very name of the [Freedmen's] Bureau stood for a thing in the South which for two centuries and better men had refused even to argue,—that life amid free Negroes was simply unthinkable, the maddest of experiments.

was my first indication that the policies of Mamaw’s “party of the working man”—the Democrats—weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Political scientists have spent millions of words trying to explain how Appalachia and the South went from staunchly Democratic to staunchly Republican in less than a generation. Some blame race relations and the Democratic Party’s embrace of the civil rights movement. Others cite religious faith and the hold that social conservatism has on evangelicals in that region. A big part of the explanation lies in the fact that many in the white working class saw precisely what I did, working at Dillman’s. As far back as the 1970s, the white working class began to turn to Richard Nixon because of a perception that, as one man put it, government was “payin’ people who are on welfare today doin’ nothin’! They’re laughin’ at our society! And we’re all hardworkin’ people and we’re gettin’ laughed at for workin’ every day!”20 At around that time, our neighbor—one of Mamaw and Papaw’s oldest friends—registered the house next to ours for Section 8. Section 8 is a government program that offers low-income residents a voucher to rent housing. Mamaw’s friend had little luck renting his property, but when he qualified his house for the Section 8 voucher, he virtually assured that would change. Mamaw saw it as a betrayal, ensuring that “bad” people would move into the neighborhood and drive down property values. Despite our efforts to draw bright lines between the working and nonworking poor, Mamaw and I recognized that we shared a lot in common with those whom we thought gave our people a bad name. Those Section 8 recipients looked a lot like us. The matriarch of the first family to move in next door was born in Kentucky but moved north at a young age as her parents sought a better life. She’d gotten involved with a couple of men, each of whom had left her with a child but no support. She was nice, and so were her kids. But the drugs and the late-night fighting revealed troubles that too many hillbilly transplants knew too well. Confronted with such a realization of her own family’s struggle, Mamaw grew frustrated and angry. From that anger sprang Bonnie Vance the social policy expert: “She’s a lazy whore, but she wouldn’t be if she was forced to get a job”; “I hate those fuckers for giving these people the money to move into our neighborhood.” She’d rant against the people we’d see in the grocery store: “I can’t understand why people who’ve worked all their lives scrape by while these deadbeats buy liquor and cell phone coverage with our tax money.

I could do this. I just had to be careful and not punch her. Piece of cake. “Hi,” Heather said, stretching the word. She walked carefully, as if worried I’d bite her. “Hi!” Kate Daniels, a good neighbor. Would you like some cookies? “I’m sorry to bother you . . . What is that smell?” Spider guts. “How can I help you?” “Umm, the neighbors asked me to bring some issues to your attention.” I bet they did, and she bravely soldiered under that burden. “Shoot.” “It’s about the mailbox.” I could see the communal mailbox out of the corner of my eye. It seemed intact. “You see, the mailman saw your husband during one of his walks.” “He’s my fiancé,” I told her. “We are living in sin.” Heather blinked, momentarily knocked off her stride, but recovered. “Oh, that’s nice.” “It’s very nice. I highly recommend it.” “As I was saying, he saw your fiancé when he was in his animal shape. How to put it . . . He became alarmed.” That was generally a normal reaction when encountering Curran for the first time. “We are not sure if they will deliver mail again.” “Did you receive any official notices from the post office?” “No, but . . .” Heather tried a smile. “We were thinking maybe your fiancé could not do that anymore.” “Do what?” I had a sudden urge to strangle Heather. I was so tired of people acting like Curran was an inhuman spree killer who would murder babies in their sleep. “Walk around in his animal shape.” No strangling. Strangling would not be neighborly. “It would also be nice if he limited the range of his walks.” I had had a really long day. My nerves were stretched thin and she was jumping up and down on the last of them. I inhaled slowly. Two years of sorting shapeshifter politics and their run-ins with humans had to count for something.

