Nudge Book Quotes

Nudge threw her arms around my neck. 'I love you Max! I love all of us too!' Yeah, me too,' Said the Gasman. 'I don't care if we have our house, or a cliff ledge, or a cardboard box. Home is wherever we all are, together.

Rhys shuddered, and I watched his cock twitch. “Play later,” he ground out. Indeed. His mouth found mine, the kiss open and deep, a clash of tongues and teeth. He lay me down on the pillows, and I locked my legs around his back, careful of the wings. Though I stopped caring as he nudged at my entrance. And paused. “Play later,” I snarled into his mouth. Rhys laughed and slid in. And in. And in.

Except fang. I glared at him. "Go on, try to stop me, I dare you." It was like the old days when we used to wrestle, each trying to get the better of the other. I was ready to take him down, my hands curled into fist. "I was just going to say be careful," Fang told me. He stepped closer and brushed some hair out of my eyes. "And I've got your back." He motioned with his head toward the torpedo chamber. Oh my God. It hit me like a tsunami then, how perfect he was for me, how no one else would ever, could ever, be so perfect for me, how he was everything I could possibly hope for, as a friend, boyfriend, maybe even more. He was it for me. There would be no more looking. I really, really loved him, with a whole new kind of love I'd never felt before, something that made every other kind of love I'd ever felt feel washed out and wimpy in comparison. I loved him with every cell in my body, every thought in my head, every feather in my wings, every breathe in my lungs. and air sacs. Too bad I was going out to face almost certain death. Right there in front of everyone, I threw my arms around his neck and smashed my mouth against his. He was startled for a second, then his strong arms wrapped around me so tightly I could hardly breathe. "ZOMG," I heard Nudge whisper, but still fang and I kissed slanting our heads this way and that to get closer. I could have stood there and kissed him happily for the next millennium, but Angel, or what was left of her was still out there in the could dark ocean. Reluctantly, I ended the kiss, took a step back. Fang's obsidian eyes were glittering brightly and his stoic face had a look of wonder on it."Gotta go," I said quietly. A half smile quirked his mouth. "Yeah. Hurry back." I nodded and he stepped out of the air lock chamber, keeping his eyes fixed on me, memorizing me as he hit the switch that sealed the chamber. The doors hissed shut with a kind of finality, and I realized that my heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to start snapping ribs. I was scared. I was crazily, deeply, incredibly, joyously, terrifyingly in love. I was on a death mission. Before my head simply exploded from so much emotion, I hit the large button that pressurized the air lock enough for the doors to open to the ocean outside. I really, really hoped that I would prove somewhat uncrushable, like Angel did. The door cracked open below me and I saw the first dark glint of frigid water.

My books are mine, and yet they are alien to me--as a child belongs to a parent and yet has a life of its own. I can guide and hope and nudge my characters this and that way, but in the end, they become what they become. I don't always like what they become myself, but like a parent, there are times when I just don't know what to do about it. Other times when I'm so proud of them I could bust.

This is why Madoc was going to be a great lawyer like his dad. Working people wasn’t just about the words you spoke. It was about body language, tone, and timing. Keep your voice natural, your body relaxed, and distract them with a change of subject as soon as possible. Here it comes in three, two, one . . . “Come on,” he nudged Addie. “It’s fine.

It was the Oats that read avidly and always remembered those passages which cast doubt on the literal truth of the Book of Om - and nudged him and said, if this isn't true, what can you believe?

The whole flock is helping to raise her, with Total insisting on French lessons and Nudge making sure she doesn't look like a cave girl (even though we pretty much live in caves). But it's only Fang who spends as much time with her as I do, Fang who patiently teaches the fascinating facts his photographic brain remembers from all those fat books I shunned in school. Fang, because he's her father.

The next day, I’d be going home. Little did I know that, as I slept, the universe was already conspiring, like a table full of gossiping women, to help nudge me in the right direction to- ward my fate... or to my death.

Beautiful!” she would murmur, nudging Septimus, that he might see. But beauty was behind a pane of glass. Even taste (Rezia liked ices, chocolates, sweet things) had no relish to him. He put down his cup on the little marble table. He looked at people outside; happy they seemed, collecting in the middle of the street, shouting, laughing, squabbling over nothing. But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the tea-shop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him—he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily (“Septimus, do put down your book,” said Rezia, gently shutting the Inferno), he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then—that he could not feel.

A few days later, Tuesday quietly crossed our apartment as I read a book and, after a nudge against my arm, put his head on my lap. As always, I immediately checked my mental state, trying to assess what was wrong. I knew a change in my biorhythms had brought Tuesday over, because he was always monitoring me, but I couldn't figure out what it was. Breathing? Okay. Pulse? Normal. Was I glazed or distracted? Was I lost in Iraq? Was a dark period descending? I didn't think so, but I knew something must be wrong, and I was starting to worry...until I looked into Tuesday's eyes. They were staring at me softly from under those big eyebrows, and there was nothing in them but love.

A fundamental premise of this book is that human beings naturally desire to give. We are born into gratitude: the knowledge we have received and the desire to give in turn. Far from nudging reluctant people to give unto others against their lazy impulses, today’s economy pressures us to deny our innate generosity and channel our gifts instead toward the perpetuation of a system that serves almost no one. A sacred

God takes us through life`s journey. Always nudging our Spirits to go for plus and shun the minus.

Even the gods felt close, drawn to witness all that was to come. Witness, or to seize the moment and act directly. A nudge here, a tug there, if only to appease their egos… if only to see what happens.

Sadly, some people never get beyond the box stage in their creative life. We all know people who have announced that they've started work on a project-- say, a book-- but some time passes, and when you politely ask how it's going, they tell you that they're still researching. Weeks, months, years pass and they produce nothing. They have tons of research but it's never enough to nudge them toward the actual process of writing the book.

Smiling victoriously, he crushed me against his chest and kissed me again. This time, the kiss was bolder and playful. I ran my hands from his powerful shoulders, up to his neck, and pressed him close to me. When he pulled away, his face brightened with an enthusiastic smile. He scooped me up and spun me around the room, laughing. When I was thoroughly dizzy, he sobered and touched his forehead to mine. Shyly, I reached out to touch his face, exploring the angles of his cheeks and lips with my fingertips. He leaned into my touch like the tiger did. I laughed softly and ran my hands up into his hair, brushing it away from his forehead, loving the silky feel of it. I felt overwhelmed. I didn’t expect a first kiss to be so…life altering. In a few brief moments, the rule book of my universe had been rewritten. Suddenly I was a brand new person. I was as fragile as a newborn, and I worried that the deeper I allowed the relationship to progress, the worse that the deeper I allowed the relationship to progress, the worse it would be if Ren left. What would become of us? There was no way to know, and I realized what a breakable and delicate thing a heart was. No wonder I’d kept mine locked away. He was oblivious to my negative thoughts, and I tried to push them into the back of my mind and enjoy the moment with him. Setting me down, he briefly kissed me again and pressed soft kisses along my hairline and neck. Then, he gathered me into a warm embrace and just held me close. Stroking my hair while caressing my neck, he whispered soft words in his native language. After several moments, he sighed, kissed my cheek, and nudged me toward the bed. “Get some sleep, Kelsey. We both need some.” After one last caress on my cheek with the back of his fingers, he changed into his tiger form and lay down on the mat beside my bed. I climbed into bed, settled under my quilt, and leaned over to stroke his head. Tucking my other arm under my cheek, I softly said, “Goodnight, Ren.” He rubbed his head against my hand, leaned into it, and purred quietly. Then he put his head on his paws and closed his eyes. Mae West, a famous vaudeville actress, once said, “A man’s kiss is his signature.” I grinned to myself. If that was true, then Ren’s signature was the John Hancock of kisses.

Luckily, scientists have uncovered a few secrets to help make the process of creating habits easier. In their bestselling book Nudge, the economist Richard Thaler and the law professor Cass Sunstein show how to influence other people’s behavior through carefully designed choices, or what they called “choice architecture.” You

As if on cue, a line of silhouettes emerged from behind a desert scrub—shapes that moved like cats. They wandered through the landscape of corpses, touching each with a gentle nudge. They grew closer, and it became clear that Chuluum was leading the other cats on their sorrowful homage, giving the fallen librarians the honor they deserved.

Hare-Lip sniffed and sneered and Hoo-Hoo snickered, until Edwin nudged them to be silent.

What do you want to do forever?' He shrugged. 'I used to want to be a lawyer.' 'Used to?' She nudged him. 'I think you could be great at that.' 'Hmm, not when the only GCSEs I got spell out the word DUUUDDEE.

