Nobody Compares To You Quotes

God made mud. God got lonesome. So God said to some of the mud, "Sit up!" "See all I've made," said God, "the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars." And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around. Lucky me, lucky mud. I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done. Nice going, God. Nobody but you could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have. I feel very unimportant compared to You. The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around. I got so much, and most mud got so little. Thank you for the honor! Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep. What memories for mud to have! What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met! I loved everything I saw! Good night. I will go to heaven now. I can hardly wait... To find out for certain what my wampeter was... And who was in my karass... And all the good things our karass did for you. Amen.

I had no doubt that Tiny thought he got depressed, but that was probably because he had nothing to compare it to. Still, what could I say? that I didn't just feel depressed - instead, it was like the depression was the core of me, of every part of me, from my mind to my bones? That if he got blue, I got black? That I hated those pills so much because I knew how much I relied on them to live? No, I couldn't say any of this because when it all comes down to it, nobody wants to hear it. No matter how much they like you or love you, they don't want to hear it.

Sometimes love is not enough, and it doesn’t matter how much you want it. Want him. And even if nobody else compares to that person, it doesn’t mean that you’re supposed to be with him.

That’s the thing. I’ve never met anyone like you, Tess. You think you’re a no one? You’re so wrong. So wrong. You stand in a room with all the Angelas, even the Ellies. None of them can compare to you. I remember when you started working at the Onslow, I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. You were so terrified. You weren’t full of yourself like other girls. Every time you walked into the bar, you were like a breath of fresh air. Even when Angela was a bitch to you, you rose above it. You made me see the difference in people. You’re not a nobody, Tess, you’re a somebody.

Rosie: I don't know what you're talking about! I am not waiting for Alex! Ruby: Yes you are, my dear friend. He must be some man because nobody can ever measure up to him. And I know that's what you do every time you meet someone: compare. I'm sure he's a fabulous friend and I'm sure he always says sweet and wonderful thing to you. But he's not here. He's thousands of miles away, working as a doctor in a great big hospital and he lives in a fancy apartment with his fancy doctor fiancee. I don't think he's thinking of leaving that life anytime soon to come back to a single mother who's living in a tiny flat working in a crappy part-time job in a paperclip factory with a crazy friend who emails her every second. So stop waiting and move on. Live your life.

Everybody is Beautiful and Unique in Their Own Special Way, Beauty goes Beyond the Outer Appearance. I think it's More Important to have a Beautiful Mind. Stop Comparing Yourselves Amongst Yourselves. Nobody is like You and Never will be You. Stop being Jealous of Others. Stop Hating on Others. Appreciate your Qualities and Characteristics.

It’s hard to say something about Pushkin to a person who doesn’t know anything about him. Pushkin is a great poet. Napoleon is not as great as Pushkin. Bismarck compared to Pushkin is a nobody. And the Alexanders, First, Second and Third, are just little kids compared to Pushkin. In fact, compared to Pushkin, all people are little kids, except Gogol. Compared to him, Pushkin is a little kid. And so, instead of writing about Pushkin, I would rather write about Gogol. Although, Gogol is so great that not a thing can be written about him, so I'll write about Pushkin after all. Yet, after Gogol, it’s a shame to have to write about Pushkin. But you can’t write anything about Gogol. So I’d rather not write anything about anyone.

Compare, go on comparing yourself with everybody else you pass by, and a great jealousy will be the outcome. It is the by-product of the conditioning for comparison. Otherwise, if you drop comparing, jealousy disappears. Then you simply know you are you, and you are nobody else, and there is no need.

At twenty-two, you are built for poverty and rejection. And you know why? Because you're good-looking. You might not realize it this morning, but thirty years from now, you will pull out pictures of yourself taken on this day and think, Why did nobody tell me I was so fucking attractive? You maybe can't see it now because you're comparing yourself to the person next to you, or two rows up. But you are stunning.

Be satisfied with your part. Do not bemoan your fate. In this life everyone has troubles which he thinks nobody else has. Never wish to be in the shoes of someone else who you think is better off than you are. It is best to wish for nothing, but to ask the Lord to give you what is for your highest good. You are a part of the Lord’s creation: He needs everybody to carry on this drama. Never compare yourself with anybody else. You are what you are. Nobody is like you. Nobody can act your part as you can. Similarly, you should not try to play somebody else’s part. What is important is to do the will of Him who sent you; that is what you want. While you do your part, think all the time that God is working through you

Last year, 4.2 million babies died. That is the most recent number reported by UNICEF of deaths before the age of one, worldwide. We often see lonely and emotionally charged numbers like this in the news or in the materials of activist groups or organizations. They produce a reaction. Who can even imagine 4.2 million dead babies? It is so terrible, and even worse when we know that almost all died from easily preventable diseases. And how can anyone argue that 4.2 million is anything other than a huge number? You might think that nobody would even try to argue that, but you would be wrong. That is exactly why I mentioned this number. Because it is not huge: it is beautifully small. If we even start to think about how tragic each of these deaths is for the parents who had waited for their newborn to smile, and walk, and play, and instead had to bury their baby, then this number could keep us crying for a long time. But who would be helped by these tears? Instead let’s think clearly about human suffering. The number 4.2 million is for 2016. The year before, the number was 4.4 million. The year before that, it was 4.5 million. Back in 1950, it was 14.4 million. That’s almost 10 million more dead babies per year, compared with today. Suddenly this terrible number starts to look smaller. In fact the number has never been lower.

You sure we're good here?' Coach says, still glancing around. 'Nobody else wants to pull out their dick and compare sizes? Wave them around to see who the biggest man here is?

Cunts want to be snowflakes, they want you to tell them how nobody in this whole world compares to them, apologizes to Prince. All the little fame monsters on Instagram, look at me, I put jam on my toast.

you do not realize that one has to learn to speak the truth. it seems to you that it is enough to wish or to decide to do so. and i tell you that people comparatively rarely tell a deliberate lie. in most cases they think they speak the truth. and yet they lie all the time, both when they wish to lie and when they wish to speak the truth. they lie all the time, both to themselves and to others. therefore nobody ever understands either himself or anyone else. think - could there be such discord, such deep misunderstanding, and such hatred towards the views and opinions of others, if people were able to understand because they cannot help lying. to speak the truth is the most difficult thing in the world; and one must study a great deal and for a long time in order to be able to speak the truth. the wish alone is not enough. to speak the truth one must know what the truth is and what a lie is, and first of all in oneself. and this nobody wants to know.

In terms of sheer annoyance, nobody I have ever known has compared to Sare Worthington, saver of the environment, native of Portland, Maine, forever wishing that she were from Portland, Oregon. Bitch should have just moved there.

Wait,” Kaidan called from behind me. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, but kept walking. Then I felt his hand around my wrist, spinning me in a half circle and pulling me to his chest. His face was so close. He reached down and cupped my face with one woolly hand, and wiped the top corner of my lip hard with his thumb. I flinched back. “What are you doing?” “I...” He appeared to have no idea himself. “I wanted to see your freckle.” A vulnerable tenderness flashed across his face, more painful to see than the coldness. It took every ounce of strength I had not to beg for one last kiss. As fast as his expression had softened, it was back to stone again. “What do you want from me, Kai?” “For starters?” His voice lowered to sexy, dangerous depths. “I want to introduce myself to every freckle on your body.” A powerful shiver ripped through me. “So, just something physical, then?” I clarified. “That's all you want?” “Tell me you hate me,” he demanded. I felt the air of his words against my face. “But I don't hate you. I couldn't.” “You could,” he assured me, pulling me tighter. “And you should.” “I'm letting you go.” My voice shook. “But only because I have to. I need to move on with my life, but I'll never hate you.” “The one who got away,” Kaidan murmured. “Nobody got away,” I corrected him. “And so help me, if you start comparing us to an unfinished game that went into overtime-” He released me and I stumbled back a step. I had to get away before I started clinging and begging him to admit his feelings, whatever they might have been. It was necessary to rip off this Band-Aid, and fast. So, as I'd done at the airport, I walked away from him, dragging my heart behind me. I didn't look back. Game over.

The highlights you see on social media is not real life. Everyone you know faces their own challenges and struggles. Nobody’s life is perfect, so it’s pointless to compare or judge. Instead, be kind to yourself and others as often as you can.

But we do not ask. We want to be told. One of the most curious things in the structure of our psyche is that we all want to be told because we are the result of the propaganda of ten thousand years. We want to have our thinking confirmed and corroborated by another, whereas to ask a question is to ask it of yourself. What I say has very little value. You will forget it the moment you shut this book, or you will remember and repeat certain phrases, or you will compare what you have read here with some other book – but you will not face your own life. And that is all that matters – your life, yourself, your pettiness, your shallowness, your brutality, your violence, your greed, your ambition, your daily agony and endless sorrow – that is what you have to understand and nobody on earth or in heaven is going to save you from it but yourself.