The black-and-white Pheasant table. The quiet horror of the glances examining neighbors’ plates. Half of the Pheasants were on individual meal plans, each one different, so everyone’s plate contents were always a concern. There were calories to be counted. Rats at the next table. The explosion of color and the tide of insanity. Then Birds, in their nightmarish bibs over black. The Sixth was all about camaraderie. Looking at them, it would seem that the group consisted exclusively of jovial practical jokers. I wouldn’t want to find myself on the receiving end of their jokes, and their bursts of loud merriment looked suspect, but so what. They were trying their best. The Third, Fourth, and Sixth had it tough. Rats and Pheasants were the Naughty and the Nice. Both of them overdid it to such an extent that everyone else had to squeeze in between somewhere. Birds were a bit better at it, Hounds a bit worse, and the Fourth, in addition to having no designation, was just too sparsely populated to . . . to fully participate in the game. Once I managed to say the word, I suddenly was free to realize that this “game” would have to include much more than just appearance. It was the right word, and, having caught it, I understood that I had been looking for it for a long time. For the word that would contain the key to everything happening in the House. All it took was the recognition of the fact that the Game encompassed everything around me. It was too improbable that every single one of the pathetic, whining conformists would assemble in one group, while all the unhinged anarchists would go to the other. Which meant that someone somewhere must have designed this at some point. Why? Now that was a different question. My own perspicacity was making me sweat. I wasn’t even hungry anymore.

Positano hotel into the GPS, and they drove away on schedule. They left the city and got onto the autostrada, headed south. The weather was sunny and warm, and traffic moved freely. “Where do you live in New York?” Stone asked. “I have a loft in SoHo. I live and work there. Do you know the area?” “Sort of. I get a nosebleed if I go below Forty-second Street, so I don’t hang out downtown.” “Where do you live?” “In Turtle Bay. Do you know it?” “I once went to see Katharine Hepburn there,” she said. “I was supposed to paint her for Vanity Fair, but she didn’t like my preliminary sketches, and they replaced me with Annie Leibovitz. Ms. Hepburn preferred photographs. Nice neighborhood, though.” “Ms. Hepburn was a neighbor, sort of. I didn’t know her, but I saw her

Imagine a world where people say the first thing that comes to mind, a world where you told the truth to everyone you talked with. For example, let’s say you took one look at your boss early in the morning only for you to tell him he looks like a weakling. Or imagine yourself as a salesperson telling a customer how firm and perky her breasts are or a woman telling her male neighbor how nice and tight his butt is.

Despite the classified nature of the event it’s really pretty boring: we’re here to swap departmental gossip about our mutual areas of interest and what’s been going on lately, update each other on new procedural measures and paperwork hoops we need to jump through to requisition useful information from our respective front-desk operations, and generally make nice. With only a decade to go until the omega conjunction—the period of greatest risk during NIGHTMARE GREEN, when the stars are right—everyone in Europe is busy oiling the gears and wheels of our occult defense machinery. Nobody wants their neighbors to succumb to a flux of green, gibbering brain-eaters, after all: it tends to lower real estate values.

Nice to meet you, Alexa.

chatty and nice.

People won’t always respond to Jesus people with the delight and acceptance. Neighbors won’t always be thrilled with our efforts to get to know them. Acquaintances won’t always except our invitations. Scripture shows Jesus was compassionate and he spoke the truth. He not only seemed like a nice person, he was a nice person. But he was still despised, rejected, mocked, beaten, and crucified. Should I expect any less as one of his followers?

You take the baby out every day no matter the weather and you walk around the neighborhood for one hour... Look around at the trees, at the nice even sidewalks, wave to your neighbors and think of what a lucky girl you are, what a lucky baby she is... Francis is a good man. Repeat it to yourself again and again. Go into the shops, tell them your name and that you just moved here, everybody loves a new baby. Lena felt the temptation to cry.