They ended up at the Old Corner Bookstore, which Brian had read about in a tour guide to Boston. "Longfellow and Hawthorne and Oliver Wendell Holmes used to read here. Let's go in." Brian nudged the girls until they obeyed. It was a regular bookstore, less history-minded than Brian had expected. In fact, the local history shelves were quite mangeable. I'll buy one book, he thought. This will get me launched in actual reading. Out of the zillions of choices, I'll find one here. Brian picked out Paul Revere and the World He Lived In. It was thick and somehow exciting, with its chapter headings and scholarly notes and bibliography.

Then they had grown. Edging into life from the back door. Becoming. Everybody in the world was in a position to give them orders. White women said, "Do this." White children said, "Give me that." White men said. "Come here." Black men said, "Lay down." The only people they need not take orders from were black children and each other. But they took all of that and re-created it in their own image. They ran the houses of white people, and knew it. When white men beat their men, they cleaned up the book and went home to receive abuse from the victim. They beat their children with one hand and stole for them with the other. The hangs that felled trees also cut umbilical cords; the hands that wrung the necks of chickens and butchered hogs also nudged African violets into bloom; the arms that loaded sheaves, bales, and sacks rocked babies into sleep. They patted biscuits into flaky ovals of innocence--and shrouded the dead. They plowed all day and came home to nestle like plums under the limbs of their men, The legs that straddled a mule's back were the same ones that straddled their men's hips. And the difference was all the difference there was.

At a lunchtime reception for the diplomatic corps in Washington, given the day before the inauguration of Barack Obama as president, I was approached by a good-looking man who extended his hand. 'We once met many years ago,' he said. 'And you knew and befriended my father.' My mind emptied, as so often happens on such occasions. I had to inform him that he had the advantage of me. 'My name is Hector Timerman. I am the ambassador of Argentina.' In my above album of things that seem to make life pointful and worthwhile, and that even occasionally suggest, in Dr. King’s phrase as often cited by President Obama, that there could be a long arc in the moral universe that slowly, eventually bends toward justice, this would constitute an exceptional entry. It was also something more than a nudge to my memory. There was a time when the name of Jacobo Timerman, the kidnapped and tortured editor of the newspaper La Opinion in Buenos Aires, was a talismanic one. The mere mention of it was enough to elicit moans of obscene pleasure from every fascist south of the Rio Grande: finally in Argentina there was a strict ‘New Order’ that would stamp hard upon the international Communist-Jewish collusion. A little later, the mention of Timerman’s case was enough to derail the nomination of Ronald Reagan’s first nominee as undersecretary for human rights; a man who didn’t seem to have grasped the point that neo-Nazism was a problem for American values. And Timerman’s memoir, Prisoner without a Name, Cell without a Number, was the book above all that clothed in living, hurting flesh the necessarily abstract idea of the desaparecido: the disappeared one or, to invest it with the more sinister and grisly past participle with which it came into the world, the one who has been ‘disappeared.’ In the nuances of that past participle, many, many people vanished into a void that is still unimaginable. It became one of the keywords, along with escuadrone de la muerte or ‘death squads,’ of another arc, this time of radical evil, that spanned a whole subcontinent. Do you know why General Jorge Rafael Videla of Argentina was eventually sentenced? Well, do you? Because he sold the children of the tortured rape victims who were held in his private prison. I could italicize every second word in that last sentence without making it any more heart-stopping. And this subhuman character was boasted of, as a personal friend and genial host, even after he had been removed from the office he had defiled, by none other than Henry Kissinger. So there was an almost hygienic effect in meeting, in a new Washington, as an envoy of an elected government, the son of the brave man who had both survived and exposed the Videla tyranny.

Even when he was small there’d been a part of him that thought the temple was a silly boring place, and tried to make him laugh when he was supposed to be listening to sermons. It had grown up with him. It was the Oats that read avidly and always remembered those passages which cast doubt on the literal truth of the Book of Om—and nudged him and said, if this isn’t true, what can you believe? And the other half of him would say: there must be other kinds of truth. And he’d reply: other kinds than the kind that is actually true, you mean? And he’d say: define actually! And he’d shout: well, actually Omnians would have tortured you to death, not long ago, for even thinking like this. Remember that? Remember how many died for using the brain which, you seem to think, their god gave them? What kind of truth excuses all that pain? He’d never quite worked out how to put the answer into words. And then the headaches would start, and the sleepless nights. The Church schismed all the time these days, and this was surely the ultimate one, starting a war inside one’s head.

As if the virus itself is listening, the she-deer standing in front of him is racked by a huge cough, her skinny body spasming and shuddering before her legs give way and she collapses on to the ground. The other deer crowd round, nudging her back up again while the stag watches.

the rhythm of the phases of action and stillness has an intelligence of its own. If we tune in, we can hear that rhythm, and the organ of perception is the desire, the nudge of excitement or the feeling of flow, of rightness, of alignment. It is a feeling of being alive. To listen to that feeling and to trust it is a profound revolution indeed.

He’s a dumb ass,” Emilio said to me. “I’m almost finished.” The second he was out of earshot, Marcus sauntered back up to the bench with stiff, rehearsed swag. Definitely a mirror practicer, that one. “Why you messin’ with Emilio? What’s up with you and me?” He wiped his hand on his black tank top and held it out, presumably for me to take, at which point we’d presumably climb aboard his moped and ride off into the sunset. Before I could shatter his dreams, Samuel smacked his hand away. “Keep it movin’,” Samuel said. He nudged him back toward the bikes, but the guy was unfazed. “She likes me.” “She thinks you stupid,” Samuel said. “And she right.” Marcus cocked an eyebrow and licked his lips, more dazzling mirror work, and leaned in for another proposition. “When you’re ready to graduate from a boy to a man, you call me.” “How about I call when you’re ready to graduate from a boy to a man?” The other guys howled, and just when I decided this game might be kind of fun, Emilio was at the bench, tugging a shirt over his head. “Vamos, princesa.

The Warrens of Magic dwelt in the beyond. Find the gate and nudge it open a crack. What leaks out is yours to shape. With these words a young woman set out on the path to sorcery. Open yourself to the Warren that comes to you — that finds you. Draw forth its power – as much as your body and soul are capable of containing — but remember, when the body fails, the gate closes.

Pffft! I ain’t scared of no zombie. Bring it on! I don’t care if you got a deep, scary voice.” MWAHAHAHAHA! The scary laughter echoed throughout the place. Then a huge shiny figure emerged from the shadows. It was the zombie commander! Steve screamed and fainted. I don’t know if he was pretending to play dead, but he looked pretty lifeless. I nudged him a few times with my foot, but he didn’t move.

He's got a point," said Jace. With the handle of his spear, he had pushed the oilcloth aside, uncovering a two-handed sword with an immense broad curved blade, like a cross between a scimitar and a machete. He gingerly nudged the tip with his good foot. "As does this. Clary? Dadao?" Clary took it and went to the other end of the room, where she stepped through a few two-handed sword forms, her bright red braid whipping around her head as she spun through a series of forward cuts, ending with the sword elegantly held downwards. She flashed them a smile. "I like it." Jace was staring. Alec patted him on the shoulder. "There's something about a tiny girl with a gigantic sword," Jace murmured. Clary came back over. Jace visibly restrained himself from grabbing her and kissing her, and instead went back to the pile of weapons at their feet.

She touched his arm. “If you need anything, send word. It’ll be a few weeks before we reach Orynth, but—I suppose with magic returned, you can find a messenger to get word to me quickly.” “Thanks to you—and to your friends.” She glanced over her shoulder at them. They were all trying their best to look like they weren’t eavesdropping. “Thanks to all of us,” she said quietly. “And to you.” Dorian gazed toward the city horizon, the rolling green foothills beyond. “If you had asked me nine months ago if I thought …” He shook his head. “So much has changed.” “And will keep changing,” she said, squeezing his arm once. “But … There are things that won’t change. I will always be your friend.” His throat bobbed. “I wish I could see her, just one last time. To tell her … to say what was in my heart.” “She knows,” Aelin said, blinking against the burning in her eyes. “I’ll miss you,” Dorian said. “Though I doubt the next time we meet will be in such … civilized circumstances.” She tried not to think about it. He gestured over her shoulder to her court. “Don’t make them too miserable. They’re only trying to help you.” She smiled. To her surprise, a king smiled back. “Send me any good books that you read,” she said. “Only if you do the same.” She embraced him one last time. “Thank you—for everything,” she whispered. Dorian squeezed her, and then stepped away as Aelin mounted her horse and nudged it into a walk.

