Noyes Quotes

And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor, The highwayman comes riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred, He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter-- Bess, the landlord's daughter-- Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Oh, grown-ups cannot understand, And grown-ups never will, How short the way to fairyland Across the purple hill.

The clitoris not only applauds when a women flaunts her mastery; it will give a standing ovation. In the multiple orgasm, we see the finest evidence that our lady Klitoris helps those who help themselves. It may take many minutes to reach the first summit, but once there the lusty mountaineer finds wings awaiting her. She does noy need to scramble back to the ground before scaling the next peak, but can glide like a raptor on currents of joy.

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

The universe is neither centered on earth nor the sun. It is centered on God.

One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light. Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

...love lies hidden in every rose...

Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! —Alfred Noyes

Noyes’s sex-crazed utopian cult in Oneida, New York.

Kimberly Reed explains why this love has transferred to adulthood, saying, "When you love something as a kid, you never stop loving it; you just tuck that love away in a different spot in your heart.

Don’t start from the good old things but the bad new ones.

Ambassador Noyes had another trait I had noticed in many slow-witted people: he was tremendously interested in philosophy.

We're alive because we're lucky, noy because we're better.

Bird misses everything at once. One thing makes her want all the others— lived or not, still she misses them. She misses lives she has never lived— days issued out of the future , hours that will never be.

Out on the water, we live not by the calendar prescribed by society—the one marked in weeks, months, years—but by sunsets and sunrises, the passing of storms, the changing of tides. Time as dictated by Nature herself.

মানুষের জন্য সম্পর্ক প্রয়োজন, বাঁধন নয়। সন্তানের প্রতি বাবা-মার কর্তব্য, বাবা-মার প্রতি সন্তানের কর্তব্য, শ্বশুর-শ্বাশুরীর প্রতি পুত্রবধূর কর্তব্য, স্বামী ও সংসারের প্রতি স্ত্রীর কর্তব্য - এতসব কর্তব্যের বাঁঁধন দিয়ে মানুষের জীবনকে অহেতুক জটিল আর যন্ত্রণাময় করে তোলা হয়েছে। সন্তান-স্নেহের মত স্বতঃস্ফুর্ত ভালোবাসাকেও পবিত্র দায়িত্ব, কর্তব্য ইত্যাদি নাম দিয়ে কিরকম কমার্শিয়ালাইজ করে ফেলা হয়েছে... বৃদ্ধ পিতা-মাতার প্রতি সন্তানের পবিত্র কর্তব্য ও দায়িত্বের কথা বলে মানুষের জীবন থেকে নির্মল ভালোবাসাকে পঙ্কিল করে তোলা হয়েছে। এতসব বাঁধনের খেলা না থাকাই ভালো। যা থাকবে তা হল, স্বতঃস্ফুর্ত ভালোবাসা, মমতা, দায়িত্ববোধ।

To ruin me would take just one word: witch. A whisper from one man to another. A curse upon my name, to be passed about the ship like a bottle of rum. A rumor that would surely end with my dead body being tossed into the sea.

You’re more than my desire, Sabine. If I’m your home, then you’re my safe harbor. The sanctuary where I can finally rest. You’re my everything—my truth, my strength, my trust, my hope, and all my love. You’re the rest of my life.

Oh cozy horror." ~Clara

Wasn’t it a puzzle? I’d grown up among peasants, yet it took a great house to teach me hunger.

SAUDADE SAUDADE...-Que será...yo no sé...lo he buscado en unos diccionarios empolvados y antiguos y en otros libros que no han dado el significado de esta dulce palabra de perfiles ambiguos. Dicen que azules son las montañas como ella, que en ella se obscurecen los amores lejanos, y un nobre y buen amigo mío(y de las estrellas) la nombra en un temblor de trenzas y de manos. Y hoy en Eça de Queiroz sin mirar la adivino, su secreto se evade, su dulzura me obsede como una mariposa de cuerpo extraño y fino siempre lejos - tan lejos! - de mis tranquilas redes. Saudade...Oiga, vencido, sabe el significado de esta palabra blanca que como un pez se evade? No...Y me tiembla en la boca su temblor delicado... Saudade...