Then he turned to Rosemary Barr. “Meanwhile we’ll put you somewhere safe,” he told her. “Your tutorials will start as soon as the soldier is buried.” The outer western suburbs were bedroom communities for people who worked in the city, so the traffic stayed bad all the way out. The houses were much grander than in the east. They were all two-story, all varied, all well maintained. They all had big lots and pools and ambitious evergreen landscaping. With the last of the sunset behind them they looked like pictures in a brochure. “Tight-ass middle class,” Reacher said. “What we all aspire to,” Yanni said. “They won’t want to talk,” Reacher said. “Not their style.” “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks to me.” They drove past the Archer place slowly. There was a cast-metal sign on thin chains under the mailbox: Ted and Oline Archer. Beyond it, across a broad open lawn, the house looked closed-up and dark and silent. It was a big Tudor place. Dull brown beams, cream stucco. Three-car garage. Nobody home, Reacher thought. The neighbor they were looking for lived across the street and one lot to the north. Hers was a place about the same size as the Archers’ but done in an Italianate style. Stone accents, little crenellated towers, dark green sun awnings on the south-facing ground-floor windows. The evening light was fading away to darkness and lamps were coming on behind draped windows. The whole street looked warm and rested and quiet and very satisfied with itself. Reacher said, “They sleep safely in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do them harm.” “You know George Orwell?” Yanni asked. “I went to college,” Reacher said. “West Point is technically a college.” Yanni said, “The existing social order is a swindle and its cherished beliefs mostly delusions.” “It is not possible for any thinking person to live in such a society as our own without wanting to change it,” Reacher said. “I’m sure these are perfectly nice people,” Helen said. “But will they talk to us?” “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks.” Helen pulled into a long limestone driveway and parked about twenty feet behind an imported SUV that had big chrome wheels. The front door of the house was made of ancient gray weathered oak with iron banding that had nail heads as big as golf balls. It felt like you could step through it straight into the Renaissance. “Property is theft,” Reacher said. “Proudhon,” Yanni said. “Property is desirable, is a positive good in the world.” “Abraham Lincoln,” Reacher said. “In his first State of the Union.” There was an iron knocker shaped like

Just a few months ago, the comedian Tom Arnold tweeted: “Imagine being Rand Paul’s neighbor and having to deal with @RandPaul lying cowardly circular whiny bullcrap about lawn clippings. No wonder he ripped his toupee off.” Within seconds, Representative Ilhan Omar had retweeted it, obviously gleeful that the attack had taken place. Nice, right? And they say Donald Trump is the one who’s vulgar, but they won’t say anything about Omar allegedly marrying her brother to enter the country illegally. Or, having an affair with a married paid staffer, or as someone hilariously commented on my Instagram feed, “She puts the infidel in infidelity.” Whether it’s true or not, she’s not exactly the moral authority the media makes her out to be.

The best thing to do," said one of the malingerers, "is to sham madness. In the next room there are two other men from the school where I teach and one of them keeps shouting day and night : 'Giordano Bruno's stake is still smoldering ; renew Galileo's trial !'” “I meant at first to act the fool too and be a religious maniac and preach about the infallibility of the Pope, but finally I managed to get some cancer of the stomach for fifteen crowns from a barber down the road." "That's nothing," said another man. "Down our way there's a midwife who for twenty crowns can dislocate your foot so nicely that you're crippled for the rest of your life.” “My illness has run me into more than two hundred crowns already," announced his neighbor, a man as thin as a rake. "I bet there's no poison you can mention that I haven't taken. I'm simply bung full of poisons. I've chewed arsenic, I've smoked opium, I've swallowed strychnine, I've drunk vitriol mixed with phosphorus. I've ruined my liver, my lungs, my kidneys, my heart—in fact, all my insides. Nobody knows what disease it is I've got." "The best thing to do," explained someone near the door, "is to squirt paraffin oil under the skin on your arms. My cousin had a slice of good luck that way. They cut off his arm below the elbow and now the army'll never worry him any more.” “Well," said Schweik, "When I was in the army years ago, it used to be much worse. If a man went sick, they just trussed him up, shoved him into a cell to make him get fitter. There wasn't any beds and mattresses and spittoons like what there is here. Just a bare bench for them to lie on. Once there was a chap who had typhus, fair and square, and the one next to him had smallpox. Well, they trussed them both up and the M. O. kicked them in the ribs and said they were shamming. When the pair of them kicked the bucket, there was a dust-up in Parliament and it got into the papers. Like a shot they stopped us from reading the papers and all our boxes was inspected to see if we'd got any hidden there. And it was just my luck that in the whole blessed regiment there was nobody but me whose newspaper was spotted. So our colonel starts yelling at me to stand to attention and tell him who'd written that stuff to the paper or he'd smash my jaw from ear to ear and keep me in clink till all was blue. Then the M.O. comes up and he shakes his fist right under my nose and shouts: 'You misbegotten whelp ; you scabby ape ; you wretched blob of scum ; you skunk of a Socialist, you !' Well, I stood keeping my mouth shut and with one hand at the salute and the other along the seam of my trousers. There they was, running round and yelping at me. “We'll knock the newspaper nonsense out of your head, you ruffian,' says the colonel, and gives me 21 days solitary confinement. Well, while I was serving my time, there was some rum goings-on in the barracks. Our colonel stopped the troops from reading at all, and in the canteen they wasn't allowed even to wrap up sausages or cheese in newspapers. That made the soldiers start reading and our regiment had all the rest beat when it came to showing how much they'd learned.