Ian, about Elizabeth Cameron. Her duenna said some things-“ That alarmingly pleasant yet distant smile returned to Ian’s face. “I’ll spare you further conversation, Duncan. It’s over.” “The discussion or-“ “All of it.” “It didn’t look over to me!” Duncan snapped, nudged to the edge by Ian’s infuriating calm. “That scene I witnessed-“ “You witnessed the end.” He said that, Duncan noted, with the same deadly finality, the same amused calm with which he’d spoken of his grandfather. It was as if he’d resolved matters to his complete satisfaction in his own mind, and nothing and no one could ever invade the place where he put them to rest. Based on Ian’s last reaction to the matter of Elizabeth Cameron, she was now relegated to the same category as the Duke of Stanhope. Frustrated, Duncan jerked the bottle of brandy off the table at Ian’s elbow and splashed some into his glass. “There’s something I’ve never told you,” he said angrily. “And that is?” Ian inquired. “I hate it when you turn all pleasant and amused. I’d rather see you furious! At least then I know I still have a chance of reaching you.” To Duncan’s boundless annoyance, Ian merely picked up his book and started reading again.

Gavin appeared and vanished numerous times each day checking up on me. Now and then he’d randomly pop the question, often disguising it within our conversations. “Did you know that bubbleberries are in season right now? They’re blooming all over Dreamland.” “I love those berries. They’re fun and strange.” I recalled the time that Gavin and I had burped up iridescent-purple bubbles after swallowing handfuls of berries. They were deliciously sweet. Gavin nudged me with his elbow. “Not half as strange as you are.” I laughed. “So, Annabelle, will you come with me?” I nearly spoke without thinking, but caught myself, careful not to slip and say the word, yes. “Sorry, Gavin. I can’t.

After all, behavioral economists have spent years demonstrating the clear relationship between making something easy to do and getting people to actually do it. My very good friend and longtime collaborator Richard Thaler puts it this way: “My number-one mantra from Nudge [his book, cowritten with Cass Sunstein, on the application of behavioral economic principles to public policy] is, ‘Make it easy.’ When I say make it easy, what I mean is, if you want to get somebody to do something, make it easy. If you want to get people to eat healthier foods, then put healthier foods in the cafeteria, and make them easier to find, and make them taste better. So in every meeting I say, ‘Make it easy.’ It’s kind of obvious, but it’s also easy to miss.”7

No, it’s that empathy,” Irmgard said vigorously. Fists clenched, she roved into the kitchen, up to Isidore. “Isn’t it a way of proving that humans can do something we can’t do? Because without the Mercer experience we just have your word that you feel this empathy business, this shared, group thing. How’s the spider?” She bent over Pris’s shoulder. With the scissors, Pris snipped off another of the spider’s legs. “Four now,” she said. She nudged the spider. “He won’t go. But he can.” Roy Baty appeared at the doorway, inhaling deeply, an expression of accomplishment on his face. “It’s done. Buster said it out loud, and nearly every human in the system heard him say it. ‘Mercerism is a swindle.’ The whole experience of empathy is a swindle.” He came over to look curiously at the spider. “It won’t try to walk,” Irmgard said. “I can make it walk.” Roy Baty got out a book of matches, lit a match; he held it near the spider, closer and closer, until at last it crept feebly away. “I was right,” Irmgard said. “Didn’t I say it could walk with only four legs?” She peered up expectantly at Isidore. “What’s the matter?” Touching his arm she said, “You didn’t lose anything; we’ll pay you what that—what’s it called?—that Sidney’s catalogue says. Don’t look so grim. Isn’t that something about Mercer, what they discovered? All that research? Hey, answer.” She prodded him anxiously. “He’s upset,” Pris said. “Because he has an empathy box. In the other room. Do you use it, J. R.?” she asked Isidore. Roy Baty said, “Of course he uses it. They all do—or did. Maybe now they’ll start wondering.” “I don’t think this will end the cult of Mercer,” Pris said. “But right this minute there’re a lot of unhappy human beings.” To Isidore she said, “We’ve waited for months; we all knew it was coming, this pitch of Buster’s.” She hesitated and then said, “Well, why not. Buster is one of us.

Buster Friendly said, “We may never know. Nor can we fathom the peculiar purpose behind this swindle. Yes, folks, swindle. Mercerism is a swindle!” “I think we know,” Roy Baty said. “It’s obvious. Mercerism came into existence—” “But ponder this,” Buster Friendly continued. “Ask yourselves what is it that Mercerism does. Well, if we’re to believe its many practitioners, the experience fuses—” “It’s that empathy that humans have,” Irmgard said. “—men and women throughout the Sol System into a single entity. But an entity which is manageable by the so-called telepathic voice of ‘Mercer.’ Mark that. An ambitious politically minded would-be Hitler could—” “No, it’s that empathy,” Irmgard said vigorously. Fists clenched, she roved into the kitchen, up to Isidore. “Isn’t it a way of proving that humans can do something we can’t do? Because without the Mercer experience we just have your word that you feel this empathy business, this shared, group thing. How’s the spider?” She bent over Pris’s shoulder. With the scissors, Pris snipped off another of the spider’s legs. “Four now,” she said. She nudged the spider. “He won’t go. But he can.” Roy Baty appeared at the doorway, inhaling deeply, an expression of accomplishment on his face. “It’s done. Buster said it out loud, and nearly every human in the system heard him say it. ‘Mercerism is a swindle.’ The whole experience of empathy is a swindle.” He came over to look curiously at the spider. “It won’t try to walk,” Irmgard said. “I can make it walk.” Roy Baty got out a book of matches, lit a match; he held it near the spider, closer and closer, until at last it crept feebly away. “I was right,” Irmgard said. “Didn’t I say it could walk with only four legs?” She peered up expectantly at Isidore. “What’s the matter?” Touching his arm she said, “You didn’t lose anything; we’ll pay you what that—what’s it called?—that Sidney’s catalogue says. Don’t look so grim. Isn’t that something about Mercer, what they discovered? All that research? Hey, answer.” She prodded him anxiously. “He’s upset,” Pris said. “Because he has an empathy box. In the other room. Do you use it, J. R.?” she asked Isidore. Roy Baty said, “Of course he uses it. They all do—or did. Maybe now they’ll start wondering.” “I don’t think this will end the cult of Mercer,” Pris said. “But right this minute there’re a lot of unhappy human beings.” To Isidore she said, “We’ve waited for months; we all knew it was coming, this pitch of Buster’s.” She hesitated and then said, “Well, why not. Buster is one of us.” “An android,” Irmgard explained. “And nobody knows. No humans, I mean.” Pris, with the scissors, cut yet another leg from the spider. All at once John Isidore pushed her away and lifted up the mutilated creature. He carried it to the sink and there he drowned it. In him, his mind, his hopes, drowned, too. As swiftly as the spider.

You should have just left me there.” He pulls out of the cemetery and onto the road. “Don’t be so dramatic. Besides I told you I would never leave you. Just like you never left me.” “I think you’ve repaid that debt, Jackson Gray.” He shakes his head. “So quickly you forget our pact.” I put my foot on his dash and hold my hands in front of the vents. I still can’t believe he’s still rescuing me, years later. “Who could forget that. You were cowering on the floor of the library.” “I wasn’t cowering.” “Okay. You were leaning down to get a book when large bullies materialized in front of you.” I glance at him. “Is that better?” He rolls his eyes. “No one’s ever done something like that for me before. Even though I’d never admit a girl fought one of my battles.” I adjust the seat belt so it’s tighter. “Get over it, Jackson Gray. I did what anyone would do.” “No one else would have stuck up for the new kid.” He shrugs. “Is that the type of person you’d leave freezing in a cemetery?” “You mean, you’d leave other people freezing in a cemetery?” He sighs and nudges me in the shoulder. “Just shut up.

If a mini-habit isn’t working, it’s probably just too big. Make it smaller and let it grow organically. Committing to one workout per day might not sound like much, but it can easily get lost in the whirlpool of daily living. Trim it down to something stupidly easy, quick, and unskippable: a couple of sets of body-weight exercises to failure or a 15-minute walk, for example. The mini-habit tool is incredibly versatile. You can apply it to just about any endeavor and immediately reap the benefits. For example… • Read five pages of the book you want to finish. • Write 50 words on your project. • Do 10 minutes of that exercise DVD. • Lift weights one day per week. • Practice your yoga poses for 5 minutes. • Follow your meal plan for one day. • Cook one new recipe per week. • Give one compliment per day. • Replace one cup of soda with water. You get the idea. So, what major, scary change do you want to make in your life? And what’s the stupidest, simplest action you can take every day to nudge the needle in that direction? There’s your breadcrumb of a mini-habit. Pick it up and see where the trail takes you.