If you are a conservative—or even a liberal who says something deemed conservative—your speech will get canceled or your award revoked for taking a view at odds with liberal dogma. Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s honorary degree at Brandeis was yanked for slamming Islam, but nobody blinked when at a 2007 Smith Commencement address, Gloria Steinem compared people who oppose abortion and same-sex marriage to “Germany under fascism.”54

...adults acted as though trying to go anywhere or achieve anything was a frivolous dream, a luxury, compared to the real work of having kids and making money to pay for the kids. Nobody ever explained what was admirable about having the kids, or why it was the default course of action for every single human being. If you ever asked why any particular person had had a kid, or what good a particular kid was, people treated it as a blasphemy-- as if you were saying they should be dead, or the kid should be dead. It was is there was no way to ask what the plan had been, without implying that someone should be dead.

Her partner now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours." But they are such very different things!" -- That you think they cannot be compared together." To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour." And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?" Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them." In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison." No, indeed, I never thought of that." Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?" Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with." And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!" Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody." Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage.

Comparison is a disease, one of the greatest diseases. We are taught from the very beginning to compare. Your mother starts comparing you with other children. Your father compares. The teacher says, “Look at Johnny, how well he is doing, and you are not doing good at all!” From the very beginning you are being told to compare yourself with others. This is the greatest disease; it is like a cancer that goes on destroying your very soul. Each individual is unique, and comparison is not possible. I am just myself and you are just yourself. There is nobody else in the world to be compared with. Do you compare a marigold with a roseflower? You don’t compare. Do you compare a mango with an apple? You don’t compare. You know they are different - comparison is not possible. Man is not a species. Each man is unique. There has never been any individual like you before and there will never be again. You are utterly unique. This is your privilege, your prerogative, life’s blessing - that it has made you unique.

You can’t fail at life. Failure is simply an unplanned outcome. For the most part, it means you didn’t receive the result you wanted. We are all familiar with that occurrence and feeling. However, if you make it mean that you yourself are a failure, then you’ll discourage yourself from trying again. You’ll keep yourself stuck to avoid painful feelings until eventually being stuck becomes the worst feeling. We all have different journeys. The only people who feel as though they have failed are the ones comparing their lives with others. Forget the image you have in your mind about how it should all look. Your life is unique to you. Don’t try to make it look like anyone else’s.

Nobody is in control of who they are when they’re born,” she continued. “You’re born into the family you’re born into and you’re born into the circumstances you’re born into. So you just have to take what you can from where you’re at and not compare yourself to other people. You have to look at your path and know that whatever got you there, and where you’re going, is unique to you. You weren’t supposed to be any other way.

From the line, watching, three things are striking: (a) what on TV is a brisk crack is here a whooming roar that apparently is what a shotgun really sounds like; (b) trapshooting looks comparatively easy, because now the stocky older guy who's replaced the trim bearded guy at the rail is also blowing these little fluorescent plates away one after the other, so that a steady rain of lumpy orange crud is falling into the Nadir's wake; (c) a clay pigeon, when shot, undergoes a frighteningly familiar-looking midflight peripeteia -- erupting material, changing vector, and plummeting seaward in a corkscrewy way that all eerily recalls footage of the 1986 Challenger disaster. All the shooters who precede me seem to fire with a kind of casual scorn, and all get eight out of ten or above. But it turns out that, of these six guys, three have military-combat backgrounds, another two are L. L. Bean-model-type brothers who spend weeks every year hunting various fast-flying species with their "Papa" in southern Canada, and the last has got not only his own earmuffs, plus his own shotgun in a special crushed-velvet-lined case, but also his own trapshooting range in his backyard (31) in North Carolina. When it's finally my turn, the earmuffs they give me have somebody else's ear-oil on them and don't fit my head very well. The gun itself is shockingly heavy and stinks of what I'm told is cordite, small pubic spirals of which are still exiting the barrel from the Korea-vet who preceded me and is tied for first with 10/10. The two brothers are the only entrants even near my age; both got scores of 9/10 and are now appraising me coolly from identical prep-school-slouch positions against the starboard rail. The Greek NCOs seem extremely bored. I am handed the heavy gun and told to "be bracing a hip" against the aft rail and then to place the stock of the weapon against, no, not the shoulder of my hold-the-gun arm but the shoulder of my pull-the-trigger arm. (My initial error in this latter regard results in a severely distorted aim that makes the Greek by the catapult do a rather neat drop-and-roll.) Let's not spend a lot of time drawing this whole incident out. Let me simply say that, yes, my own trapshooting score was noticeably lower than the other entrants' scores, then simply make a few disinterested observations for the benefit of any novice contemplating trapshooting from a 7NC Megaship, and then we'll move on: (1) A certain level of displayed ineptitude with a firearm will cause everyone who knows anything about firearms to converge on you all at the same time with cautions and advice and handy tips. (2) A lot of the advice in (1) boils down to exhortations to "lead" the launched pigeon, but nobody explains whether this means that the gun's barrel should move across the sky with the pigeon or should instead sort of lie in static ambush along some point in the pigeon's projected path. (3) Whatever a "hair trigger" is, a shotgun does not have one. (4) If you've never fired a gun before, the urge to close your eyes at the precise moment of concussion is, for all practical purposes, irresistible. (5) The well-known "kick" of a fired shotgun is no misnomer; it knocks you back several steps with your arms pinwheeling wildly for balance, which when you're holding a still-loaded gun results in mass screaming and ducking and then on the next shot a conspicuous thinning of the crowd in the 9-Aft gallery above. Finally, (6), know that an unshot discus's movement against the vast lapis lazuli dome of the open ocean's sky is sun-like -- i.e., orange and parabolic and right-to-left -- and that its disappearance into the sea is edge-first and splashless and sad.

What is today’s date? Who is the President? How great a danger do you pose, on a scale of one to ten? What does “people who live in glass houses” mean? Every symphony is a suicide postponed, true or false? Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche? Name five rivers. What do you see yourself doing in ten minutes? How about some lovely soft Thorazine music? If you could have half an hour with your father, what would you say to him? What should you do if I fall asleep? Are you still following in his mastodon footsteps? What is the moral of “Mary Had a Little Lamb”? What about his Everest shadow? Would you compare your education to a disease so rare no one else has ever had it, or the deliberate extermination of indigenous populations? Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence? Should an odd number be sacrificed to the gods of the sky, and an even to those of the underworld, or vice versa? Would you visit a country where nobody talks? What would you have done differently? Why are you here?

Let us pray: Most gracious and heavenly Father, we thank You, Lord God, for Your goodness. We celebrate life today, right where we are. Father, we acknowledge that nothing compares to You. There is nobody greater than You, O God. You and You alone are worthy of our praise. Thank You for this time of testing. Thank You for perfecting that which concerns us. Thank You for promising to complete that which You have started. Thank You for allowing us to trade in our spirits of heaviness for garments of praise. Hallelujah! We have prayed. Amen.

And I tell you that people comparatively rarely tell a deliberate lie. In most cases they think they speak the truth. And yet they lie all the time, both when they wish to lie and when they wish to speak the truth. They lie all the time, both to themselves and to others. Therefore nobody ever understands either himself or anyone else.

Like I told you, Sam and Patrick love their big song, so I thought I'd read it to have something to discuss with them. In the end, the magazine compared him with John Lennon from the Beatles. I told that to Sam later, and she got really mad. She said he was like Jim Morrison if he was like anybody, but really, he isn't like anybody but himself. We were all at the Big Boy after Rocky Horror, and it started this big discussion. Craig said the problem with things is that everyone is always comparing everyone with everyone and because of that, it discredits people, like in his photography classes. Bob said that it was all about our parents not wanting to let go of their youth and how it kills them when they can't relate to something. Patrick said that the problem was that since everything has happened already, it makes it hard to break new ground. Nobody can be as big as the Beatles because the Beatles already gave it a "context." The reason they were so big is that they had no one to compare themselves with, so the sky was the limit. Sam added that nowadays a band or someone would compare themselves to the Beatles after the second album, and their own personal voice would be less from that moment on.

At twenty-two, you are built for poverty and rejection. And you know why? Because you’re good-looking. You might not realize it this morning, but thirty years from now, you will pull out pictures of yourself taken on this day and think, Why did nobody tell me I was so fucking attractive? You maybe can’t see it now because you’re comparing yourself to the person next to you, or two rows up. But you are stunning.

It seems to me we walk around all the time feeling these absurdly strong impulses and desires, strong enough to make us want to ruin our own lives and sabotage our marriages and careers, but nobody is really trying to explain what the desires are, or where they come from. Our ways of thinking and speaking about sexuality seem so limited, compared to the exhausting and debilitating power of sexuality itself as we experience it in our real lives.

Still, I found the idea of an aesthetic life to be tremendously compelling. It was the first time I had heard of an organizing principle or goal you could have for your life, other than making money and having kids. Nobody ever said that that was their organizing principle, but I had often noticed it, when I was growing up: the way adults acted as though trying to go anywhere or achieve anything was a frivolous dream, a luxury, compared to the real work of having kids and making money to pay for the kids.

Compare and despair”: Nothing good can come from comparing your misery to someone worse off and judging your own as unworthy. Look to others in pain and understand that nobody is spared. Use that awareness to cultivate compassion and the energy you need to commit yourself to the liberation of all sentient beings. But if you break your leg, don’t look at the person in the bed next to you with two broken legs and dismiss your own leg pain as undeserving. Join the brotherhood of the broken ones. Join the sisterhood of survivors.