Trying not to sigh, because I knew he was just being nice, I answered honestly. “I want a Dom who takes me apart and puts me back together on a regular basis. As long as he’s not an asshole and doesn’t think twinks are morons, I’ll love obsessive and controlling. If he’s naughty and wants to do wicked things to me in semi-public places, I’ll happily chain myself in his basement.

Jews ““For you it is good—you are not a Jew. It will be easier for you to enter the University. But Sasha is a Jew — for him, it will be difficult,” Galja said with the burr to her girl neighbor. The girl rushed back home, jumping over two-three stairs, stormed the door and shouted: “Granny, Granny! What does it mean to be a Jew? Is it something bad?” Poor girl, she didn’t know yet that she was also a Jew. He had to hide it from her to make her life easier in the USSR. Here, the Jews were not welcomed. In the USSR, it is good to be Russian.” (- Angelika Regossi, “Russian Colonial Food”. Chapter: Russia - Jews and Nicknames). Diversity “Communists noticed that Kazakhstan was incredibly big—the size of West Europe. Perfectly suitable for huge communist projects and experiments, which brought to Kazakhstan many scientists, engineers, agronomists, builders, and … Soviet secret service — to control the situation. “Kazakhs also have culture, their own, different from ours. They are Muslims. Oh, yeah, atheist, Soviet Muslims,” smiled Boris and added, “You said Kazaki, but they are Kazakhs, these two are different people. Let me explain,” Boris was happy to talk about something else than the Communist Party plans.” (- Angelika Regossi, “Russian Colonial Food”. Chapter: Kazakhstan - Home for Nuclear Tests). Disabled “Turkmens are very close people, but disabled Turkmens are even more. She decided to give him another—spiritual life, that’s why, each day she spent time telling him stories. He would not be like the millions disabled in the USSR: hidden in prison-like hospitals, with no hope and alone, bad treatment and food, closed to the outside world.” (- Angelika Regossi, “Russian Colonial Food”. Chapter: Turkmenia - Closed People). Traditions ““If I would marry Tajik, I would have to furnish our home and bring everything inside it. All from my father’s money. Because I would marry very young and would not earn yet. So, you have to be nice to your father, otherwise, he gives nothing or little,” smiled Nathalie and continued her wedding story, And … I would have this!” Nathalie jumped out of the sofa to the mirror and quickly drew something with a black pencil on her face. When she turned smiling, girlfriends were shocked …” (- Angelika Regossi, “Russian Colonial Food”. Chapter: Tajikia - Neighbour of Afghanistan).

Damn, he was handsome. My heart was still fluttering. “It’s fine,” I told myself. “It’s fine that my new next door neighbor is a hot firefighter and single dad with muscles for days and dark, broody eyes. It’s fine, because I am the boss of my feelings.” Slowly, I started walking up the stairs, skimming my palm along the banister and wondering if his abs were as hard and sculpted as his jaw. Then I snatched my fingers off the wood as if it was hot. “I am also the boss of my hands.” I started up the steps again, imagining what it would be like to feel his scruff against my cheek, maybe bite his lower lip. “And my teeth,” I said defiantly. “I’m definitely the boss of my teeth. I will not bite my nice new neighbor.

Benefits of high rise apartments High rise flats have been on high demand for a very long time because of the invaluable benefits which are related to them. All evidence level to the truth that a better majority of tenants desire to stay in these sorts of residences regardless that only some could possibly afford them. This pattern is nevertheless altering due to the low price high rise apartments that are mushrooming. A number of the advantages are as outlined under. Conventionally, excessive rise flats are usually positioned in decent, fascinating urban centers with a purpose to meet the ever rising demand. The urban setting of those residences provides the tenants with limitless and quick access to quite a lot of life-style features together with however not limited to handy public transport, shopping as well as nightlife. There are lots of facilities located round excessive rise apartments. These include services comparable to fitness centers, swimming pools, rooftop decks, a door particular person, safety techniques, managed entry and 24-hour maintenance. Some high rise residences even present visitors with free drinks saving them the money spent on morning tea or coffee. Other kinds of flats do charge for utility services. Dwelling in Excessive Rises does end in lowered utility costs. Due to the bulk services, the rates which might be paid scale back. Even when every particular person pays their very own rates, the ultimate costs are comparatively lower. Most of the flats provide free Wi-Fi companies and for those who plan to use web extra regularly, then it signifies that you will have something to save. Moreover dwelling in High Rise flats makes one feel some sense of community particularly once you understand nicely all your neighbors. This makes someone really feel at a house away from home.