Beautiful!' she would murmur, nudging Septimus, that he might see. But beauty was behind a pane of glass. Even taste (Rezia liked ices, chocolates, sweet things) had no relish to him. He put down his cup on the little marble table. He looked at people outside; happy they seemed, collecting in the middle of the street, shouting, laughing, squabbling over nothing. But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the tea-shop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him—he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily (“Septimus, do put down your book,” said Rezia, gently shutting the Inferno), he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then—that he could not feel. "The English are so silent," Rezia said. She liked it, she said. She respected these Englishmen, and wanted to see London, and the English horses, and the tailor-made suits, and could remember hearing how wonderful the shops were, from an Aunt who had married and lived in Soho. It might be possible, Septimus thought, looking at England from the train window, as they left Newhaven; it might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

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

No, it’s that empathy,” Irmgard said vigorously. Fists clenched, she roved into the kitchen, up to Isidore. “Isn’t it a way of proving that humans can do something we can’t do? Because without the Mercer experience we just have your word that you feel this empathy business, this shared, group thing. How’s the spider?” She bent over Pris’s shoulder. With the scissors, Pris snipped off another of the spider’s legs. “Four now,” she said. She nudged the spider. “He won’t go. But he can.” Roy Baty appeared at the doorway, inhaling deeply, an expression of accomplishment on his face. “It’s done. Buster said it out loud, and nearly every human in the system heard him say it. ‘Mercerism is a swindle.’ The whole experience of empathy is a swindle.” He came over to look curiously at the spider. “It won’t try to walk,” Irmgard said. “I can make it walk.” Roy Baty got out a book of matches, lit a match; he held it near the spider, closer and closer, until at last it crept feebly away. “I was right,” Irmgard said. “Didn’t I say it could walk with only four legs?” She peered up expectantly at Isidore. “What’s the matter?” Touching his arm she said, “You didn’t lose anything; we’ll pay you what that—what’s it called?—that Sidney’s catalogue says. Don’t look so grim. Isn’t that something about Mercer, what they discovered? All that research? Hey, answer.” She prodded him anxiously. “He’s upset,” Pris said. “Because he has an empathy box. In the other room. Do you use it, J. R.?” she asked Isidore.

The first thing I want to say about Boyfriend is that he’s an extraordinarily decent human being. He’s kind and generous, funny and smart, and when he’s not making you laugh, he’ll drive to the drugstore at two a.m. to get you that antibiotic you just can’t wait until morning for. If he happens to be at Costco, he’ll text to ask if you need anything, and when you reply that you just need some laundry detergent, he’ll bring home your favorite meatballs and twenty jugs of maple syrup for the waffles he makes you from scratch. He’ll carry those twenty jugs from the garage to your kitchen, pack nineteen of them neatly into the tall cabinet you can’t reach, and place one on the counter, accessible for the morning. He’ll also leave love notes on your desk, hold your hand and open doors, and never complain about being dragged to family events because he genuinely enjoys hanging out with your relatives, even the nosy or elderly ones. For no reason at all, he’ll send you Amazon packages full of books (books being the equivalent of flowers to you), and at night you’ll both curl up and read passages from them aloud to each other, pausing only to make out. While you’re binge-watching Netflix, he’ll rub that spot on your back where you have mild scoliosis, and when he stops, and you nudge him, he’ll continue rubbing for exactly sixty more delicious seconds before he tries to weasel out without your noticing (you’ll pretend not to notice). He’ll let you finish his sandwiches and sentences and sunscreen and listen so attentively to the details of your day that, like your personal biographer, he’ll remember more about your life than you will. If this portrait sounds skewed, it is.

Wind in a Box" —after Lorca I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice. I want to learn to walk without blinking. I want to outlive the turtle and the turtle’s father, the stone. I want a mouth full of permissions and a pink glistening bud. If the wildflower and ant hill can return after sleeping each season, I want to walk out of this house wearing nothing but wind. I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts of gray lighting the alcoves and winding paths of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings of snow. I want to fight off the wind. I want to be the wind and I want to fight off the wind with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging screen doors, its gilded boxes, and neatly folded pamphlets of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines of two by fours and endings, your disapprovals, your doubts and regulations, your carbon copies. If the locust can abandon its suit, I want a brand new name. I want the pepper’s fury and the salt’s tenderness. I want the virtue of the evening rain, but not its gossip. I want the moon’s intuition, but not its questions. I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter every room in a strange electrified city and find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror, but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch. I do not want to be the yellow photograph or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song. Terrance Hayes, Wind in a Box (Penguin, 2006) When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song

Lifting a goblet of wine to her lips, Evie glanced at him over the rim as she drank. “What is in that ledger?” “A lesson in creative record keeping. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that Egan has been draining the club’s accounts. He shaves away increments here and there, in small enough quantities that the thefts have gone unnoticed. But over time, it totals up to a considerable sum. God knows how many years he’s been doing it. So far, every account book I’ve looked at contains deliberate inaccuracies.” “How can you be certain that they’re deliberate?” “There is a clear pattern.” He flipped open a ledger and nudged it over to her. “The club made a profit of approximately twenty thousand pounds last Tuesday. If you cross-check the numbers with the record of loans, bank deposits, and cash outlays, you’ll see the discrepancies.” Evie followed the trail of his finger as he ran it along the notes he had made in the margin. “You see?” he murmured. “These are what the proper amounts should be. He’s padded the expenses liberally. The cost of ivory dice, for example. Even allowing for the fact that the dice are only used for one night and then never again, the annual charge should be no more than two thousand pounds, according to Rohan.” The practice of using fresh dice every night was standard for any gaming club, to ward off any question that they might be loaded. “But here it says that almost three thousand pounds was spent on dice,” Evie murmured. “Exactly.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair and smiled lazily. “I deceived my father the same way in my depraved youth, when he paid my monthly upkeep and I had need of more ready coin than he was willing to provide.” “What did you need it for?” Evie could not resist asking. The smile tarried on his lips. “I’m afraid the explanation would require a host of words to which you would take strong exception.

Chapter 1 Death on the Doorstep LIVY HINGE’S AUNT lay dying in the back yard, which Aunt Neala thought was darned inconvenient. “Nebula!” she called, hoping her weakened voice would reach the barn where that lazy cat was no doubt taking a nap. If Neala had the energy to get up and tap her foot she would. If only that wretched elf hadn’t attacked her, she’d have made her delivery by now. Instead she lay dying. She willed her heart to take its time spreading the poison. Her heart, being just as stubborn as its owner, ignored her and raced on. A cat with a swirling orange pattern on its back ran straight to Neala and nuzzled her face. “Nebula!” She was relieved the cat had overcome its tendency to do the exact opposite of whatever was most wanted of it. Reaching into her bag, Neala pulled out a delicate leaf made of silver. She fought to keep one eye cracked open to make sure the cat knew what to do. The cat took the leaf in its teeth and ran back toward the barn. It was important that Neala stay alive long enough for the cat to hide the leaf. The moment Neala gave up the ghost, the cat would vanish from this world and return to her master. Satisfied, Neala turned her aching head toward the farmhouse where her brother’s family was nestled securely inside. Smoke curled carelessly from the old chimney in blissful ignorance of the peril that lay just beyond the yard. The shimmershield Neala had created around the property was the only thing keeping her dear ones safe. A sheet hung limply from a branch of the tree that stood sentinel in the back of the house. It was Halloween and the sheet was meant to be a ghost, but without the wind it only managed to look like old laundry. Neala’s eyes followed the sturdy branch to Livy’s bedroom window. She knew what her failure to deliver the leaf meant. The elves would try again. This time, they would choose someone young enough to be at the peak of their day dreaming powers. A druid of the Hinge bloodline, about Livy’s age. Poor Livy, who had no idea what she was. Well, that would change soon enough. Neala could do nothing about that now. Her willful eyes finally closed. In the wake of her last breath a storm rose up, bringing with it frightful wind and lightning. The sheet tore free from the branch and flew away. The kitchen door banged open. Livy Hinge, who had been told to secure the barn against the storm, found her lifeless aunt at the edge of the yard. ☐☐☐ A year later, Livy still couldn’t think about Aunt Neala without feeling the memories bite at her, as though they only wanted to be left alone. Thankfully, Livy wasn’t concerned about her aunt at the moment. Right now, Rudus Brutemel was going to get what was coming to him. Hugh, Livy’s twin, sat next to her on the bus. His nose was buried in a spelling book. The bus lurched dangerously close to their stop. If they waited any longer, they’d miss their chance. She looked over her shoulder to make sure Rudus was watching. Opening her backpack, she made a show of removing a bologna sandwich with thick slices of soft homemade bread. Hugh studied the book like it was the last thing he might ever see. Livy nudged him. He tore his eyes from his book and delivered his lines as though he were reading them. “Hey, can I have some? I’m starving.” At least he could make his stomach growl on demand.