Stand like a beaten anvil, when thy dream Is laid upon thee, golden from the fire. Flinch not, though heavily through that furnace-gleam The black forge-hammers fall on thy desire. Demoniac giants round thee seem to loom. 'Tis but the world-smiths heaving to and fro. Stand like a beaten anvil. Take the doom Their ponderous weapons deal thee, blow on blow. Needful to truth as dew-fall to the flower Is this wild wrath and this implacable scorn. For every pang, new beauty, and new power, Burning blood-red shall on thy heart be born. Stand like a beaten anvil. Let earth's wrong Beat on that iron and ring back in song.

Will you pour out tea, Miss Brent?' The el­der wom­an replied: 'No, you do it, dear. That tea-​pot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting-​wool. So an­noy­ing.' Ve­ra moved to the tea-​ta­ble. There was a cheer­ful rat­tle and clink of chi­na. Nor­mal­ity returned. Tea! Blessed or­di­nary everyday af­ter­noon tea! Philip Lom­bard made a cheery re­mark. Blore re­spond­ed. Dr. Arm­strong told a hu­mor­ous sto­ry. Mr. Jus­tice War­grave, who or­di­nar­ily hat­ed tea, sipped ap­prov­ing­ly. In­to this re­laxed at­mo­sphere came Rogers. And Rogers was up­set. He said ner­vous­ly and at ran­dom: 'Ex­cuse me, sir, but does any one know what's become of the bath­room cur­tain?' Lom­bard's head went up with a jerk. 'The bath­room cur­tain? What the dev­il do you mean, Rogers?' 'It's gone, sir, clean van­ished. I was go­ing round draw­ing all the cur­tai­ns and the one in the lav -​ bath­room wasn't there any longer.' Mr. Jus­tice War­grave asked: 'Was it there this morn­ing?' 'Oh, yes, sir.' Blore said: 'What kind of a cur­tain was it?' 'Scar­let oil­silk, sir. It went with the scar­let tiles.' Lom­bard said: 'And it's gone?' 'Gone, Sir.' They stared at each oth­er. Blore said heav­ily: 'Well - af­ter all-​what of it? It's mad - ​but so's everything else. Any­way, it doesn't matter. You can't kill any­body with an oil­silk cur­tain. For­get about it.' Rogers said: 'Yes, sir, thank you, sir.' He went out, shut­ting the door.

For as much as many NKOTB fans have been caught off guard by how much this has all meant, so too have some of the guys. Donnie says, "It was a surprise to me how fulfilling it was. It was a surprise to me how emotional it was, how rewarding it was. And quite frankly, how wrapped up in the fans I am. I'm not caught up in the hype. I don't need it. I don't need some fulfillment. I can live without it. But I don't want to. I love making people smile. I love sharing myself. I love the feeling of making people happy. I love the fact that, for whatever reason, I've been put in a position to change people's lives in a simple way. I'm not healing diseases. But I can make someone happy, even for a short time.

My point, Clara Gill, is that it's wise to choose your allegiance in this world, take a side or a story or a creed, but you might be wrong. You might be dazzled."~Will Cross

Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies, And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.

Not a movie to take your children to, nothing to show your ma: the little gougings, the wreck of the way they lived.

He was the tallest and the strongest of all the children ever born to Doctor and Mrs Noyes and the first of them to survive.

There's nothing worse than a messy dead body.

I would love nothing more than to take a look inside that brilliant mind of yours.

You know why?" Suzie says. "Because it's autumn. The leaves are falling. The woods open up. Anytime things are moving out, you're in love with moving in.

With the rumble of the waterfall in the distance, I slipped into sleep and dreamed of a red-haired girl holding a posy of white flowers. The words of Mr. Noyes's poem crept from the pages of my picture book and tiptoed into my mind. "Then you blow your magic vial, / Shape it like a crescent moon, / Set it up and make your trial, / Singing, 'Fairies, ah, come soon!