Whenever one comes to the the table for interreligous dialogue, there is what I would call an _ecumenical taboo_ that one has to comply with. The ecumenical taboo_ does not exist in a written document, but people tend to practice it around the dialogue table. One should not raise, for instance, such questions as gender justice, sexual orientation issues, religious constructions of the other, multiple forms of violence in a religious community, or religious cooperation with neo/imperialism. each religion has its own _history of sin_ that has justified and perpetuated oppression and exclusion of certain groups of people through its own religious teaching, doctrine, and practice. In order to be _nice_ and _tolerant_ to one another, interreligious dialogue has not challenged the fundamental issues of injustice that a particular religion has practiced, justified, and perpetuated in various ways. I do not disregard that most ecumenists have based interreligious dialogue on a politics of tolerance, and this has played a significant role in easing the antagonism between religions, at least among the leaders of established religions. However, we should ground an authentic ecumenism and theology of religion in a _politics of affirmation and transformation, rather than a politics of tolerance_.

Things have been really interesting in your little bar,” Mel said. “A little tense and steamy.” He laughed. “Think someone should take Luke aside and warn him about this place?” “I thought you’d finally learned your lesson,” she teased him. “You’ve been in the business of almost every romantic relationship in this town….” “Yeah, but this one’s different. The second Shelby saw him, it was a target lock on. She wants him. Can you see the struggle on his face? He’s getting lines.” “Yeah, what’s that about?” Mel asked. “She’s adorable. You’d think he’d be thrilled.” “Well, the first night he met her he said he took one look at her and thought he was going to be arrested. He might be having a little trouble with her age.” “Phooey,” Mel said. “There’s quite a nice difference in our ages.” She grabbed his thigh. “I’m catching up with you, however.” “Then there’s the general,” Jack said. “Kind of intimidating…” “Oh, Walt’s a pussycat,” she said. “And I think he likes Luke. They have the army in common.” “Luke’s either going to give in or explode,” Jack said. “How do you know he hasn’t? Given in.” “Have you taken a good look at him? At his posture, his eyes? Believe me, he’d be a lot looser. He hasn’t unloaded in a long time.” “Jack!” she said. “And the funny thing is, Shelby’s downright serene,” Jack said, completely ignoring his wife’s scold. “She’s a very unusual woman.” “What do you mean?” “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror when it’s been a long time for us?” he asked. “It’s all over your face when you need to be taken care of.” He grinned at her. “It is not!” she said, giving him a whack on the arm. But she laughed at him, and secretly knew he was right. She also knew why Shelby didn’t look that way. Shelby, virginal, hadn’t been satisfied by a man yet; she didn’t ache with longing for her lover. “It’s hardly ever been a long time for us,” she pointed out. “Which is how I like it,” he said. “Then take the general,” he said. “Talk about a satisfied man…” “You can’t possibly know that. Walt neither looks nor acts any differently than he ever did,” she insisted. “The general looks like a beautiful woman moved in next door and he’s doing his best to be a good neighbor. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and a very sly grin.” Mel turned toward him and narrowed her eyes. “Do you really think you know what facial expressions correspond exactly to a man’s getting laid?” “I do,” he said with a smile. “In fact, I consider myself something of an expert.” She

Sitting at the table were three Russian prisoners of war that had been assigned to work on her husband’s farm. Hesitantly, we sat down with these men. I couldn’t understand a word they said and I couldn’t know the awful circumstances under which I would see them again. We stayed at the farm that entire day and she let us sleep in a nice large bed, tucked under the eaves of the attic. It would have been perfect except that we didn’t have any pillows or blankets but at least there wasn’t a corpse in bed with us! The nights were getting cold this time of year, besides the Russians had made me feel considerably uncomfortable. When I asked her about her neighbors she avoided the question and so I thought it best to continue our search, in hopes of a better place to stay.