Mature, intelligent name. She prefers Candi." Rose watched Macey nudge the puppy when he tried to edge away from the group. "She had a sort of reaction to the pup." She closed her eyes. "I said something snippy

My own preference, as a reader, for this sort of book, is to experience the closest possible equivalent to culture shock. I want to go to new, strange places, feel lost, and then (probably with quite a few subtle nudges on the author’s part) gradually figure out where I am and what the heck’s going on. As a reader, I enjoy few things more. From feedback, I know that I’m not alone in that, but also that some readers find it too demanding. But it’s impossible to take care of both sides of that particular aisle at once. If you make it through the book, though, then go back and reread the beginning, you may find that you actually enjoy it this time, because everything’s as coherent as I was able to make it, and you already know where you are.

Thinking, Fast and Slow, mentioned above, and Dan Ariely’s Predictably Irrational. One of the handful of books that provides advice on making decisions better is Nudge by Richard Thaler and Cass Sunstein, which was written for “choice architects” in business and government who construct decision systems such as retirement plans or organ-donation policies. It has been used to improve government policies in the United States, Great Britain, and other countries.

As former deputy head of the presidential administration, later deputy prime minister and then assistant to the President on foreign affairs, Surkov has directed Russian society like one great reality show. He claps once and a new political party appears. He claps again and creates Nashi, the Russian equivalent of the Hitler Youth, who are trained for street battles with potential prodemocracy supporters and burn books by unpatriotic writers on Red Square. As deputy head of the administration he would meet once a week with the heads of the television channels in his Kremlin office, instructing them on whom to attack and whom to defend, who is allowed on TV and who is banned, how the President is to be presented, and the very language and categories the country thinks and feels in. The Ostankino TV presenters, instructed by Surkov, pluck a theme (oligarchs, America, the Middle East) and speak for twenty minutes, hinting, nudging, winking, insinuating though rarely ever saying anything directly, repeating words like “them” and “the enemy” endlessly until they are imprinted on the mind. They repeat the great mantras of the era: the President is the President of “stability,” the antithesis to the era of “confusion and twilight” in the 1990s. “Stability”—the word is repeated again and again in a myriad seemingly irrelevant contexts until it echoes and tolls like a great bell and seems to mean everything good; anyone who opposes the President is an enemy of the great God of “stability.” “Effective manager,” a term quarried from Western corporate speak, is transmuted into a term to venerate the President as the most “effective manager” of all. “Effective” becomes the raison d’être for everything: Stalin was an “effective manager” who had to make sacrifices for the sake of being “effective.” The words trickle into the streets: “Our relationship is not effective” lovers tell each other when they break up. “Effective,” “stability”: no one can quite define what they actually mean, and as the city transforms and surges, everyone senses things are the very opposite of stable, and certainly nothing is “effective,” but the way Surkov and his puppets use them the words have taken on a life of their own and act like falling axes over anyone who is in any way disloyal.

As much as possible, connect your offer to the direct benefits customers will receive. Like the Alaska coupon books, a compelling offer pays for itself by making a clear value proposition. What people want and what they say they want are not always the same thing; your job is to figure out the difference. When developing an offer, think carefully about the objections and then respond to them in advance. Provide a nudge to customers by getting them to make a decision. The difference between a good offer and a great offer is urgency (also known as timeliness): Why should people act now? Offer reassurance and acknowledgment immediately after someone buys something or hires you. Then find a small but meaningful way to go above and beyond their expectations.

A huge blue and white umbrella unfolded out of the vehicle, followed by two legs clad in a masculine-sized pair of gumboots. The driver nudged the door shut and ploughed through the downpour like a striped galleon, only his oilskin coat and denim-clad calves showing.

beach a bit?” He didn’t speak his response. Instead, he grabbed her hand, pulled her in, and claimed her lips. For the first time. Shock washed through her body and she tensed, but with every press of his lips, she relaxed, responding to his declaration. Her arms wrapped around his neck. His enclosed around her hips, nudging her closer. When he released her a minute later, shock and disbelief swam in her eyes. He had to catch his breath. “My God, Em. I should have done that years ago.” She only nodded slightly in bewildered agreement. She’d hoped. Always hoped he’d come around. She’d never been in love with any other man. “Emily, can you ever forgive me for being such an idiot?” He tugged at her lips again, not quite so gently. “When I thought something happened to you…” he didn’t finish, lost in the

Steve screamed and fainted. I don’t know if he was pretending to play dead, but he looked pretty lifeless. I nudged him a few times with my foot, but he didn’t move.

Once we start to read the book, the benefit to our own train of thought continues. We’re used to imagining that it’s the ideas explicitly stated in a book that will enrich us, but we may not need the full thoughts of another person to come to a better sense of what we ourselves believe. Often, just a few paragraphs or even parts of sentences can be sufficient to provoke our minds and can nudge us to stop, daydream and reach for a notebook in which we jot down not the thought that we’ve read but the thought that it prompted inside us, which might be quite different and more significant. The book frames the topic for us; it puts the right question to us; it functions as the three dots that start us off … and we do the rest.

Everybody should get a good gym coaching from early age so that they grow up to have fit bodies, good bodily awareness, positive body image, relaxed body language and healthy habits. Everybody should be trained in dialogue and get the chance to participate in public debates or deliberations. Everybody should get a year off once in a lifetime to go look for new purpose in life and make tough life decisions under professional care and support—in a kind of secular monastery. Everybody should be “nudged” and supported to consume both healthy and sustainable food that prevents depression and supports long-term societal goals. Everybody should be trained in social and emotional intelligence so that conflicts arise less often and, when they do arise, are handled more productively. Everybody should have a proper sexual education from early on, knowing things such as how to tackle early ejaculation, tensions in the vagina, sexual rejections, making approaches in a charming but respectful manner, how to handle competition and how to handle pornography or sexual desires that diverge from the norm. Everybody should get some aid in managing the fear of death and facing the hard facts of life—to help us intuitively know that our time here is precious.

How did you get the badges?” Parker asked. “You didn’t steal a badge from a pro, did you?” “Of course not,” Hardison said. “Geek solidarity to the end.” “Then whose name is this on my badge? Who’s Diana Prince?” Hardison laughed. “That’s Wonder Woman’s secret identity.” Parker giggled at that. “And who are you? Carl Lucas?” “That’s Luke Cage’s original name.” “Who?” Eliot didn’t bother to conceal his irritation. “Luke Cage? You know, Power Man? Of Power Man and Iron Fist?” Hardison waited for a response that never came. “Sweet Christmas, what’s wrong with you people?” “We have lives. And just who am I supposed to be, huh? Batman’s secret sidekick?” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sophie said. Nate gave her a nudge with his elbow, and she fixed him with a mischievous smile. “Naw, man,” said Hardison. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I know how you feel about ‘fictional’ people.” “So who the hell is Warren Ellis?” “He’s a comic-book writer. Good one.” Eliot groaned. “For God’s sake, do I look like a comic-book writer?” “Hey, don’t knock Warren Ellis. He wrote all sorts of great stuff. Global Frequency, The Authority, Transmetropolitan. Good stuff.

Take your wife out on a date. I packed you something.” He nudged a box toward Damiel with his foot. “Ammunition?” “No, a picnic dinner, you psychopath,” replied Jiro, his face horrified. “Why the hell would you bring ammunition on a date?

A related trap/trick is nudging. Aldert Vrij presents a compelling example in his book Detecting Lies and Deceit: Participants saw a film of a traffic accident and then answered the question, “About how fast were the cars going when they contacted each other?” Other participants received the same question, except that the verb contacted was replaced by either hit, bumped, collided, or smashed. Even though the participants saw the same film, the wording of the question affected their answers. The speed estimates (in miles per hour) were 31, 34, 38, 39, and 41, respectively. You can be nudged in a direction by a subtle word choice or other environmental cues.

The old goal paradigm is one that nudges you in the direction to either keeping your goals small, so that you are sure to reach them, or not even trying so that dreaded failure isn't possible.