The modern world was not alive to the tremendous Reality that encompassed it. We were surrounded by an immeasurable abyss of darkness and splendor. We built our empires on a pellet of dust revolving around a ball of fire in unfathomable space. Life, that Sphynx, with the human face and the body of a brute, asked us new riddles every hour. Matter itself was dissolving under the scrutiny of Science; and yet, in our daily lives, we were becoming a race of somnambulists, whose very breathing, in train and bus and car, was timed to the movement of the wheels; and the more perfectly, and even alertly, we clicked through our automatic affairs on the surface of things, the more complete was our insensibility to the utterly inscrutable mystery that anything should be in existence at all.

Heart of my heart, we are one with the wind, One with the clouds that are whirled o'er the lea, One in many, O broken and blind, One as the waves are at one with the sea! Ay! when life seems scattered apart, Darkens, ends as a tale that is told, One, we are one, O heart of my heart, One, still one, while the world grows old.

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

The point is that you have here a direct, unmistakable assault on sanity and decency; and even - since some of Dali’s pictures would tend to poison the imagination like a pornographic postcard - on life itself. What Dali has done and what he has imagined is debatable, but in his outlook, his character, the bedrock decency of a human being does not exist. He is as anti-social as a flea. Clearly, such people are undesirable, and a society in which they can flourish has something wrong with it. Now, if you showed this book, with its illustrations, to Lord Elton, to Mr. Alfred Noyes, to The Times leader writers who exult over the “eclipse of the highbrow” - in fact, to any “sensible” art-hating English person - it is easy to imagine what kind of response you would get. They would flatly refuse to see any merit in Dali whatever. Such people are not only unable to admit that what is morally degraded can be æsthetically right, but their real demand of every artist is that he shall pat them on the back and tell them that thought is unnecessary. And they can be especially dangerous at a time like the present, when the Ministry of Information and the British Council put power into their hands. For their impulse is not only to crush every new talent as it appears, but to castrate the past as well. Witness the renewed highbrow-baiting that is now going on in this country and America, with its outcry not only against Joyce, Proust and Lawrence, but even against T. S. Eliot. But if you talk to the kind of person who can see Dali’s merits, the response that you get is not as a rule very much better. If you say that Dali, though a brilliant draughtsman, is a dirty little scoundrel, you are looked upon as a savage. If you say that you don’t like rotting corpses, and that people who do like rotting corpses are mentally diseased, it is assumed that you lack the æsthetic sense. Since “Mannequin rotting in a taxicab” is a good composition. And between these two fallacies there is no middle position, but we seldom hear much about it. On the one side Kulturbolschewismus: on the other (though the phrase itself is out of fashion) “Art for Art’s sake.” Obscenity is a very difficult question to discuss honestly. People are too frightened either of seeming to be shocked or of seeming not to be shocked, to be able to define the relationship between art and morals. It will be seen that what the defenders of Dali are claiming is a kind of benefit of clergy. The artist is to be exempt from the moral laws that are binding on ordinary people. Just pronounce the magic word “Art,” and everything is O.K.

Anxiety is a surgeon skilled at carving things open that were never meant to be touched in the first place. She will examine your life from every angle. Look for cracks, abrasions, weak spots, doubts. And when she finds one, she will pick it apart, bone by bone, worry by worry, until you can no longer tell truth from fiction.

If Ginny chooses him, she chooses his quiet, too.

On the day I ruin my mortal life, I think I’ve struck gold.

It is much harder to struggle against irrelevance than against exploitation.

Wanting so mostly rarely withstands the presence of the thing we want. Say why.

He says he tried. She says he didn’t even begin. She says her heart holds so much more. He says that’s all he can give. He can’t fix himself. She can’t take her love away. They both wish they could.

I'm sorry, is what she means to say. Sorry, sweetheart, about the elephants. About the sea turtles with their heads lopped off, and the friendly, machine-gunned whales. About the owls, my love, and the antelope. About the drowning bears...

A gifted violin player in danger of becoming a virtuoso and thus too attached to his instrument handed it over to the Oneida authorities and never played again. When a visiting Canadian teacher complained that the community did not foster “genius or special talent,” Noyes was delighted, replying, “We never expected or desired to produce a Byron, a Napoleon, or a Michelangelo.” You know you've reached a new plateau of group mediocrity when even a Canadian is alarmed by your lack of individuality.