And so the soul of this place lives in the parties that grow here, not just Mardi Gras, no, but rather the kind that start with a simple phone call to a neighbor, a friend. And after the heat is discussed and your troubles shared you say man it’d be nice to see you, your kids, your smile. And from this grows a spread several tables long, covered in newspaper, with long rows of crawfish spilled steaming from aluminum pots, a bright splash of red in the blanketing green of your yard. It is food so big it must be stirred with a paddle. You gather around this. You worship it. There is nothing strange about that.

We often speak of the love, mercy, and compassion of Jesus, but Malachi also prophesied of him, “Yes, he is coming, says the LORD of hosts. But who will endure the day of his coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire” (Mal. 3:1-2). That is indeed how he came. Jesus was always moved by love of God and neighbor, but he was not always ‘nice.’ He was “meek and humble of heart” (Mt. 11:29) but never tame. Innocent though he was, it is little wonder that his boldness and zeal for righteousness provoked such powerful enemies; he knew it would be so. Jesus walked the earth at a time when human life had become cheapened, and prompt and brutal execution was a matter not so much of justice as of expedience. Ultimately, Jesus’ paradoxical roles as fiery prophet and meek Lamb of God would intersect on the wood of the cross.

proclaiming the gospel goes beyond something personal. The gospel is a cosmic reality that supersedes being about me. If it’s merely personal, the gospel would stop with me. I might share it with someone as something nice that really benefitted me and maybe the other person might like to give it a try too. But if it is cosmic, it is presented as a matter of fact that has reality regardless of whether I (or anyone else for that matter) have chosen to live by its news. Proclaiming the gospel therefore is the art of announcing to our neighbors that this new world has begun in Christ.

What the— Oh hell no. Candice! Open the door!” She pounded her hand against the door. “Candice Marie Jenkins! I am in my pajamas and do not have my purse, cell phone, or keys. Open the damn door! I hear you two laughing!” If I hadn’t been so pissed off at Mason for sending Rachel over here and for her agreeing to it, I’d have been laughing too. “I swear, if you do not unlock this door and let me in, I will go Cali bitch on your asses!” Okay, now I was laughing. The door next to ours opened and a middle-aged man looked between Rachel and me. He had his cell in his hand like he couldn’t decide if he was going to call the cops or not. “I will cut you!” Rachel swore and continued beating on the door; my neighbor looked at his phone and I groaned. Pushing away from the wall, I took the few steps over to Rachel, grabbed around her waist, and pulled her back with me. “Let me go, Kash. Candice! Open the door!” “Calm down, you’re freaking the neighbors out.” “I don’t care! I do not want to be locked out of my apartment so I’m forced to spend time with you! You’re rude, did you know that?” I couldn’t help but laugh at her. “I’m rude? If you hate me so much, you should have never agreed to come ‘help’ me.” I nodded and gave a reassuring smile to the now-confused-looking neighbor before walking us into my apartment and releasing her. “Excuse me for trying to be nice! That’s what people do, they help people, especially when they’re new to the— Holy crap, where’s all your stuff?

Much worse. We couldn’t get any of those to come at all. Some of them are visibly fused. Some idiot must have welded them.” “Welded, yes. But not by some idiot. By the sun.” “Leo, it doesn’t get that hot—” “Not directly. What you’re seeing is spontaneous vacuum diffusion welding. Metal molecules are evaporating off the surfaces of the pieces in the vacuum. Slowly, to be sure, but it’s a measurable phenomenon. On the clamped areas they migrate into their neighboring surfaces and eventually achieve quite a nice bond. A little faster for the hot pieces on the sun side, a little slower for the cold pieces in the shade—but I’ll bet some of those clamps have been in place for twenty years.” “Oh. But what do we do about them?” “They’ll have to be cut.” Pramod’s lips pursed in worry. “That will slow things down.

war is not nice because it’s such a waste, as Queen Sara puts it. It wastes precious resources that could otherwise be used for programs designed to help people flourish. For Rogers, tax dollars are for record players that can help children appreciate music; they’re not for weapons designed to slaughter the parents of children or, worse, the children themselves.