Getting comfortable again, I grab one of the magazines that I keep stuffed under my thin mattress. Flipping to the article the guard Paul told me about, I’m just getting to the part about how chandeliers are a necessity in creating an awesome she-shed, when two prison guards come running in. They take one look at my open cell door, the magic smoke still polluting the air, the unconscious male on the ground, and turn gaping looks at me. I give them a bright smile and point down at Scarface. “Hey, Paul. Could you clean that up for me? I think he wet himself.” Paul lowers his gun and pulls off his SWAT-style helmet. “Another one?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my uninvited cell guest. I shrug my shoulders and give him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head and nudges the unconscious jail-breaker with his boot. “Damn. We need to up our security. We aren’t used to so many supernaturals trying to break someone out of here,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he frowns in thought. “Yeah, it’s very disruptive,” I tell him. He grunts in agreement. “Good thing your ride is here,” Paul mentions casually as my unwelcome cell guest groans loudly from the floor. I squeal and start clapping excitedly, which startles both guards. “Yes, finally!” I shoot up from my cot and thrust both arms out, ready for the required shackles whenever a prisoner is being transported. Paul releases an amused chuckle, and Terrence—the other guard in my cell right now—gives me some judgement-laced side-eye as I giggle and wait like a kid on Christmas morning for the cuffs to click into place. I’m finally going to be sentenced and booked into Nightmare Penitentiary. I can’t fucking wait.

1.​கல் மேல் நடந்த காலம் – சு. தியோடர் பாஸ்கரன் 2.​அக்னிச் சிறகுகள் – அப்துல் கலாம் 3.​தென்னாப்பிரிக்காவில் காந்தி 4.​Rich Dad Poor Dad – Robert Kiyosaki 5.​The Art of War - Sunzi 6.​Steal Like an Artist - Austin Kleon 7.​என் இளமைக்கால நினைவுகள் - ஓஷோ 8.​புதுமைப்பித்தன் சிறுகதைகள் 9.​ஜெயகாந்தன் சிறுகதைகள் 10.​அசோகமித்திரன் சிறுகதைகள் 11.​ஓலைப்பட்டாசு சிறுகதைத் தொகுதி, கற்றதும் பெற்றதும் – சுஜாதா 12.​புயலிலே ஒரு தோணி, கடலுக்கு அப்பால் – ப. சிங்காரம் நாவல்கள் 13.​Ogilvy David Advertising Books 14.​இன்றைய காந்தி, சங்கச் சித்திரங்கள், இந்து ஞான மரபில் ஆறு தரிசனங்கள், அறம் சிறுகதைத் தொகுப்பு – ஜெயமோகன் 15.​திருடன் மணியன்பிள்ளை - ஜி. ஆர். இந்துகோபன் 16.​சு. தியோடர் பாஸ்கரனின் சூழியல் நூல்கள் 17.​அன்னா கரினீனா, போரும் வாழ்வும் – லியோ டால்ஸ்டாய் 18.​குற்றமும் தண்டனையும், அசடன் – பியோதர் தஸ்தாயெவ்ஸ்கி 19.​The Magic Mountain – Thomas Mann 20.​ரேமண்ட் கார்வர் கதைகள் 21.​ஆண்டன் செகாவ் கதைகள் 22.​என் சரித்திரம் – உ. வே. சாமிநாதய்யர் 23.​The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People – Stephen R. Covey 24.​Nudge – Richard Thaler 25.​மூதாதையரைத் தேடி - சு.கி.ஜெயகரன் 26.​இந்திய வரலாறு: காந்திக்குப் பிறகு – ராமச்சந்திர குஹா 27.​எமதுள்ளம் சுடர் விடுக – பிரபஞ்சன் 28.​தேசாந்திரி – எஸ். ராமகிருஷ்ணன் 29.​ஆழமான கேள்விகள் அறிவார்ந்த பதில்கள் – ஸ்டீபன் ஹாக்கிங் 30.​உருவாகி வரும் உள்ளம் - விளையனூர் எஸ். ராமச்சந்திரன் 31.​சேப்பியன்ஸ் - யுவால் நோவா ஹராரி 32.​ஹோமோடியஸ் - யுவால் நோவா ஹராரி 33.​கோபல்ல கிராமம் – கி. ராஜநாராயணன் 34.​அ. முத்துலிங்கம் சிறுகதைகள் & வியத்தலும் இலமே 35.​சோஃபியின் உலகம் - யொஸ்டைன் கார்டேர் 36.​வந்தார்கள் வென்றார்கள் – மதன் 37.​குருதிப்புனல் – இந்திரா பார்த்தசாரதி 38.​இந்தியப் பயணங்கள் – ஏ. கே. செட்டியார் 39.​காலை எழுந்தவுடன் தவளை – பிரையன் டிரேசி 40.​சுதந்திரத்தின் நிறம் – லாரா கோப்பா 41.​கொங்குதேர் வாழ்க்கை – 2 (நவீன தமிழ்க் கவிதைகளின் தொகுப்பு) 42.​மோக முள் – தி.ஜானகிராமன் 43.​பொன்னியின் செல்வன் – கல்கி 44.​எட்டுத் திக்கும் மதயானை, கம்பனின் அம்பறாத்தூணி – நாஞ்சில்நாடன் 45.​புளியமரத்தின் கதை – சுந்தர ராமசாமி 46.​சிலப்பதிகாரம் 47.​காவல் கோட்டம் – சு. வெங்கடேசன் 48.​வேலையைக் காதலி – ஆர். கார்த்திகேயன் 49.​அப்பம் வடை தயிர் சாதம் – பாலகுமாரன் 50.​யேசு கதைகள் – பால் ஸக்காரியா நீங்கள் வாசிப்பிலும் வாழ்க்கையிலும் உயர என் நெஞ்சார்ந்த வாழ்த்துக்கள்! [1] நூல்: புன்னகைக்கும் பிரபஞ்சம். மொழிபெயர்ப்பு: செங்கதிர்

Christopher went still. After a long hesitation, she heard him ask in a far more normal voice, “What are you doing?” “I’m making it easier for you,” came her defiant reply. “Go on, start ravishing.” Another silence. Then, “Why are you facing downward?” “Because that’s how it’s done.” Beatrix twisted to look at him over her shoulder. A twinge of uncertainty caused her to ask. “Isn’t it?” His face was blank. “Has no one ever told you?” “No, but I’ve read about it.” Christopher rolled off her, relieving her of his weight. He wore an odd expression as he asked, “From what books?” “Veterinary manuals. And of course, I’ve observed the squirrels in springtime, and farm animals, and--” She was interrupted as Christopher cleared his throat loudly, and again. Darting a confused glance at him, she realized that he was trying to choke back amusement. Beatrix began to feel indignant. Her first time in a bed with a man, and he was laughing. “Look here,” she said in a businesslike manner, “I’ve read about the mating habits of over two dozen species, and with the exception of snails, whose genitalia is on their necks, they all--” She broke off and frowned. “Why are you laughing at me?” Christopher had collapsed, overcome with hilarity. As he lifted his head and saw her affronted expression, he struggled manfully with another outburst. “Beatrix. I’m…I’m not laughing at you.” “You are!” “No I’m not. It’s just…” He swiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and a few more chuckles escaped. “Squirrels…” “Well, it may be humorous to you, but it’s a very serious matter to the squirrels.” That set him off again. In a display of rank insensitivity to the reproductive rights of small mammals, Christopher had buried his face in a pillow, his shoulders shaking. “What is so amusing about fornicating squirrels?” Beatrix asked irritably. By this time he had gone into near apoplexy. “No more,” he gasped. “Please.” “I gather it’s not the same for people,” Beatrix said with great dignity, inwardly mortified. “They don’t go about it the same way that animals do?” Fighting to control himself, Christopher rolled to face her. His eyes were brilliant with unspent laughter. “Yes. No. That is, they do, but…” “But you don’t prefer it that way?” Considering how to answer her, Christopher reached out to smooth her disheveled hair, which was falling out of its pins. “I do. I’m quite enthusiastic about it, actually. But it’s not right for your first time.” “Why not?” Christopher looked at her, a slow smile curving his lips. His voice deepened as he asked, “Shall I show you?” Beatrix was transfixed. Taking her stillness as assent, he pressed her back and moved over her slowly. He touched her with care, arranging her limbs, spreading them to receive him. A gasp escaped her as she felt his hips settle on hers. He was aroused, a thick pressure fitting against her intimately. Bracing some of his weight on his arms, he looked down into her reddening face. “This way,” he said, with the slightest nudge, “…is usually more pleasing to the lady.” The gentle movement sent a jolt of pleasure through her. Beatrix couldn’t speak, her senses filled with him, her hips catching a helpless arch. She looked up at the powerful surface of his chest, covered with a tantalizing fleece of bronze-gold hair. Christopher lowered further, his mouth hovering just over hers. “Front to front…I could kiss you the entire time. And the shape of you would cushion me so sweetly…like this…” His lips took hers and coaxed them open, wringing heat and delight from her yielding flesh. Beatrix shivered, her arms lifting around his neck. She felt him all along her body, his warmth and weight anchoring her.