Nicholas is sometimes compared with his half-crazy great-great-grandfather Paul, who was strangled by a camarilla acting in agreement with his own son, Alexander “the Blessed.” These two Romanovs were actually alike in their distrust of everybody due to a distrust of themselves, their touchiness as of omnipotent nobodies, their feeling of abnegation, their consciousness, as you might say, of being crowned pariahs. But Paul was incomparably more colorful; there was an element of fancy in his rantings, however irresponsible. In his descendant everything was dim; there was not one sharp trait. Nicholas

What you learn after a long time in math-and I think the lesson applies much more broadly-is that there's always somebody ahead of you, whether they're right there in class with you or not. People just starting out look to people with good theorems, people with some good theorems look to people with lots of good theorems, people with lots of good theorems look to people with Fields Medals, people with Fields Medals look to the "inner circle" Medalists, and those people can always look toward the dead. Nobody ever looks in the mirror and says, "Let's face it, I'm smarter than Gauss." And yet, in the last hundred years, the joined effort of all these dummies-compared-to-Gauss has produced the greatest flowering of mathematical knowledge the world has ever seen.

Oh, Soo-Lin! I must confess, the Westin is nothing like I described in my holiday verse. Where do I begin? All night self-closing doors slam, the plumbing chugs whenever a toilet is flushed, and any time someone takes a shower, it sounds like a teakettle whistling in my ear. Families of foreign tourists save their conversations until they’re standing outside our door. The mini-fridge rattles and hums so much you think it’s about to spring to life. Garbage trucks screech and collect dumpsterfuls of clanging bottles at 1 AM. Then the bars let out, and the streets fill with people yelling at one another in gravelly, drunken voices. All the talk involves cars. “Get in the car.” “I’m not getting in the car.” “Shut up, or you’re not getting in the car.” “Nobody tells me I can’t get into my own car.” That’s a lullaby compared to the alarm clock.

Still, I found the idea of an aesthetic life to be tremendously compelling. It was the first time I had heard of an organizing principle or goal you could have in your life, other than making money and having kids. Nobody ever said that was their organizing principle, but I had often noticed it, when I was growing up: the way adults acted as though trying to go anywhere or achieve anything was a frivolous dream, a luxury, compared to the real work of having kids and making money to pay for the kids. Nobody ever explained what was admirable about having the kids, or why it was the default course of action for every single human being. If you ever asked a why a particular person had had a kid, or what good a particular kid was, people treated it as blasphemy--as if you were saying they should be dead, or the kid should be dead. It was as if there was no way to ask what the plan had been, without implying that someone should be dead.

It is already the fashion to diminish Eliot by calling him derivative, the mouthpiece of Pound, and so forth; and yet if one wanted to understand the apocalypse of early modernism in its true complexity it would be Eliot, I fancy, who would demand one's closest attention. He was ready to rewrite the history of all that interested him in order to have past and present conform; he was a poet of apocalypse, of the last days and the renovation, the destruction of the earthly city as a chastisement of human presumption, but also of empire. Tradition, a word we especially associate with this modernist, is for him the continuity of imperial deposits; hence the importance in his thought of Virgil and Dante. He saw his age as a long transition through which the elect must live, redeeming the time. He had his demonic host, too; the word 'Jew' remained in lower case through all the editions of the poems until the last of his lifetime, the seventy-fifth birthday edition of 1963. He had a persistent nostalgia for closed, immobile hierarchical societies. If tradition is, as he said in After Strange Gods--though the work was suppressed--'the habitual actions, habits and customs' which represent the kinship 'of the same people living in the same place' it is clear that Jews do not have it, but also that practically nobody now does. It is a fiction, a fiction cousin to a myth which had its effect in more practical politics. In extenuation it might be said that these writers felt, as Sartre felt later, that in a choice between Terror and Slavery one chooses Terror, 'not for its own sake, but because, in this era of flux, it upholds the exigencies proper to the aesthetics of Art.' The fictions of modernist literature were revolutionary, new, though affirming a relation of complementarity with the past. These fictions were, I think it is clear, related to others, which helped to shape the disastrous history of our time. Fictions, notably the fiction of apocalypse, turn easily into myths; people will live by that which was designed only to know by. Lawrence would be the writer to discuss here, if there were time; apocalypse works in Woman in Love, and perhaps even in Lady Chatterley's Lover, but not n Apocalypse, which is failed myth. It is hard to restore the fictive status of what has become mythical; that, I take it, is what Mr. Saul Bellow is talking about in his assaults on wastelandism, the cant of alienation. In speaking of the great men of early modernism we have to make very subtle distinctions between the work itself, in which the fictions are properly employed, and obiter dicta in which they are not, being either myths or dangerous pragmatic assertions. When the fictions are thus transformed there is not only danger but a leak, as it were, of reality; and what we feel about. all these men at times is perhaps that they retreated inso some paradigm, into a timeless and unreal vacuum from which all reality had been pumped. Joyce, who was a realist, was admired by Eliot because he modernized myth, and attacked by Lewis because he concerned himself with mess, the disorders of common perception. But Ulysses ,alone of these great works studies and develops the tension between paradigm and reality, asserts the resistance of fact to fiction, human freedom and unpredictability against plot. Joyce chooses a Day; it is a crisis ironically treated. The day is full of randomness. There are coincidences, meetings that have point, and coincidences which do not. We might ask whether one of the merits of the book is not its lack of mythologizing; compare Joyce on coincidence with the Jungians and their solemn concordmyth, the Principle of Synchronicity. From Joyce you cannot even extract a myth of Negative Concord; he shows us fiction fitting where it touches. And Joyce, who probably knew more about it than any of the others, was not at tracted by the intellectual opportunities or the formal elegance of fascism.

Brandon is just the kind of man,” said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, “whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to.” ...[Maryanne speaking] “I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body’s good word, and nobody’s notice; who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year.” “Add to which,” cried Marianne, “that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression.” “You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,” replied Elinor, “and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid... “But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.

Darwin singled out the eye as posing a particularly challenging problem: 'To suppose that the eye with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest degree.' Creationists gleefully quote this sentence again and again. Needless to say, they never quote what follows. Darwin's fulsomely free confession turned out to be a rhetorical device. He was drawing his opponents towards him so that his punch, when it came, struck the harder. The punch, of course, was Darwin's effortless explanation of exactly how the eye evolved by gradual degrees. Darwin may not have used the phrase 'irreducible complexity', or 'the smooth gradient up Mount Improbable', but he clearly understood the principle of both. 'What is the use of half an eye?' and 'What is the use of half a wing?' are both instances of the argument from 'irreducible complexity'. A functioning unit is said to be irreducibly complex if the removal of one of its parts causes the whole to cease functioning. This has been assumed to be self-evident for both eyes and wings. But as soon as we give these assumptions a moment's thought, we immediately see the fallacy. A cataract patient with the lens of her eye surgically removed can't see clear images without glasses, but can see enough not to bump into a tree or fall over a cliff. Half a wing is indeed not as good as a whole wing, but it is certainly better than no wing at all. Half a wing could save your life by easing your fall from a tree of a certain height. And 51 per cent of a wing could save you if you fall from a slightly taller tree. Whatever fraction of a wing you have, there is a fall from which it will save your life where a slightly smaller winglet would not. The thought experiment of trees of different height, from which one might fall, is just one way to see, in theory, that there must be a smooth gradient of advantage all the way from 1 per cent of a wing to 100 per cent. The forests are replete with gliding or parachuting animals illustrating, in practice, every step of the way up that particular slope of Mount Improbable. By analogy with the trees of different height, it is easy to imagine situations in which half an eye would save the life of an animal where 49 per cent of an eye would not. Smooth gradients are provided by variations in lighting conditions, variations in the distance at which you catch sight of your prey—or your predators. And, as with wings and flight surfaces, plausible intermediates are not only easy to imagine: they are abundant all around the animal kingdom. A flatworm has an eye that, by any sensible measure, is less than half a human eye. Nautilus (and perhaps its extinct ammonite cousins who dominated Paleozoic and Mesozoic seas) has an eye that is intermediate in quality between flatworm and human. Unlike the flatworm eye, which can detect light and shade but see no image, the Nautilus 'pinhole camera' eye makes a real image; but it is a blurred and dim image compared to ours. It would be spurious precision to put numbers on the improvement, but nobody could sanely deny that these invertebrate eyes, and many others, are all better than no eye at all, and all lie on a continuous and shallow slope up Mount Improbable, with our eyes near a peak—not the highest peak but a high one.

We often associate science with the values of secularism and tolerance. If so, early modern Europe is the last place you would have expected a scientific revolution. Europe in the days of Columbus, Copernicus and Newton had the highest concentration of religious fanatics in the world, and the lowest level of tolerance. The luminaries of the Scientific Revolution lived in a society that expelled Jews and Muslims, burned heretics wholesale, saw a witch in every cat-loving elderly lady and started a new religious war every full moon. If you had travelled to Cairo or Istanbul around 1600, you would find there a multicultural and tolerant metropolis, where Sunnis, Shiites, Orthodox Christians, Catholics, Armenians, Copts, Jews and even the occasional Hindu lived side by side in relative harmony. Though they had their share of disagreements and riots, and though the Ottoman Empire routinely discriminated against people on religious grounds, it was a liberal paradise compared with Europe. If you had then sailed on to contemporary Paris or London, you would have found cities awash with religious extremism, in which only those belonging to the dominant sect could live. In London they killed Catholics, in Paris they killed Protestants, the Jews had long been driven out, and nobody in his right mind would dream of letting any Muslims in. And yet, the Scientific Revolution began in London and Paris rather than in Cairo and Istanbul.