In her utmost need she did what she had so tyrannically forbidden others to do. Giving up the attempt to save Gilbert Eddy by the powers of mind, she called in a regular practitioner, a “confectioner of disease,” Dr. Rufus K. Noyes. For once, she capitulated to reality. This representative of official medicine prescribed the appropriate remedies for a failing heart, but these likewise were unavailing. The patient died on June 3, 1882, the third husband of the woman who had declared illness and death to be nothing but error and illusion.

While some of these near-death experiences are marked by a sense of helplessness and passivity, even dissociation, in others there is an intense sense of immediacy and reality, and a dramatic acceleration of thought and perception and reaction, which allow one to negotiate danger successfully. Noyes and Kletti describe a jet pilot who faced almost certain death when his plane was improperly launched from its carrier: “I vividly recalled, in a matter of about three seconds, over a dozen actions necessary to successful recovery of flight attitude. The procedures I needed were readily available. I had almost total recall and felt in complete control.

For seventeen years, I’ve done everything I can to downplay my own womanhood. I cut my curls to my ears. Dressed in dirty slacks. Took swigs of rum whenever Omar wasn’t looking. Hauled barrels until my arms bulged with muscle. It’s a game of camouflage. How quickly can I absorb a man’s lifestyle? How thoroughly can I blend in? How long does it take to make them forget my womanhood altogether?

Dr. Noyes. He came, made the examination, and actually showed the widow the diseased aortic valve which had been the material, the “illusory,” cause of death. But now Mrs. Eddy rallied her forces. The doctor’s diagnosis, though confirmed by autopsy, had been wrong. Asa had not died of heart disease, but had been killed by “metaphysical arsenic,” by “mental poison.” Her enemies and his had slain him by telepathic influence. To console herself for her failure to avert the death, and to counteract the effect it might have on the weak-kneed, she gave an interview to a representative of the Post of Boston, and it appeared in that paper two days after the death. Here are some significant extracts: “My husband’s death was caused by malicious mesmerism... I know it was poison that killed him, but not material poison, but mesmeric poison... After a certain amount of mesmeric poison has been administered, it cannot be averted. No power of mind can resist it.

And what's the difference, after all, between real and unreal when people react precisely the same way to either?

So we sit, inside our separate skins, and every now and then lean forward to gaze hard at another person and read his or her looks. We ask, 'how's the weather in there?' And if they can answer, if they so choose, we're privileged to share for a brief time what it means to be other than who we are. Might it be that animals share--to varying degrees, inside their varied skins--these same shadowy contents from which love, terror, grief, compassion, and shame spring?

The vocal credits for Singin’ in the Rain are interesting, and rather confusing. In the film, Debbie Reynolds has been hired to re-dub [Jean Hagen]’s dialogue and songs in the latter’s first talking picture. We see the process being done in a shot of Reynolds, back to camera, matching her dialogue to Jean’s and synchronizing it while watching the sequence on film. But the voice that is used to replace Jean’s dialogue is not Reynolds’, but Jean’s own quite lovely natural voice. Director Stanley Donen explained, in Hugh Fordin’s The World of Entertainment: “We used Jean Hagen dubbing Debbie dubbing Jean. Jean’s voice is quite remarkable and it was supposed to be cultured speech, and Debbie had that terrible western noise.” To further confuse matters, the voice we hear as Jean sings “Would You?,” also supposedly supplied by Reynolds, is that of yet a third girl, unbilled studio singer Betty Noyes.