I am fair proud of ye, lass,” he said, nudging her elbow with his. “For what?” She turned her bonny face to him, her eyes wide with curiosity and bright with happiness. He’d feared she would regret leaving Dornoch, but she’d bounded into his arms with a delighted squeal when he’d told her of Steafan’s change of heart. And for the days they’d been packing and saying their goodbyes, she’d chattered without ceasing about her plans for Fraineach. “For being who you are,” he said. “For being mine.

In many contexts defaults have some extra nudging power because consumers may feel, rightly or wrongly, that default options come with an implicit endorsement from the default setter, be it the employer, government, or TV scheduler. For this and other reasons, setting the best possible defaults will be a theme we explore often in the course of this book.

After finishing 1st draft of a novel, I have the characters, dialogue, scenes, and a plotline. I used to think this meant I knew where the story was going, and what the book was about. I have learned over the years, this ain’t so. As I work through its 2nd draft, characters start to nudge each other. The story itself takes its first soft and shallow breath, and one could imagine he hears a little bit of a heartbeat. Passions deepen, and emotional threads start to weave through what had earlier just been little more than a sequence of events. On the 3rd run through, the characters stand tall. Some break free of my earlier concepts of what they were all about, what they wanted, how they related to each other, and where they were going. From then on, THEY set the pace, and I do my best to honor them in becoming what THEY choose to be. From then on, my friends; we have a story! By the end of the 3rd draft, I have enough of an idea of where the characters are going, and how their passions empower the story, or tear it apart, that I can start cutting away, and cutting away, anything that isn’t that. Until we reach the point where there is not a single word left anywhere in the book, that isn’t a vital, dynamic, organic contributor to the living whole.

up the pathway to the front door.  She’d called and left him a message, letting him know that she was coming, and that she’d leave the documents with the housekeeper if he wasn’t there.  Ringing the doorbell, she couldn’t stop the blush that stole up her cheeks as she remembered the last time she’d been here.  Had it really been only two days ago?  It seemed like a lot longer.  Did he still have those stockings?  Surely he’d tossed them out by now.  And no, she hadn’t dared to purchase another pair.  Not after the last debacle.  When the door opened, she was bracing herself to face Hunter once again.  Her plan was to congratulate him, just as she would any other client, hand him the champagne and the closing documents, and then leave as quickly as possible.  Just as she would all of her other clients.  They were all trying to unpack, overwhelmed with the process but excited about their new purchase.  She very seriously doubted if anything overwhelmed Hunter, but she was going to go through her routine anyway.  All of her clients deserved the same treatment, and she shouldn’t slack off with Hunter simply because…well, because he could make her feel things that… “Goodness, come in out of the heat, my dear!” the housekeeper urged, waving Kara into the cool interior.  “Mr. West is out back in the pool, but he said he was expecting you and that you’d know the way.  If he needs anything at all,” she said, as she hefted a purse onto her shoulder that Kara suspected could substitute for a suitcase, “just tell him to give me a ring.” Kara opened her mouth to stop the woman as the two of them exchanged places, the housekeeper moving to the outside even as Kara was nudged inside.  Kara went so far as to lift her hand, trying to indicate that she wanted to say something, but the efficient woman bustled out of the house, closing the front door in the process.  Kara stared at the closed door for several long moments, wondering how that had just happened.  Her plan had been simple.  Just hand over the bottle and documents, convey her congratulations and head back.  What had just happened?  Kara turned around.  It felt strange to be standing here, alone, in Hunter’s house.  She’d been here two days ago, but the house hadn’t been his.  The man now owned the house, all the furniture, and the acres of land and waterfront.  It felt much more intimate now for some reason.  Looking around, she wished that she could just leave the documents on the kitchen counter or the rough, wooden coffee table that looked perfect next to the white sofas.  Everything felt and looked clean and comfortable, exactly as she would have decorated this area.  The pops of green were vibrant and exhilarating, a perfect accompaniment to the fresh, white furniture.  With a sigh, she turned away from the alluring great room décor and searched out the man of the moment.  As she stepped past the sofas, she saw him.  In the pool.  Without any clothes on! Oh goodness, she thought with a strangled breath.  It took her several moments to realize that she needed to inhale, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the man’s bare skin, and all the muscles, and…well, all of him!  Okay, so he wasn’t naked, he was wearing a bathing suit but his broad, muscular back and those arms…they were even more ridged with muscles than she’d thought.  He was spectacular!  Never in her wildest imaginings had she pictured him that buff, but there

On the King were two sinewy males actively servicing the strapping Italian. The strikingly handsome dancer was straddling the hairy photographer, his drumming hardness coddled inside the machismo’s mouth as Mario relished the protrusion with feverous gusto, wetting the throbbing length with salivary potency. Behind Jamal, Albert was suckling the Italian’s bulging protuberance and lapping at the plumpness below. The dancer’s seductive buttocks plummeted rhythmically as he fed his stiffness into the Count’s oral hollow. This homoeroticism had inflamed my libido. Transfixed on their erotic prowess, my palpitating puissance throbbed unceasingly within my trousers. I craved to partake in their uninhibited proclivities and be free of the constraints of my apparel. Zac was the one who nudged me back to my photographic sorcery. I clicked away from left to right and from above to below, capturing the fiery intensity that prevailed throughout the course of my arousing mission.               When Jamal’s pulsating organ eased conspicuously down Albert’s throat and Mario’s hardness came close to impaling the boy’s silky bottom, Zac

Someone nudged her elbow, interrupting her reverie. “Hello? Anyone there?” The question came from Rylann’s roommate, Rae Mendoza, who was seated at her right. “I’m here. Just…picturing myself at the pool.” Rylann tried to hold on to the mirage for a few moments longer. “It’s sunny and seventy-five degrees. I’ve got some kind of tropical drink with one of those little umbrellas in it, and I’m reading a book—one I don’t have to highlight or outline in the margins.” “They make those kinds of books?” “If memory serves..." “I hate to burst the bubble on your daydream, but I’m pretty sure they don’t allow alcoholic drinks at IMPE,” Rae said, referring to the university’s Intramural Physical Education building, which housed said pool. Rylann waved off such pesky details. “I’ll throw a mai tai in my College of Law thermos and tell people that it’s iced tea. If campus security gives me any trouble, I’ll scare them off with my quasi-legal credentials and remind them of the Fourth Amendment’s prohibitions against illegal searches and seizures.” “Wow. Do you know how big of a law school geek you just sounded like?” Unfortunately, she did. “Do you think any of us will ever be normal again?” Rae considered this. “I’m told that somewhere around third year, we lose the urge to cite the Constitution in everyday conversation.” “That’s promising,” Rylann said. “But seeing how you’re more of a law geek than most, it might take you longer.” “Remember that conversation last night when I said I was going to miss you this summer? I take it back

When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.…’” Cath closed the book and let it fall on Levi’s chest, not sure what happened next. Not sure she was awake, all things considered. The moment it fell, he pulled her into him. Onto him. With both arms. Her chest pressed against his, and the paperback slid between their stomachs. Cath’s eyes were half closed, and so were Levi’s—and his lips only looked small from afar, she realized, because of their doll-like pucker. They were perfectly big, really, now that she had a good look at them. Perfectly something. He nudged his nose against hers, and their mouths fell sleepily together, already soft and open. When Cath’s eyes closed, her eyelids stuck. She wanted to open them. She wanted to get a better look at Levi’s too-dark eyebrows, she wanted to admire his crazy, vampire hairline—she had a feeling this was never going to happen again and that it might even ruin what was left of her life, so she wanted to open her eyes and bear some witness. But she was so tired. And his mouth was so soft. And nobody had ever kissed Cath like this before. Only Abel had kissed her before, and that was like getting pushed squarely on the mouth and pushing back. Levi’s kisses were all taking. Like he was drawing something out of her with soft little jabs of his chin. She brought her fingers up to his hair, and she couldn’t open her eyes. Eventually, she couldn’t stay awake. “I’m sorry, Penelope.” “Don’t waste my time with sorries, Simon. If we stop to apologize and forgive each other every time we step on each other’s toes, we’ll never have time to be friends.