I Am A God [Intro: Capleton] Blazing, mi don't want them Mi need them Blazing Suh mi tek har outta bugah red and put her in a tall skirt And now she find out what life is really worth No to X rated Yo mi tek har outta bugah red and put her in a tall skirt And now she find out what life is really worth No to X rated [Intro] I am a god I am a god I am a god [Hook] I am a god Hurry up with my damn massage Hurry up with my damn ménage Get the Porsche out the damn garage I am a god Even though I'm a man of god My whole life in the hands of god So y'all better quit playing with god [Verse 1] Soon as they like you make 'em unlike you Cause kissing people ass is so unlike you The only rapper compared to Michael So here's a few hating-ass niggas who'll fight you And here's a few snake-ass niggas to bite you And I don't even wanna hear 'bout what niggas might do Old niggas mentally still in high school Since the tight jeans they never liked you Pink-ass polos with a fucking backpack But everybody know you brought real rap back Nobody had swag, man, we the Rat Pack Virgil Pyrex, Don C snapback Ivan, diamond, Chi-town shining Monop' in this bitch, get a change of climate Hop in this bitch and get the same thing I'm in Until the day I get struck by lightning I am a god So hurry up with my damn massage In a French-ass restaurant Hurry up with my damn croissants I am a god I am a god I am a god AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! [Verse 2] I just talked to Jesus He said, "What up Yeezus?" I said, "Shit I'm chilling Trying to stack these millions." I know he the most high But I am a close high Mi casa, su casa That's that cosa nostra I am a god I am a god I am a god AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! [Outro: Justin Vernon] Ain't no way I'm giving up. I'm a god

What is the use of half an eye?’ and ‘What is the use of half a wing?’ are both instances of the argument from ‘irreducible complexity’. A functioning unit is said to be irreducibly complex if the removal of one of its parts causes the whole to cease functioning. This has been assumed to be self-evident for both eyes and wings. But as soon as we give these assumptions a moment’s thought, we immediately see the fallacy. A cataract patient with the lens of her eye surgically removed can’t see clear images without glasses, but can see enough not to bump into a tree or fall over a cliff. Half a wing is indeed not as good as a whole wing, but it is certainly better than no wing at all. Half a wing could save your life by easing your fall from a tree of a certain height. And 51 per cent of a wing could save you if you fall from a slightly taller tree. Whatever fraction of a wing you have, there is a fall from which it will save your life where a slightly smaller winglet would not. The thought experiment of trees of different height, from which one might fall, is just one way to see, in theory, that there must be a smooth gradient of advantage all the way from 1 per cent of a wing to 100 per cent. The forests are replete with gliding or parachuting animals illustrating, in practice, every step of the way up that particular slope of Mount Improbable. By analogy with the trees of different height, it is easy to imagine situations in which half an eye would save the life of an animal where 49 per cent of an eye would not. Smooth gradients are provided by variations in lighting conditions, variations in the distance at which you catch sight of your prey – or your predators. And, as with wings and flight surfaces, plausible intermediates are not only easy to imagine: they are abundant all around the animal kingdom. A flatworm has an eye that, by any sensible measure, is less than half a human eye. Nautilus (and perhaps its extinct ammonite cousins who dominated Paleozoic and Mesozoic seas) has an eye that is intermediate in quality between flatworm and human. Unlike the flatworm eye, which can detect light and shade but see no image, the Nautilus ‘pinhole camera’ eye makes a real image; but it is a blurred and dim image compared to ours. It would be spurious precision to put numbers on the improvement, but nobody could sanely deny that these invertebrate eyes, and many others, are all better than no eye at all, and all lie on a continuous and shallow slope up Mount Improbable, with our eyes near a peak – not the highest peak but a high one.

Question 6 Why is it that in America, challenging the role of money in politics is by definition a revolutionary act? The principle behind buying influence is that money is power and power is, essentially, everything. It’s an idea that has come to pervade every aspect of our culture. Bribery has become, as a philosopher might put it, an ontological principle: it defines our most basic sense of reality. To challenge it is therefore to challenge everything. I use the word "bribery" quite self-consciously--and again, the language we use is extremely important. As George Orwell long ago reminded us, you know you are in the presence of a corrupt political system when those who defend it cannot call things by their proper names. By theses standards the contemporary United States is unusually corrupt. We maintain an empire that cannot be referred to as an empire, extracting tribute that cannot be referred to as tribute, justifying it in termes of an economic ideology (neoliberalism) we cannot refer to at all. Euphemisms and code words pervade every aspect of public debate. This is not only true of the right, with military terms like "collateral damage" (the military is a vast bureaucracy, so we expect them to use obfuscatory jargon), but on the left as well. Consider the phrase "human rights abuses." On the surface this doesn’t seem like it’s covering up very much: after all, who in their right mind would be in favor of human rights abuses? Obviously nobody; but ther are degrees of disapproval here, and in this case, they become apparent the moment one begins to contemplate any other words in the English language that might be used to describe the same phenomenon normally referred to by this term. Compare the following sentences: - "I would argue that it is sometimes necessary to have dealings with, or even to support, regimes with unsavory human rights records in order to further our vital strategic imperatives." - "I would argue that it is sometimes necessary to have dealings with, or even to support, regimes that commit acts of rape, torture, and murder in order to further out vital strategic imperatives." Certainly the second is going to be a harder case to make. Anyone hearing it will be much more likely to ask, "Are these strategic imperatives really that vital?" or even, "What exactly is a ’strategic imperative’ anyway?" There is even something slightly whiny-sounding about the term "rights." It sounds almost close to "entitlements"--as if those irritating torture victims are demanding something when they complain about their treatment. (p. 110-112)

The chivalric-aristocratic value judgments are based on a powerful physicality, a blossoming, rich, even effervescent good health that includes the things needed to maintain it, war, adventure, hunting, dancing, jousting and everything else that contains strong, free, happy action. The priestly-aristocratic method of valuation — as we have seen — has different criteria: woe betide it when it comes to war! As we know, priests make the most evil enemies — but why? Because they are the most powerless. Out of this powerlessness, their hate swells into something huge and uncanny to a most intellectual and poisonous level. The greatest haters in world history, and the most intelligent [die geistreichsten Hasser], have always been priests: — nobody else’s intelligence [Geist] stands a chance against the intelligence [Geist] of priestly revenge. The history of mankind would be far too stupid a thing if it had not had the intellect [Geist] of the powerless injected into it: — let us take the best example straight away. Nothing that has been done on earth against ‘the noble’, ‘the mighty’, ‘the masters’ and ‘the rulers’, is worth mentioning compared with what the Jews have done against them: the Jews, that priestly people, which in the last resort was able to gain satisfaction from its enemies and conquerors only through a radical revaluation of their values, that is, through an act of the most deliberate revenge [durch einen Akt der geistigsten Rache]. Only this was fitting for a priestly people with the most entrenched priestly vengefulness. It was the Jews who, rejecting the aristocratic value equation (good = noble = powerful = beautiful = happy = blessed) ventured, with awe-inspiring consistency, to bring about a reversal and held it in the teeth of the most unfathomable hatred (the hatred of the powerless), saying: ‘Only those who suffer are good, only the poor, the powerless, the lowly are good; the suffering, the deprived, the sick, the ugly, are the only pious people, the only ones saved, salvation is for them alone, whereas you rich, the noble and powerful, you are eternally wicked, cruel, lustful, insatiate, godless, you will also be eternally wretched, cursed and damned!’ . . . We know who became heir to this Jewish revaluation . . . With regard to the huge and incalculably disastrous initiative taken by the Jews with this most fundamental of all declarations of war, I recall the words I wrote on another occasion (Beyond Good and Evil, section 195) — namely, that the slaves’ revolt in morality begins with the Jews: a revolt which has two thousand years of history behind it and which has only been lost sight of because — it was victorious . . .