La vieja armería de Donal Noye, sin embargo, permanecía oscura y en silencio, y las habitaciones de Jon, en la parte de atrás de la vieja forja, estaban todavía más oscuras. Pero aún no había tenido tiempo de quitarse la capa cuando Dannel asomó la cabeza por la puerta para anunciar que Clydas le llevaba un mensaje. —Que pase. —Jon encendió un cirio en el brasero y prendió tres velas con él. Clydas entró parpadeando, con el rostro congestionado y un pergamino agarrado firmemente. —Disculpad, lord comandante. Sé que debéis de estar muy cansado, pero me pareció que querríais ver esto enseguida. —Bien hecho. —Jon leyó: En Casa Austera, con seis barcos. Mar bravía. Perdidos el Pájaro Negro y su tripulación; dos barcos lysenos encallados en Skane; la Garra hace agua. Nada marcha bien. Los salvajes se comen los cadáveres de los suyos. Cosas muertas en el bosque. Los capitanes braavosi solo quieren llevar mujeres y niños en sus barcos. Las brujas nos llaman esclavistas. Renunciamos a hacernos con la Cuervo de Tormenta; seis tripulantes y muchos salvajes muertos. Quedan ocho cuervos. Cosas muertas en el agua. Enviad ayuda por tierra; mar azotado por las tormentas. Desde la Garra, por la mano del maestre Harmune. Bajo el texto figuraba la furiosa firma de Cotter Pyke. —¿Es grave, mi señor? —preguntó Clydas. —Bastante grave. «Cosas muertas en el bosque. Cosas muertas en el agua. Quedan seis barcos de los once que zarparon. —Jon enrolló el pergamino con el ceño fruncido—. Cae la noche y comienza mi guerra.»

How old are you?” He gave her an odd look, almost as if the question embarrassed him. “Are you certain you wish to know?” “Of course.” Angelica frowned in confusion at his reluctance. She knew he was older than she was, but he couldn’t be much more than thirty. Avoiding her gaze, the duke replied, “I just had my two hundred and seventy-sixth birthday a few months back.” All the breath fled from her body. He was two hundred and seventy-six years old? “H-how long do vampires usually live?” He sat on the stone bench by the lilac bush and sighed. “We live for centuries. In fact, rumor has it that the oldest of us has been around since before Christ was born. Is this to be an interrogation?” He looked up at her sharply. Angelica was reeling from the information, so she almost didn’t notice the flicker of warmth in his eyes when she sat down next to him. “No—yes… perhaps. I am merely curious.” His

Fond remembrance of Damien lead to the recollection of a few former love relationships that lacked in sobriety and in depth. Cruising through school and university, and not being unpopular or unattractive, Chloe commanded many distinguished young men’s attention even though the mutual interest between both the parties remained short-lived. Despite her current relationship being a classic case of forbidden love, like the romance depicted in Alfred Noyes’ ‘The Highwayman’, she experienced a certitude in the company of Lucien which she never felt before with her previous lovers.

I’d never had this sort of connection with anyone before, never felt so balanced by another person. It wasn’t that I felt incomplete by myself, but more that with Bec I was somehow made whole. Like she filled all those holes that’d opened up inside me with pieces of herself to keep me together. It was her love that pushed the darkness aside.

Noyes took comfort in the fact that no such event seemed remotely on hand.

He preferred to remain in Chalkdene where he was well known and universally disrespected. Permanent residents employed him occasionally for work that did not demand intelligence, honesty or personal cleanliness.

I like youth, and I like the real newness, which always seems to me to be a development out of the old—not a bombshell. But I'm not sure that some of the writers who are claiming those qualities today are as new and young as the elderly critics tell us. I feel surest of my young writers when I don't hear their joints creaking with the strain to be new. ... "We must remember how badly Keats and Shelley were treated in their day, mustn't we?" "But the Della Cruscans, who were really bad, were sat upon, too, weren't they?" said Miss Bird. "And, after all, your argument would apply to bosh as well as to beautiful things." "Victorian, Miss Bird, Victorian," said Basil, wagging a playful finger at her. He had never heard of the Della Cruscan poets, but it was one of his principles never to give himself away in such things. "The conventional mind is the enemy, you know, in this country. I always admire that fellow—what's his name—who dedicated his book in those six words: 'To the British Public, these pearls!' We must think for ourselves. We mustn't be too conventional, you know." "But—that's exactly—I don't want to think what the fashion of the moment and the newspapers tell me I ought to think. At least, I don't want to do it mechanically. And I don't mean what you think I mean," stammered poor Miss Bird, blushing and puzzled at her inability to penetrate that superior armor with a perfectly sound and pointed weapon. The Helmstone debates had not yet taught her that you cannot argue with an alleged "modern" who is so pleased with himself (and so ancient a type) that he waives your own remarks and hears nothing but his own blood purring in his ears.