But you knew my mother. She was your neighbor—” “This is an official Clave investigation.” Jace cut her off. “I can always come back with the Silent Brothers.” “Oh, for the—” Dorothea glanced at her door, then at Jace and Clary. “I suppose you might as well come in,” she said, finally. “I’ll tell you what I can.” She started toward the door, then halted on the threshold, glaring. “But if you tell anyone I helped you, Shadowhunter, you’ll wake up tomorrow with snakes for hair and an extra pair of arms.” “That might be nice, an extra pair of arms,” Jace said. “Handy in a fight.” “Not if they’re growing out of your . . .” Dorothea paused and smiled at him, not without malice. “Neck.” “Yikes,” said Jace mildly. “Yikes is right, Jace Wayland.

On the news, the neighbors are always like, 'Gee, I didn‘t know that nice man was chopping up little kids—he always seemed so polite.‘ But you go back, you ask their schoolteachers, you ask their childhood friends, they almost always tell a different story. They‘re never surprised.

For instance, there is a tribe in the vicinity of Lake Rudolph that will eat no sheep or cattle, though its next neighbors do so. Near by is another tribe that eats donkey-meat—a custom most revolting to the surrounding tribes that do not eat donkey. So who may say that it is nice to eat snails and frogs' legs and oysters, but disgusting to feed upon grubs and beetles, or that a raw oyster, hoof, horns, and tail, is less revolting than the sweet, clean meat of a fresh-killed buck? The next few days Tarzan devoted to the weaving of a barkcloth sail with which to equip the canoe, for he despaired of being able to teach the apes to wield the paddles, though he did manage to get several of them

What the— Oh hell no. Candice! Open the door!” She pounded her hand against the door. “Candice Marie Jenkins! I am in my pajamas and do not have my purse, cell phone, or keys. Open the damn door! I hear you two laughing!” If I hadn’t been so pissed off at Mason for sending Rachel over here and for her agreeing to it, I’d have been laughing too. “I swear, if you do not unlock this door and let me in, I will go Cali bitch on your asses!” Okay, now I was laughing. The door next to ours opened and a middle-aged man looked between Rachel and me. He had his cell in his hand like he couldn’t decide if he was going to call the cops or not. “I will cut you!” Rachel swore and continued beating on the door; my neighbor looked at his phone and I groaned. Pushing away from the wall, I took the few steps over to Rachel, grabbed around her waist, and pulled her back with me. “Let me go, Kash. Candice! Open the door!” “Calm down, you’re freaking the neighbors out.” “I don’t care! I do not want to be locked out of my apartment so I’m forced to spend time with you! You’re rude, did you know that?” I couldn’t help but laugh at her. “I’m rude? If you hate me so much, you should have never agreed to come ‘help’ me.” I nodded and gave a reassuring smile to the now-confused-looking neighbor before walking us into my apartment and releasing her. “Excuse me for trying to be nice! That’s what people do, they help people, especially when they’re new to the— Holy crap, where’s all your stuff?” She looked around at our living room, which was mostly bare save for the two boxes Mason brought. “We—” “Is this what Mason was talking about? He said I’d know it when I saw it.” Wait. What? “What are you talking about?” “Mason said you needed me for something in here. I asked him what that something was, and he said as soon as I walked into the apartment I’d see what you needed help with.” Fuck. Me. “Oh shit, Rachel. Um . . .” “When is all your furniture coming?” She began walking around the place and her eyes got bigger with each empty room she came across. “Did you guys sleep in here last night?” “Uh, yeah. Good news? Floor is actually pretty comfortable. So there’s that.” “Bad news?” “We don’t have anything coming, we need to go buy new stuff.” I took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. “And I’m starting to think that’s what Mason was sending you over here for.” She

So how about we just say Neighbor Bae has killed the entire game?” Tammy asked, looking over my shoulder at the note. “Neighbor bae won the championship.” Quaya remarked. “He had your place cleaned up and replaced all of your stuff. You better be nice to that man.” They

Donald, it’s Hillary.” It was without a doubt one of the strangest moments of my life. I congratulated Trump and offered to do anything I could to make sure the transition was smooth. He said nice things about my family and our campaign. He may have said something about how hard it must have been to make the call, but it’s all a blur now, so I can’t say for certain. It was all perfectly nice and weirdly ordinary, like calling a neighbor to say you can’t make it to his barbecue. It was mercifully brief.

Of course I loved my neighbor. My momma brought me up right. I certainly saw the wisdom in loving neighbors, and doing unto others, and being nice for the sake of being nice. I just preferred to love my neighbors from afar. I subscribed to long-distance relationships, where speaking and listening didn’t occur with any frequency.