So I was privileged to see the last rites of the Bokononist faith. We made an effort to find someone among the soldiers and the household staff who would admit that he knew the rites and would give them to "Papa". We got no volunteers. That was hardly surprising, with a hook and an oubliette so near. So Dr. von Koenigswald said that he would have a go at the job. He had never administered the rites before, but he had seen Julian Castle do it hundreds of times. "Are you a Bokononist?" I asked him. "I agree with one Bokononist idea. I agree that all religions, including Bokononism, are nothing but lies." "Will this bother you as a scientist," I inquired, "to go through a ritual like this?" "I am a very bad scientist. I will do anything to make a human being feel better, even if it's unscientific. No scientist worthy of the name could say such a thing." And he climbed into the golden boat with "Papa". He sat in the stern. Cramped quarters obliged him to have the golden tiller under one arm. He wore sandals without socks, and he took these off. And then he rolled back the covers at the foot of the bed, exposing "Papa's" bare feet. He put the soles of his feet against "Papa's" feet, assuming the classical position for boko-maru. "Gott mate mutt," crooned Dr. von Koenigswald. "Dyot meet mat," echoed "Papa" Monzano. "God made mud," was what they'd said, each in his own dialect. I will here abandon the dialects of the litany. "God got lonesome," said Von Koenigswald. "God got lonesome." "So God said to some of the mud, 'Sit up!'" - "So God said to some of the mud, 'Sit up!'" "'See all I've made,' said God, 'the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars.'" - "'See all I've made,' said God, 'the hills, the sea, the sky, the stars.'" "And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around." - "And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around." "Lucky me; lucky mud." "Lucky me, lucky mud." Tears were streaming down "Papa's" cheeks. "I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done." - "I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done." "Nice going, God!" "Nice going, God!" "Papa" said it with all his heart. "Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have." - "Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have." "I feel very unimportant compared to You." - "I feel very unimportant compared to You." "The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around." - "The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around." "I got so much, and most mud got so little." - "I got so much, and most mud got so little." "Deng you vore da on-oh!" cried Von Koenigswald. "Tz-yenk voo vore lo yon-yo!" wheezed "Papa". What they had said was, "Thank you for the honor!" "Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep." - "Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep." "What memories for mud to have!" - "What memories for mud to have!" "What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!" - "What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud I met!" "I loved everything I saw!" - "I loved everything I saw!" "Good night." - "Good night." "I will go to heaven now." - "I will go to heaven now." "I can hardly wait..." - "I can hardly wait..." "To find out for certain what my wampeter was..." - "To find out for certain what my wampeter was..." "And who was in my karass..." - "And who was in my karass..." "And all the good things our karass did for you." - "And all the good things our karass did for you." "Amen." - "Amen.

Quit comparing your gifts, your looks, your success to someone else. Be you! You are powerful, you are anointed, you are gifted, you are beautiful. Nobody can do you like you can do you.

Characteristics of Healthy, Constructive Anger Characteristics of Unhealthy, Destructive Anger 1. You express your feelings in a tactful way. 1. You deny your feelings and pout (passive aggression) or lash out and attack the other person (active aggression). 2. You try to see the world through the other person’s eyes, even if you disagree. 2. You argue defensively and insist there’s no validity in what the other person is saying. 3. You convey a spirit of respect for the other person, even though you may feel quite angry with him or her. 3. You believe the other person is despicable and deserving of punishment. You appear condescending or disrespectful. 4. You do something productive and try to solve the problem. 4. You give up and see yourself as a helpless victim. 5. You try to learn from the situation so you will be wiser in the future. 5. You don’t learn anything new. You feel that your view of the situation is absolutely valid. 6. You eventually let go of the anger and feel happy again. 6. Your anger becomes addictive. You won’t let go of it. 7. You examine your own behavior to see how you may have contributed to the problem. 7. You blame the other person and see yourself as an innocent victim. 8. You believe that you and the other person both have valid ideas and feelings that deserve to be understood. 8. You insist that you are entirely right and the other person is entirely wrong. You feel convinced that truth and justice are on your side. 9. Your commitment to the other person increases. Your goal is to feel closer to him or her. 9. You avoid or reject the other person. You write him or her off. 10. You look for a solution where you can both win and nobody has to lose. 10. You feel like you’re in a battle or a competition. If one person wins, you feel that the other one will be a loser. Now that you’ve examined sadness and anger, I’d like you to compare healthy fear with neurotic anxiety. What are some of the differences? Think about the kinds of events that might bring on these feelings, how long the feelings last, whether the thoughts are realistic or distorted, and so forth. See if you can think of five differences, and list them here. The answer to this exercise is on page 88. Try to come up with your own ideas before you look. Characteristics of Healthy Fear Characteristics of Neurotic Anxiety 1. 1. 2. 2. 3. 3. 4. 4. 5. 5. Similarly, healthy remorse is not the same as neurotic guilt. What are some of the differences? List them here. Characteristics of Healthy Remorse Characteristics of

No matter how much closure I’m going to give you, you’re going to compare me to every single man you meet, Mia. It’s the same for me. Nobody is ever funny enough, annoying enough, crazy enough, or beautiful enough to equate to you.

THE SUMMER was coming to an end. The Jewish year was almost over. On the eve of Rosh Hashanah, the last day of that cursed year, the entire camp was agitated and every one of us felt the tension. After all, this was a day unlike all others. The last day of the year. The word “last” had an odd ring to it. What if it really were the last day? The evening meal was distributed, an especially thick soup, but nobody touched it. We wanted to wait until after prayer. On the Appelplatz, surrounded by electrified barbed wire, thousands of Jews, anguish on their faces, gathered in silence. Night was falling rapidly. And more and more prisoners kept coming, from every block, suddenly able to overcome time and space, to will both into submission. What are You, my God? I thought angrily. How do You compare to this stricken mass gathered to affirm to You their faith, their anger, their defiance? What does Your grandeur mean, Master of the Universe, in the face of all this cowardice, this decay, and this misery? Why do you go on troubling these poor people’s wounded minds, their ailing bodies?     SOME

Sometimes love is not enough, and it doesn’t matter how much you want it. Want him. And even if nobody else compares to that person, it doesn’t mean that you’re supposed to be with him.

I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had done." "Nice going, God!" "Nobody but You could have done it, God! I certainly couldn't have." "I feel very unimportant compared to You." "The only way I can feel the least bit important is to think of all the mud that didn't even get to sit up and look around.

The whole question of using the planets for something—something, that is, besides research—ought to be within sight of settlement. Instead, nobody even discusses it any more. And our chances to settle it grow worse every year. Our appropriations are dwindling, as it gets harder and harder to convince the Congress that space flight is really good for anything. You can’t sell the Congress on the long-range rewards of basic research, anyhow; representatives have to stand for election every two years, senators every six years; that’s just about as far ahead as most of them are prepared to look. And suppose we tried to explain to them the basic research we’re doing? We couldn’t; it’s classified! “And above all, Seppi—this may be only my personal ignorance speaking, but if so, I’m stuck with it—above all, I think that by now we ought to have some slight clue toward an interstellar drive. We ought even to have a model, no matter how crude—as crude as a Fourth of July rocket compared to a Coupling engine, but with the principle visible. But we don’t. As a matter of fact, we’ve written off the stars. Nobody I can talk to thinks we’ll ever reach them.

Jung had had enough, and in his reply he made clear his disgust with Freud’s infuriating practice of treating criticism of his ideas as mere psychological resistance to his infallibility. Jung had already complained that “the majority of psychoanalysts misuse psychoanalysis to devalue other people and their progress by insinuations about complexes,”19 and now he dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s. Treating his followers like patients, he told Freud, was a “blunder” that produced “either slavish sons or impudent puppies.” “I am objective enough to see through your little trick,” he told the master. “You go around sniffing out all the symptomatic actions in your vicinity, thus reducing everyone to the level of your sons and daughters who blushingly admit the existence of their faults. Meanwhile you remain on top as a father, sitting pretty. For sheer obsequiousness nobody dares to pluck the prophet by the beard and inquire for once what you would say to a patient with a tendency to analyse the analyst instead of himself.” “You see, my dear Professor, so long as you hand out this stuff I don’t give a damn for my symptomatic actions; they shrink to nothing compared with the formidable beam in my brother Freud’s eye.”20

One of the rules on that list I'm not making is DON'T COMPARE YOURSELF TO OTHERS. What you, as a human being, need to realize is you're you. There is nobody else that will be a better you. Comparing yourself to others is what ends up ruining your self esteem. Everything about you is absolutely amazing. You're another wonderful work of art created by the universe. You're EXACTLY what you need to be. A beautiful, working, thinking, breathing, moving, feeling, living work of art. Nothing could possibly be more fantastic than your existence.

Such a woeful face!" he teased, adjusting the overcoat. "Cheer up, lest they all think you do not want me!" "It's not that, Lord Gareth." "Then what is it?" "It doesn't matter. Come, let's just get on with it." Let's just get on with it. Her air of resigned defeat alarmed and hurt him. What was wrong? Did she find him wanting? Was she angry with him, thinking he was marrying her only to get back at Lucien? Or was she — please God, no — comparing him to Charles and finding him lacking? After all, that's what everyone else had always done. As he offered his elbow, she stayed him with gentle pressure on his arm. "But then again, maybe the reverend's right, Lord Gareth," she said slowly, for his ears alone. "I'm just a colonial nobody, and you can do much better than me." "I'm not even going to honor that remark with an answer," he said with false brightness. Bloody hell. Is it Charles? "And furthermore, I think it's time we dispense with the 'Lord Gareth' and 'Miss Paige' bit, don't you? After all, we shall soon be married." "Marriage is not a union in which to enter lightly —" "I can assure you, my sweet, we are not entering it lightly. You need a husband. Charlotte needs a father. And I —" he grinned and dramatically clapped a hand to his chest before executing a little bow — "am in a position to help you both. One cannot get any more serious than that, eh?" "This isn't funny, Lord Gareth." "It's not so very terrible, either." "I don't think this is quite what Charles had in mind when he bade me to come to England —" "Look Juliet, Charles is dead. Whatever he had in mind no longer matters. You and I are alive, and we must seek the best solution to your — and Charlotte's — predicament."  He lifted her chin with his finger and smiled down into her troubled eyes. "Now, let's see some joy on that pretty face of yours. I don't want my friends to think you're miserable about marrying me." Juliet

In this process of guessing, computing consequences, and comparing with experiment, we can get stuck at various stages. We may get stuck in the guessing stage, when we have no ideas. Or we may get stuck in the computing stage. For example, Yukawa* guessed an idea for the nuclear forces in 1934, but nobody could compute the consequences because the mathematics was too difficult, and so they could not compare his idea with experiment. The theories remained for a long time, until we discovered all these extra particles which were not contemplated by Yukawa, and therefore it is undoubtedly not as simple as the way Yukawa did it. Another place where you can get stuck is at the experimental end. For example, the quantum theory of gravitation is going very slowly, if at all, because all the experiments that you can do never involve quantum mechanics and gravitation at the same time. The gravity force is too weak compared with the electrical force.