You remember the 'distinguished' poem that was quoted in the copy you lent to me? "They ordered bacon And eggs at seven. At eight o'clock, There was nobody down. Only the coffeepot Stood on the table." "Yes, but what possible ..." "Do you also remember what your 'distinguished' weekly said about it? 'The old-fashioned reader who would dismiss as insignificant this new and vital work (a striking example of the sharp-edged imagisme with which the more adventurous of our younger writers are experimenting today)'—you see, Basil, I have it by heart, words, tone, cadence and all—'forgets that every object, even the coffeepot on the table, has a perimeter which not only encloses that object, but also subtends a physical and metaphysical otherness that includes the whole of the rest of the universe. Such work, therefore, is more truly significant of ultimate reality than all the pantings after God of the Victorians.' ... you were squashing a perfectly genuine love of simple and true things in a perfectly genuine little woman, and that the words you borrowed for the purpose were muddle-headed and insincere drivel. ... They are not literary grounds. They are human grounds. Miss Bird, as I told you, is unlike your 'distinguished' anonymities in having a few quite genuine beliefs; and you used the cheap phrases of a pseudo-metaphysical charlatan, in a precious literary weekly, to snub her. I saw the hurt look on her face long after you had wiped your boots on her perfectly sincere love of certain perfectly true and simple things. ... I don't go to church to hear a high-brow Anglican curate quoting a Scandinavian lunatic, any more than I go to my hair-dresser's to hear a Christy minstrel reciting the Apostles' Creed. I know that it's all very noble and distinguished and broad-minded and generally newspaperish. You might have been brought up in a seminary for young ladies of fashion. ... He didn't know whether he was modern or antique. In either case, it appeared he was a fraud.

...if he could only break away from this pseudo-modernity, and pseudo-intellectualism; if he could just once defy his own age, instead of defying the dead Victorians; if he could only shock the vicar (who reads Proust) by quoting Longfellow (one doesn't put him on the mountaintops, of course, but there's better stuff than Proust ever dreamed of in the sonnets on Dante); I should feel that he was really his own self, instead of a variation on a current theme. It seems to me that if you really like a person, you want him above everything to be his own self ... One does get so sick of the notion of the present moment—that, because its conventions aren't those of the last century, it has no conventions of its own. The conventionalists of today all seem to forget that the conventions of yesterday were equally different from those of the day before yesterday.

newspapers, without a purpose, devoted space nowadays to illiterate imbecilities that nobody would have glanced at twice, a generation ago

I long to get away, sometimes, from my own generation. I don't care whether it's into the past, or into the future, so long as it's away from the patter into simple realities again. I hate being a slave to my own age. ... We are so afraid of sentimentality that we're losing the power of human feeling. Our writers today understand all the brutalities and cynicisms; but how many of them understand the simple human affections that hold decent human beings together and make the world worth living in?

As they walked through the armory, Ghost sniffed at them, his tail upraised and bristling. My brothers. The Night’s Watch needed leaders with the wisdom of Maester Aemon, the learning of Samwell Tarly, the courage of Qhorin Halfhand, the stubborn strength of the Old Bear, the compassion of Donal Noye. What it had instead was them.

I am still able to recite long portions of Alfred Noyes’s “The Highwayman” at the slightest provocation.

The wise man does little, and little remains to be done. The foolish man is always doing, yet much remains to be done.

Don't be deceived into believing you know what time it is. Your watch does not tell you the time; it tells you the history of time.

draperies, standing in a pool of flickering light with magic shattered

When the coach set me down before that avenue of trees – straight and stern with cicadas screaming in the tall branches – I saw no welcome for a starved brat missing her mama.

The green beards of moss-grown streets in the provinces will be shaved clean by the cruel razors of velocity.

He must disguise the fact that with Noys's nonexistence in the new Reality he was almost physically overwhelmed by a flood of pure elation, unbearable joy.

The human heart has always dreamed of a fairer world than the one it knows

He turned to look at her, and she was smiling at him. It was Noys as she had been, and his own heart beating as it had used to.

what makes sense to you and me is not always God’s best.