You can interpret this in the sense that the constructs or inventions that you make must be of such a kind that the consequences that you compute are comparable with experiment – that is, that you do not compute a consequence like ‘a moo must be three goos’, when nobody knows what a moo or a goo is. Obviously that is no good. But if the consequences can be compared to experiment, then that is all that is necessary. It does not matter that moos and goos cannot appear in the guess. You can have as much junk in the guess as you like, provided that the consequences can be compared with experiment. This is not always fully appreciated. People often complain of the unwarranted extension of the ideas of particles and paths, etc., into the atomic realm. Not so at all; there is nothing unwarranted about the extension. We must, and we should, and we always do, extend as far as we can beyond what we already know, beyond those ideas that we have already obtained. Dangerous? Yes.

This will give you a somewhat wrong impression of science. It suggests that we keep on guessing possibilities and comparing them with experiment, and this is to put experiment into a rather weak position. In fact experimenters have a certain individual character. They like to do experiments even if nobody has guessed yet, and they very often do their experiments in a region in which people know the theorist has not made any guesses. For

What do you want from me, Kai?” “For starters?” His voice lowered to sexy, dangerous depths. “I want to introduce myself to every freckle on your body.” A powerful shiver ripped through me. “So, just something physical, then?” I clarified. “That’s all you want?” “Tell me you hate me,” he demanded. I felt the air of his words against my face. “But I don’t hate you. I couldn’t.” “You could,” he assured me, pulling me tighter. “And you should.” “I’m letting you go.” My voice shook. “But only because I have to. I need to move on with my life, but I’ll never hate you.” “The one who got away,” Kaidan murmured. “Nobody got away,” I corrected him. “And so help me, if you start comparing us to an unfinished game that went into overtime—

Question three: * When you were wearing pretty frocks and playing with dolls, did you feel less than a boy? How did you feel or react when you saw other boys playing with ‘boyish’ toys like miniature toy soldiers, train sets, etc.? Answers: a) No, I did not feel any less a boy when I was dressed in girls’ clothes. I thought girls’ garments were more creative and imaginative than boys’. In fact, I often wondered why boys’ clothes were so boring and mundane compared to what my mother dressed me in. b) Playing with dolls came naturally to me. It might be because, from the moment I opened my little eyes, I was surrounded by dolls. I did enjoy playing dress-up with my doll collection, especially the Barbies, which in later years I saved my own money to purchase. Round about ages 5 or 6, I began taking a keen interest in designing Barbie dolls’ clothes. There were times in the middle of the night, after I went to bed when the house lights were off, I would shine a light under the sheets to begin the process of making and dressing my dolls. I enjoyed doing that when there was nobody to bother me and I had all the time needed to craft these feminine creations. c) Train sets, toy soldiers or ‘toys for boys’ never interested me. They seemed too mechanical and bloodthirsty, fighting and killing each other all the time. These warlike sports were not to my liking. I don’t understand why boys take great pride in killing, beating each other. Is that what being manly is about?

You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. I’m so fucking attracted to you it’s painful. I haven’t been with a woman in months, and nobody knows that. I think about you all the time. But I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know if I’m capable. But that is on me, not on you. You are enough, I can assure you that. You are so much more than enough. I get off to thoughts of you every fucking day. Don’t you ever say that you aren’t enough because there is no one that compares to you.

There’s another type of person I compare to an example from biology: When a bee finds nectar, it comes back and does a little dance that tells the rest of the hive, as a matter of genetic programming, which direction to go and how far. So about 40 or 50 years ago, some clever scientist stuck the nectar straight up. Well, the nectar’s never straight up in the ordinary life of a bee. The nectar’s out. So the bee finds the nectar and returns to the hive. But it doesn’t have the genetic programming to do a dance that says straight up. So what does it do? Well, if it were like Jack Welch, it would just sit there. But what it actually does is to dance this incoherent dance that gums things up. A lot of people are like that bee. They attempt to answer a question like that. And that is a huge mistake. Nobody expects you to know everything about everything. I try to get rid of people who always confidently answer questions about which they don’t have any real knowledge. To me, they’re like the bee dancing its incoherent dance. They’re just screwing up the hive.

the simple likelihood of drawing a connection between a dream and a waking experience dwindles with temporal distance from the dream. At this point, it is hard to say if there is any kind of probability curve defining some temporal sweet spot when you are likeliest to identify a waking experience relating to a prior dream. This is one of the many, many open questions that we need armies of precognitive dreamworkers with fat dream journals to help figure out. While the bulk of my precognitive hits occur within about three days of a dream, it is not uncommon to find hits up to a couple weeks after a dream, as well as at yearly intervals (we will discuss calendrical resonances in more detail later). Dunne recommended returning to your dreams up to two days afterward and thereafter discarding dream records. He lived before word processors, and since no one would have the time to check all their dreams on an indefinite daily basis, he felt you had to set limits to make your search most effective. In our day of computer files, it is easy to keep permanent, detailed dream records—they no longer take up space—as well as to search them electronically and potentially perform other kinds of analyses if you are really hardcore. But it remains the case that nobody has the time to compare their entire dream journal, which may grow a bit each day, to their entire life, every day. You can see how that could begin to consume one’s life! You have to make compromises. Revisiting your dream records from the previous three days for a minute or two each evening is minimally sufficient. EMINENT COMPANY In taking the J. W. Dunne challenge, you will be in some brilliant and eminent company. Some of the most influential writers of the mid-twentieth century, including T. S. Eliot, C. S. Lewis, and J. R. R. Tolkien, were powerfully inspired by Dunne’s book, and some undertook his experiment. Most fans of Tolkien’s fantasy epics The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings don’t realize that the timeless worldview of his Elven races was based largely on the serial-universe cosmology developed by Dunne on the basis of his dream experiences.4 So far, no dream diary has emerged among Tolkien’s papers that would prove he carried out Dunne’s experiment systematically, but his friend C. S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia, probably did. Lewis hints as much in a posthumously published novel called The Dark Tower, which is partly devoted to Dunne’s ideas.

Nobody compares to you, Tahli. Do you understand that it’s somebody out here in this world that would do anything for you? No questions asked? That’s never changing. I don’t care how far away from me you get.

The witch doctor says he knows how to cure. There are spirits inside which are trying to get out. You have to blow them out with an egg, and so on. Put a snakeskin on and take quinine from the bark of a tree. The quinine works. He doesn't know he's got the wrong theory of what happens. If I'm in the tribe and I'm sick, I go to the witch doctor. He knows more about it than anyone else. But I keep trying to tell him he doesn't know what he's doing and that someday when people investigate the thing freely and get free of all his complicated ideas they'll learn much better ways of doing it. Who are the witch doctors? Psychoanalysts and psychiatrists, of course. (The entire psychology department reportedly departed in offense at this.) “If you look at all of the complicated ideas that they have developed in an infinitesimal amount of time, if you compare to any other of the sciences how long it takes to get one idea after the other, if you consider all the structures and inventions and complicated things, the ids and the egos, the tensions and the forces, and the pushes and the pulls, I tell you they can't all be there. It's too much for one brain or a few brains to have cooked up in such a short time. However, I remind you that if you're in the tribe, there's nobody else to go to.

The self-destruction of a group always follows the same patterns. You only need to introduce some viruses to the group and poof, it’s all gone. These viruses come in the form of very ignorant narcissists that nobody has the courage to kick off of the group. Quite often, the group even promotes itself as being against the personalities that are in front of their eyes every day, people they praise and even lead them. And well, that’s how you know a group is truly finished. Scientology is a very interesting example of this, because of how clear their books are. For example, they claim to love artists but end up insulting real artists. Scientologists are so obsessed with being perceived as artists, that they downgrade real art in the process. You have many scientologists, for example, that think splashing a random amount of ink into a white board is art. They all want to be artists, and that’s fine, but they are too lazy to see how real art is made, and so, they downgrade the value of art. And in doing this, they actually distort the meaning of art and decrease the value of the real artists. And so, a group that promotes itself as being uplifting and positive, ends up being offensive and destructive. They have all these books on moral codes and moral behavior, and dozens of courses on the same topic, and if you report a scientologist for criminal behavior, they ignore you and deem you an attacker of the group. And there goes the level of sanity of this group down the scale, while they themselves invert the scale and tell you the opposite story. It would be like looking at your mental health through someone suffering with poor mental health. They are as aware of what I am saying as any mentally ill person is aware of his mental illnesses. If anyone confronts them with the facts, they themselves get offended, and then proceed to attack, because that’s what they think their founder told them to do. Except that the founder was talking about attacking insanity and not people. In other words, they should use these facts to look further into their books and their own misinterpretations, and which they don’t. Those people that splash random colors into a white board, will then tell you, the one who has been using techniques, and winning awards, and creating something unique, that you don’t understand art. They remind me of the writers with one book that doesn't sell, trying to tell me how they are better than me, with more than 100 books in best selling charts. How delusional, arrogant and stupid has one to be to not see this? The level of awareness of such individual is comparable to a drunk person going to a Jujitsu dojo, asking the instructor to fight him because he is convinced he can beat anyone with all that alcohol in his head. That, however, is not the cherry on top of the cake. The cherry on top of the cake, is when a religious group listens to a psychopath talking against psychopaths. You can write many academic papers on this topic and never reach a conclusion, because it's really hard to make conclusions on stupidity. So what’s wrong with religion? Why are some religious groups persecuted and attacked? The answer to these questions isn’t as relevant as what we can observe people doing, when denying the most obvious writings, inverting them and distorting the meanings. Christians have already mastered this art.

Everybody understands that you cannot drink the word "water," and yet virtually nobody seems entirely free of semantic delusions entirely comparable to trying to drink the ink-stains that form the word "water" on this page or the sound waves produced when I say "water" aloud. If you say, "The word is not the thing," everybody agrees placidly; if you watch people, you see that they continue to behave as if something called Sacred "really is" Sacred and something called Junk "really is" Junk.

BERNARDINE QUINN: We’re calling marriage equality ‘equality’ as if the day that there’s a bill stamped saying lesbian and gay people can get married that we’ll have full equality. Yet in Meath, there isn’t one single support service for a young lesbian or gay person to attend; there isn’t one qualified full-time youth worker to work with young LGBT people; there is absolutely zero trans services, where the trans services in Dublin are mediocre at best. There’s something about ‘marriage equality’ – that we’ll all be equal when marriage comes in, when a kid in west Kerry doesn’t even have a telephone number of a helpline that he can ring for support. This was raised by our young people to Mairead McGuinness and to Mary Lou McDonald when they were here, just to say, thinking that your work around marriage equality – that that’s not all. The allocation of finances to LGBT work in this country is tiny compared to what is given to most other services. There’s something about calling it ‘equality’. It’s another step on the ladder and it’s a hugely important step … But it isn’t all. There’s another battle after that, and that is to get services to west Donegal, to Mayo, into the Midlands, to get real, solid support in these areas so that a young LGBT person has something in every county, trained qualified people to talk to. In some areas where those services aren’t available, where there isn’t training for schools, where there’s nobody that a kid can talk to, to say that they think they’re transgender – I don’t want to sound negative – I think marriage equality is going to be fantastic for a lot of lesbian and gay people. I think if you were 14 and coming out today, your story is going to be so much more different than when I was 14. The prospects of you considering yourself what every other young person considers themselves of 14 when you think about your future and what you’re going to do: you’re going to meet the person that you love, you’re going to get married, going to have kids, going to have the house and the picket fence. That will be an option for a kid. When I came out, those dreams were put very firmly away. I was never going to get married, I was never going to have children, I was never going to make my family proud, my dad was never going to walk me up the aisle. All of those kinds of things were not even an option when I came out. As a matter of fact, there was a better chance that I was going to have to go to London, I was going to bring huge shame on my family, I probably would end up not speaking to half my siblings and my parents, having to go away and fend for myself. That was my option. I think that option has dramatically changed. People can live in their home towns easier now … Anything that makes a young person’s life easier, and gives them more opportunities, is fantastic. I think that a young person, 14, 15, only starting to discover themselves, they’ve got a whole other suite of options. They can talk about, ‘I’ll eventually marry my partner.’ I think I’m only after saying that for the first time in my life, that there will be an option to marry my partner.

stamp or where they sealed the envelope?” I asked. “Sure, we’ll check those too. That’s common procedure, but we have nothing to compare it to.” Jack added his two cents. “The message itself sounds kind of like the hell-and-damnation type of speech. Somebody in the clergy or even a religious zealot could have written it.” Clayton slowly read the message out loud again. “Yeah, I see where you’re coming from, Jack. It does sound kind of preachy.” “Yes it does,” I said, “but we still don’t know if it’s a serious threat or just someone blowing smoke.” Clark stood. “Okay, guys, check out whatever you can as far as forensic evidence. Make ten copies of that letter before you get started. The rest of you, keep your eyes and ears peeled for somebody with an ax to grind. That’s all we can do for now.” Chapter 2 The long driveway beyond the dead-end road led to the small, faded clapboard house. The walls inside the home held family secrets that were as dead and buried as the family dog. Nobody spoke of Alice’s incident anymore—it was neatly tucked away, hopefully forgotten, and life carried on. Forced smiles and the cautious daily routine filled the family’s waking hours. Alice’s eyes darted toward Mandy and then at the clock. She watched as her twenty-year-old daughter crossed the living room, barefoot and still wearing her green flannel bathrobe. Mandy took a seat on the old floral couch, as she did every day at eleven o’clock. The dark-paneled living room in that house held the sofa, a rocker, two end tables, and two velvet wall hangings of horses. The sofa had seen better days—sun fading had taken a toll on it after being in front of windows year after year. What used to be vibrant colors on that threadbare couch now appeared as pastel hues at best. Two flattened cushions looked as though somebody had let the air out of them; they held permanent indentions from years of use.

They feel like they’re getting something wrong. They compare themselves to the people who appear to have it all together all of the time. The ones who are always smiling and apparently full of energy. They buy into the idea that some people are just like that and happiness is some sort of personality type. You either have it or you don’t. If we see low mood as purely a fault in the brain, we don’t believe we can change it, so instead we get to work on hiding it.

I’m thirty-three next week, Emmie,” he says. “My dad was thirty-three when he died, and from what people have told me, the dude spent every waking moment working his arse off to fit in. To pay off the mortgage. To get the next best car. Holidays. Loft extensions. Worked to the bone, to have everything he thought he should have. Probably because he was looking at people like you are, thinking they had it all compared to him.” I stare at Eliot, my heart thumping. “And at thirty-three, that was it. Heart gave out, all over. And nobody once talked about the money he’d saved, the car he had, the holidays he took. They just talked about him, Emmie. Missed him. For what he was. Because that was enough.

He had explained to me: It’s not the work itself that makes you sick. It’s three other things. It’s the feeling of being controlled—of being a meaningless cog in a system. It’s the feeling that no matter how hard you work, you’ll be treated just the same and nobody will notice—an imbalance, as he puts it, between efforts and rewards. And it’s the feeling of being low on the hierarchy—of being a low-status person who doesn’t matter compared to the Big Man in the corner office.

I really hope to God I'm never included on a list of "women writers." I'd rather be nobody than be remembered because of my gender. I'm great enough to compete alongside men, and there are so many amazing male authors, that of course I'd want to be considered alongside of and compared to many of them. So please, feminists, if you're going to read my work, don't do that condescending, paternalistic bullshit. Writing isn't sports. Women don't need their own freaking category.

The chivalric-aristocratic value judgments are based on a powerful physicality, a blossoming, rich, even effervescent good health that includes the things needed to maintain it, war, adventure, hunting, dancing, jousting and everything else that con- tains strong, free, happy action. The priestly-aristocratic method of valua- tion – as we have seen – has different criteria: woe betide it when it comes to war! As we know, priests make the most evil enemies – but why? Because they are the most powerless. Out of this powerlessness, their hate swells into something huge and uncanny to a most intellectual and poisonous level. The greatest haters in world history, and the most intelligent [die geistreichsten Hasser], have always been priests: – nobody else’s intelligence [Geist] stands a chance against the intelligence [Geist] of priestly revenge.20 The history of mankind would be far too stupid a thing if it had not had the intellect [Geist] of the powerless injected into it: – let us take the best example straight away. Nothing that has been done on earth against ‘the noble’, ‘the mighty’, ‘the masters’ and ‘the rulers’, is worth mentioning compared with what the Jews have done against them: the Jews, that priestly people, which in the last resort was able to gain satisfaction from its enemies and conquerors only through a radical revaluation of their values, that is, through an act of the most deliberate revenge [durch einen Akt der geistigsten Rache]. Only this was fitting for a priestly people with the most entrenched priestly vengefulness. It was the Jews who, rejecting the aristocratic value equation (good = noble = powerful = beautiful = happy = blessed) ventured, with awe-inspiring consistency, to bring about a rever- sal and held it in the teeth of the most unfathomable hatred (the hatred of the powerless), saying: ‘Only those who suffer are good, only the poor, the powerless, the lowly are good; the suffering, the deprived, the sick, the ugly, are the only pious people, the only ones saved, salvation is for them alone, whereas you rich, the noble and powerful, you are eternally wicked, cruel, lustful, insatiate, godless, you will also be eternally wretched, cursed and damned!’ . . . We know who became heir to this Jewish revaluation . . . With regard to the huge and incalculably disastrous initiative taken by the Jews with this most fundamental of all declarations of war, I recall the words I wrote on another occasion (Beyond Good and Evil, section 195)21 – namely, 20 The German term Geist and its derivatives, are generally rendered by ‘spirit’ and its deriv- atives, but can also, as in this sentence, be translated as ‘intelligence’ and, as elsewhere, ‘mind’, ‘intellectuahat the slaves’ revolt in morality begins with the Jews: a revolt which has two thousand years of history behind it and which has only been lost sight of because – it was victorious . . .