With his seemingly unerring instinct for awkward sexual metaphors, Noyes compares the indiscriminate emptying of one’s seed into a woman to the discharge of a blunderbuss gun into a friend’s face: “it is better to fire in the air,” he admonishes, “than to kill somebody with it.”25

really had no issues with her drinking. I just didn’t want that for myself any longer. I’ve always been an all or nothing person, which I suppose bled into our relationship as well.

Life comes to us unbridled; shall we hide? Or will we, through the pleasure and the pain, embrace the greatest heights we can attain and smile upon the world with hearts flung wide?

Too many sorrows I have known, too many sadnesses unsaid. A lake of woe surrounds my heart, the last remains of tears unshed.

Oh for a son when my head is bowed and years have lined my face – A stalwart son with a gentle heart, where I still hold a mother's place. Oh, for a son when eyes grow dim and memories recede – A spirited son, a steadfast son, who sees but does not fear my need.

Keep the Faith Sometimes I'd like to be the type who lives my life without a backward glance – then I would dance through days unburdened, fancy-free. Instead, I'm me. You know, the one who counts the cracks on every wall and then recounts them backwards lest it fall (knowing full well the chances are it will). Still, I have moments when I just let go – then I stop counting cracks and count on faith. You ask if the wall falls? Surprise! It's safe.

In the twinkling of an eye, Cinderella became everything she had ever hoped to be – the most beautiful girl in the Kingdom. Her life was a dream come true, except for one problem: the changes made were temporary. At midnight, she would return to her former, impoverished state. We all feel spiritually impoverished sometimes, and even the most proactive women can get caught waiting for that fairy godmother to appear. Wouldn't it be a lot easier if someone else could suddenly come along and turn our spiritual rags to riches? Waiting for someone or something to transform us into our best selves is tempting, yet how little growth we would experience if such gratuitous transformations were available. Fortunately ... I have it on good authority that the fairy godmother will definitely not be coming. (This is good news for me because I'm not sure I could have resisted her help!) The progress we make in this life will depend upon our own labors, and every blessing .... will be ours to keep.

Come, speak to me of times gone by. Remind me of our carefree youth. Recall with me those nights we sang and laughed and thought we knew the truth. Come, speak to my of times gone by. Remind me of your dancing feet. Recall with me those days we knew the world was ours, and life was sweet.

Make your praise specific, not "You're a great poet," but, "I love that line about green hair the color of Sprite cans." Sweeping compliments are often dismissed by teenagers and can make them feel the pressure of unrealistic expectations. When you respond specifically to something concrete they have already done, they can really take it in.

Resilience is wasted on the young. Our ability to push past anything, even embarrassment, even poison. Spring back into life, gait unchanged, suffering nothing more than vertigo and an invisible heap of sorrow amassing in the pit of our stomachs. A growing heap of trauma. Add to the pile with every fake smile, every unacknowledged ordeal. Dig into it only years later. By then, the heap will have grown so large it will be impossible to see all at once. But for now, it lies dormant, growing, collecting misery.

The world is flying by, and we? As fast as wind, as free as air. Our destination? We don't know. We're much too busy getting there!

I thought Cradle Island would fix us. I did. That the waters would heal us, just the way Mom said they could. But here we are, and everywhere I turn, I see grief. I see it in the strange actions of my siblings and the dead silence at the dinner table and the hushed voices of my parents in the hallway outside my bedroom door. Grief didnt't leave; if anything, it burrowed even deeper in. Took the place of the one who left. Grief sits in Henry's chair at dinner, sleeps in his bed at night. The island, which once seemed ready to burst from all the life packed onto its shores, has become a colorless place.

Love is adaptable, but my feelings for you have never faltered.

Don't make a young person's behavior be about you. Never, "Oh, you're hurting me so much! You're going to be the end of me, but "It's hard to watch you hurting yourself this way." Teens will like your concern more if they feel it's for them and not yourself. Other ways of expressing your concern include: "You deserve better," and "You need to take better care of yourself.