If this is our last time together, then you’ll watch me. You’ll compare me to every man after. You’ll remember how no one will ever know your body like I do.” “You’re an ass. You know that, right?” “I’m aware.” I love getting her worked up. “But I’m an ass who can work your body like nobody else.

I stand by the door I neither go too far in nor stay too far out The door is the most important door in the world. It is the door through which men walk when they find God. There's no use in my going way inside and staying there ​ When so many are still outside and they, as much as I, crave to know where the door is And all that so many ever find is only the wall where a door ought to be. They creep along the wall like blind men with outstretched, groping hands Feeling for a door, knowing there must be a door, yet they never find it. So I stand by the door. The most tremendous thing in the world is for men to find that door - The door to God. The most important thing any man can do Is to take hold of one of those blind, groping hands and put it on the latch - The latch that only clicks and opens to the man's own touch. Men die outside that door As starving beggars die on cold nights in cruel cities in the dead of winter Die for want of what is within their grasp They live on the other side of it, live because they have found it Nothing else matters compared to helping them find it And open it and walk in and find Him. So I stand by the door. Go in great saints, go all the way in Go way down in the cavernous cellars and way into the spacious attics It is a vast roomy house, this house where God is. Go into the deepest of hidden casements of withdrawal, of silence, of sainthood Some must inhabit those inner rooms, And know the depths and heights of God And call outside to the rest of us how wonderful it is Sometimes I take a deeper look in, sometimes venture in a little farther But my place seems close to the opening So I stand by the door… I admire the people who go way in, But I wish they would not forget how it was before they got in Then they would be able to help the people who have not yet even found the door Or the people who want to run away from God again You can go in too deeply and stay in too long and forget the people outside the door As for me, I shall take my old accustomed place Near enough to God to hear Him and know He is there But not far from men as to not hear them and remember that they are there too. Where? Outside the door. Thousands of them, millions of them But more important for me, one of them, two of them, ten of them Whose hands I am intended to put on the latch So I shall stand by the door and wait for those who seek it. I had rather be a doorkeeper, so I stand by the door. — Samuel Shoemaker

One of my most favored day fancies creates a fool drama that goes something like this: It is evening. We have had our supper and the dishes have been washed and put away. Ima Dean and Romey are in chairs in the sitting room reading books. Though there is candy in the sack on the table they have remembered we cannot afford trips to the dentist and are munching fruit. The pages which so absorb them are taking them to faraway borders and on the way they are being introduced to great men and great women. They have come around to my way of thinking. We do not need television. It’s fare is pretty dull and slovenly compared to the excitement and order there is to be found in the written word. I go to my room and open the door and look in. The sewing machine is gone. During our day’s absence somebody has come and swiped it. I go back to the sitting room and make my spooky announcement. “The sewing machine is gone. Somebody has swiped it.” “I’m glad,” says Ima Dean, throwing her legs over the arm of her chair. “Old no-account hunk of garbage. Mrs. Connell knew it was on its last legs when she gave it to us for five dollars. I thank whoever took it. The only thing makes me mad is it didn’t happen sooner. Nobody should have to drive themselves crazy learning how to sew after they’ve worked all day at making a living. Don’t fret, Mary Call. I don’t need any new dresses. When I start to school again if people don’t like the way I look in my old ones they can look the other way. We don’t owe anybody anything and this is a free country. If I went to school in a gunnysack wouldn’t be anybody’s business but yours and mine. Clothes aren’t important, it’s brains that count. My, this is a good book. When I grow up I think I’m going to be a medical missionary and go somewheres far off and work. I don’t want to waste my life. I want it to count for something and be of some good to humanity.” “I have decided either to become an explorer or an archaeologist,” says Romey. “I haven’t settled on which yet but either way I won’t be wasting my life either. I’ll be working for the good of humanity too. You are raising Ima Dean and me right, Mary Call, and we will always be grateful to you for the way you have sacrificed yourself for us.” End of dream. The sewing machine has not been swiped. Ima Dean and Romey have not forgotten we don’t have television. They don’t give a whoop or a holler about the great men and great women in our history. Or about humanity or what sacrifices I might be making for their good. Distant shores do not beckon them. They spend their evenings wrangling with each other and listening to radio music. Sometimes, when they feel kind toward each other, they dance. I love these two but can hardly stand them.

100% Novelty is when nobody you mention it to has ever heard of it before. If half the people you told had never heard of the product it would be a score of 50%. 100% Utility means everyone you mention it to has a use for it. Not that everyone has a need or use for it but everyone you mention it to knows someone who has a need or use for it. 100% Dependability means it works as promised or expected every time. It it works as expected half the time that would be 50%. 100% Economy means that it is always recognized as a better value.... As you can see the total possible score is 400%. All you really need for viral behavior, for very, very high referral activity is 315%... A typical score for a lot of businesses or products would be about 300%. The resulting output behavior is about 0.15 referrals per customer. In other words, for every 6 or 7 customers you would get 1 referral. When you get it up to 315% you might expect one referral for every customer. So an added 15% gives you 600% difference in terms of performance and referrals. For some businesses it would be simple to arrive at a close approximation of their N.U.D.E. scores by calculating it from the results-end. What I mean is you will look at how many referrals you are getting and compare that to the known outcome from a given N.U.D.E. score. Referral rate 0.15; NUDE score 300%; 1 referral for every 6-7 existing customers. Referral rate 0.10. NUDE score 290%; 1 referral for every 10 existing customers. Referral rate 0.05; NUDE score 250%; 1 referral for every 20 existing customers.

Sit alone for five minutes and see what your life would be like if you were absolutely alone in this world. If there were nobody or nothing to compare yourself with, what would you truly long for? What would really matter to you if there were no external appreciation or critique? If you do this every day, you will become aligned with the longings of the life that you are, rather than the accumulated karmic mess that you believe you are.

The best kind of love doesn’t happen on moonlit walks and romantic vacations. It happens in between the folds of everyday life. It’s not grand gestures that show how you feel, it’s all the little secret things you do to make her life better that you never tell her about. Taking the end piece of the bread at breakfast so she can have the last middle piece for her sandwich when you pack her lunch. Making sure her car always has gas so she never has to stop at the pump. Telling her you’re not cold and to take your jacket when you are in fact, very, very cold. It’s watching TV on a rainy Sunday while you’re doing laundry and turning her light off when she’s fallen asleep reading. Sharing pizza crusts and laughing about something the kids did and taking care of each other when you’re sick. It isn’t glamorous, it isn’t all butterflies and stars in your eyes. It’s real. This is the kind of love that forever is made of. Because if it’s this good when life is draining and mundane and hard, think of how wonderful it will be when the love songs are playing and the moon is out. I was grateful that the life I’d been forced into taught me this lesson. I just wish I hadn’t learned it with Emma. Because nothing and nobody else would ever compare. With anyone else, it’s just folding socks on a sofa.

The Pirate Captain cut an impressive figure. If you were to compare him to a type of tree – and working out what sort of tree they would be if they were trees instead of pirates was easily one of the crew’s favourite pastimes – he would undoubtedly be an oak, or maybe a horse chestnut. He was all teeth and curls, but with a pleasant open face; his coat was of a better cut than everybody else’s, and his beard was fantastic and glossy, and the ends of it were twisted with expensive-looking ribbons. Living at sea tended to leave you with ratty, matted hair, but the Pirate Captain somehow kept his beard silky and in good condition, and though nobody knew his secret, they all respected him for it. They also respected him because it was said he was wedded to the sea. A lot of pirates claimed that they were wedded to the sea, but usually this was an excuse because they couldn’t get a girlfriend or they were a gay pirate, but in the Pirate Captain’s case none of his crew doubted he was actually wedded to the sea for a minute. Any of his men would have gladly taken a bullet for him, or even the pointy end of a cutlass. The Pirate Captain didn’t need to do much more than clear his throat and roll his eyes a bit to stop the fighting dead in its tracks.

It is very easy to learn how to speak and write correctly, as for all purposes of ordinary conversation and communication, only about 2,000 different words are required. The mastery of just twenty hundred words, the knowing where to place them, will make us not masters of the English language, but masters of correct speaking and writing. Small number, you will say, compared with what is in the dictionary! But nobody ever uses all the words in the dictionary or could use them did he live to be the age of Methuselah, and there is no necessity for using them. There are upwards of 200,000 words in the recent editions of the large dictionaries, but the one-hundredth part of this number will suffice for all your wants. Of course you may think not, and you may not be content to call things by their common names; you may be ambitious to show superiority over others and display your learning or, rather, your pedantry and lack of learning.