Make consequences as logical as possible. If teens drive irresponsibly, they should lose car privileges, not phone privileges. If a curfew violation occurs, make curfew one hour earlier for a week. If homework is not getting done because of video games, restrict them, not baseball. Try to make your restrictions selective and specific. Teens need a solid consequence they can feel, but they also need fun and enjoyment in their lives. If you take everything away, they have nothing to fill their cups. Young people who are running on empty will have fewer resources to use in producing good behavior.

Encara no l’havia vist en funcionament en moltes situacions de les que es produeixen normalment a la vida, no sabia com reaccionava o com es comportava davant d’un munt de possibles circumstàncies. Però l’enamorament és un estat que passa per alt tot això perquè no es basa en cap anàlisi, és un conjunt de reaccions químiques que acaben produint una il·lusió anomenada amor, igual que la combinació d’excés d’alcohol en sang acaba produint un estat anomenat ebrietat.

«The past is a strange country». Sempre m’ha obsessionat aquesta idea, i encara més des que vaig començar a captar-ne tota la dimensió. Fa sentir impotent no ser capaç de recordar amb certesa el propi passat, no poder estar absolutament segur que allò que ens sembla que recordem haver viscut fos exactament així, tal com avui ho evoquem. La nostra memòria és pura il·lusió, i el passat és un país on hi som estrangers. Quin vertigen, perquè de fet el present se’ns escapa, ens fuig d’entre els dits com la sorra fina d’una platja, i el passat és l’única cosa que ens pensem que tenim. Vivim de lloguer dins la nostra pròpia casa.

Hi ha llocs on una pensa que no hi anirà mai, llocs inabastables, tan llunyans i perillosos que gairebé no existeixen, llocs que no surten als mapes ni a les cartes de navegació perquè només són reals dins d’una mateixa, són una creació del cap i el cor i les entranyes, espais per on gairebé no gosem ni imaginar-nos que puguem arribar a transitar perquè són els llocs inexistents pels quals en canvi valdria la pena arriscar-ho tot, penjar la vida i capbussar-se en la quimera. Em sembla que tots tenim un lloc així, o potser no tots, potser hauria de dir totes; potser aquesta fal·làcia és més de dones, que tenim una tendència innata a crear contes de fades en la nostra imaginació i ens agrada pensar malgrat tot que el príncep blau no només existeix sinó que sap on som i un dia o altre vindrà a buscar-nos. En el moment en què una cançó que sona a l’iPod ens fa plorar a la cua del supermercat, en el precís instant en què un paràgraf d’una novel·la evoca el record d’un fet que potser no ha passat però que tot i així fa tant de mal que obliga a tancar el llibre i respirar fondo, llavors s’obre la porta a aquests llocs que ens acompanyen, i és allà on hi trobes una part de tu mateixa que no existeix enlloc més i que mai no saps si has d’endur-te posada o s’ha de quedar allà on és i des d'allà il·luminar la vida que vius dia a dia.

Noys se acercaba lentamente hacia sus brazos, había llegado el fin de la Eternidad... ...Y el comienzo del Infinito.

Daisy: I run hot I always have. I am noy going to sit around sweating my ass off just so mencan felél more comfortable. It's not my responsibility to not turn them on. It's their responsibility to not be an asshole" -Daisy motherfucking Jones

Do noy hypothecate a good product from a bad product.

But the truth is this: the whole world is dangerous for young women like me. There was only one place the Captain trusted I would be safe, and that was the sea.

a significant step on the way to the top was domestication of fire

Olivia is the thing that keeps air in my lungs, blood moving through my veins. If she leaves me again, or I her, I don’t think I would survive it.

Observing that since the War of 1812, “the line of socialist excitements lies parallel with the line of religious Revivals,” Noyes cites the early-nineteenth-century division of Puritan Congregationalism into orthodoxy and Unitarianism; the first party, he says, “was set to defend religion, the other liberty.” Orthodoxy, he goes on, “had for its function the carrying through of the Revival system; the other the development of Socialism.

Nakashima’s report didn’t merely suggest that the U.S. government strongly believed the Russian state was behind the attack. It also went on to name the exact organization NotPetya’s programmers worked for: the Main Center for Special Technology, or GTsST, a part of Russia’s military spy agency known as the Main Intelligence Directorate, or Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, commonly referred to by its Russian acronym. The GRU.