Confident that one’s outer reality is a consequence of one’s inner thought constructs, such a process could then lead the dreamer to healing the source of the transference of limiting thought constructs from one’s Psychological Reality Framework Two to Psychological Reality Framework One. Utilizing the above process, it should become evident that dreams were never an end, but instead a means by which the dreamer can open new avenues of expression that had formerly been repressed; thereby resolving any hidden blockages to success. Any overemphasis of a single identity can manifest in dreams as cartoon-like characters or situations. These kinds of dreams can be regarded as consciousness’s gentle nudge encouraging the dreamer to open themselves to a more expansive application of their Original Grace—that they are free to explore the joyful possibilities life has to offer. Investigating other talents and avenues for expression, one should realize that because of the infinite possibilities of the moment, parallel realities can simultaneously be created from new identities and passions.

supposed to stay in a box with a bunch of baby birds called goslings. I nudged a few of them aside and lay down and at once they were huddled all around me, trying to cuddle right up to my nose. I was worried that if I yawned they might try to climb into my mouth!

only empty seat was next to Stef, and that meant Alice would have to squeeze past Gerty and Charlotte to get to it, but it was clear that she wasn't willing to do this. Aware that everyone was staring, Charlotte gently nudged Stef's arm and motioned for her to move along. At first, Stef shook her head and folded her arms, but Charlotte furrowed her eyebrows with insistence. Stef let out an exaggerated sigh before she moved onto the next seat. Charlotte and Gerty both shuffled along as well which meant that Alice could sit down at the end of the row. 'As

A related trap/trick is nudging.

You can be nudged in a direction by a subtle word choice or other environmental cues.

But the depression isn't gone. Part of doing better is learning not to freak out every time I feel depression nudging its boner against my backside.* *Crass, sexual metaphors will be used liberally throughout the book to lighten the mood, but you will get used to it. And if you think that's cheap, let me remind you that so are caramels, and they are delicious.

That's no secret, honeybee." "Honeybee?" she repeated, a warning in her voice. I bit back a grin. "If II'm going to be a honey pie, makes sense you'd be the bee." The sweep of her brows lowered ominously. "Why? Because I'm after your honey?" She scoffed long and loud, and I had to laugh. If anyone was after honey here, it was me. "Bees make honey, Em." I nudged her again, hard enough to rock her and make her squeak with a laugh. "And you seem intent upon making me sweet.

Easy. You’ll say, ‘Wow, that’s the hottest Wanderling I’ve ever seen! Who knew a tree could have awesome hair?’ And then you’ll all sit under my stunning leaves and write poems about my general amazingness.” Sophie shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re trying to joke about this.” “Well, believe it, Miss F. I can joke about anything!” He nudged her with his elbow, but she refused to smile. And she hated her brain for suddenly picturing his Wanderling. But she could see it so clearly now. The tree would have yellow spiky leaves and ice blue flowers and pale bark—and it would be lopsided somehow, mirroring his crooked smirk. “The thought of you dying will never be funny,” she whispered, wishing her eyes weren’t burning.

You are crazy, Brantley Thornton.” He nudged me on the shoulder as we made our way to the cafeteria. “Absolutely crazy to believe that you are not worth being amazed by.

Why we are not always rational decision makers One of the most important observations from psychological research is that many decisions are made by automatic, unconscious processes on the basis of information that our conscious, rational brains are hardly aware of. There is accumulating psychological and neuroscience evidence that thinking is the product of two separate systems of reasoning: a rule-based system, which is conscious, rational and deliberate, and an associative system, which is unconscious, sensory-driven and impulsive (Sloman, 1996; 2007). In their book Nudge , Thaler and Sunstein, (2008) liken the rule-based system to Star Trek’s Mr. Spock, and the associative system to Homer Simpson.

In their best-selling book Nudge: Improving Decisions About Health, Wealth, and Happiness, Richard Thaler and Cass Sunstein, an economist and a law scholar from the University of Chicago, recommend a number of interventions to do just this.

We may not ourselves often be guided by this kind of inner nudge— few of us, I think, are; but to discourage Christians from being open to it, as has sometimes been done, is radically Spirit-quenching.

She means her ‘to be read’ list. You know, because she’s a book whore,” Luna says, nudging my arm with hers, and I grin. “I think you’ll find I prefer the term ‘smut slut,’ thank you.

I tuck my phone into my sweatpants’ pocket and nudge open my bathroom door to start my ten-step skin care routine (also known as the best forty-five minutes of my day).

After Johnson walked into the chamber “arm in arm” with Hamlin—one suspects the gesture of intimacy was as much practical as symbolic—the Tennessean, “in a state of manifest intoxication,” delivered a disastrous speech. “Johnson,” Hamlin murmured, “stop!” “In vain did Hamlin nudge [Johnson] from behind, audibly reminding him that the hour for the inauguration ceremony had passed,” Noah Brooks reported, but Johnson “kept on, though the President of the United States sat before him patiently waiting for his tirade to be over.” Johnson finally took the oath of office, adding, at various points, “I can say that with perfect propriety.” Wielding the Bible, Johnson called out, “I kiss this Book in the face of my nation of the United States.

She means her ‘to be read’ list. You know, because she’s a book whore,” Luna says, nudging my arm with hers, and I grin.

I'd strutted past his ground-floor grotto a gazillion times, but one day, my nosy nature nudged me to take a peek. Holy hoarders. The place was stuffed to the rafters with ancient artifacts and dust-bunny colonies, all carefully curated over eons. A skinny pathway, barely lit, snaked through the clutter, kind of like Dorothy's obstacle course to Oz. Except here, not even a desperate Dorothy would be clicking her ruby slippers, chanting, "There's no place like home." -Kim Lee ‘The Big Apple Took a Bite Off Me’ Now on Amazon Books and Kindle

Whichever way speech and language emerged in humans, it was a transition, with all those necessary but not sufficient pieces being nudged in one way or the other, by chance, by selection. The fact that it was a transition, not a revolution, means it took time.

We are not sure that this particular trap has a name, but it is familiar to everyone. Let’s call it the “while we are at it” bias. Home improvement projects are often settings where this bias is observed. A family decides that after twenty years of neglect, the kitchen really needs to be upgraded. The initial to-do list includes new appliances and cabinets, but of course, the floor will be ruined during the construction, so we’d better replace that, and gosh, if we just pushed that wall out a bit, we could add a new window, which looks out on the patio, but oh dear, who wants to look at that patio . . . In the military this is called mission creep. Here we plead guilty to book revision creep. The revision that we planned to knock off during the summer was not given to the publisher until late November.

So Manon nudged Abraxos, and he leaped into the sky, the Thirteen following suit. Not a child of war. But of peace.

somewhere in your house—maybe on a little evergreen tree at a time far removed from Christmas. Get one of those adult coloring books with whimsical patterns. Paint your nails an offbeat color; you can paint your toenails if you don’t want to share such personal expression with the world. Draw something fun on the driveway with chalk, such as the giant chalk game of Chutes and Ladders one study participant reported creating. Blow bubbles on a break. None of this is life-changing of course, but when things are different, seeing these fancies can nudge us out of the mindless state that tends to characterize day-to-day life. Hours always march into the past, but at least they can carry a little whimsy with them as they whistle on their way.

She smiled. To her surprise, a king smiled back. “Send me any good books that you read,” she said. “Only if you do the same.” She embraced him one last time. “Thank you—for everything,” she whispered. Dorian squeezed her, and then stepped away as Aelin mounted her horse and nudged it into a walk.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost,’” Elizabeth murmured. “Luke 19:10 doesn’t quite fit the situation, but I think God must have nudged McKenzie’s brain!

Not to mention that these phone calls are nudging up my total—I’m up to 526 thank-yous.

If they are to be turned into bread, grains have to be ground. When I was a little girl, my father decided to make some flour from the wheat we had grown on the farm. He tried pounding it with a pestle and mortar but all he got was broken grains, not flour. He put it through the hand mincer screwed to the edge of the table with the same result. Finally, he attacked it with a hammer on the flagstone floor. After he gave up, defeated, my mother cleared up the mess. It was sobering to realize that if the commercial millers had vanished, we could have starved even with barns full of sacks of wheat. To turn wheat into flour, you have to shear, not pound, the hard grains, which requires a grindstone, as the people of Lake Kinneret had discovered. A friend in Mexico, where hand grinding still goes on, showed me how it works. She knelt at the upper end of a grindstone, called a metate—a saddle-shaped platform on three inverted pyramidal legs, hewn from a single piece of volcanic rock (fig. 1.7). She mounded a handful of barley, took the mano, a stone shaped like a squared-off rolling pin, in both hands with her thumbs facing back to nudge the grain into place, and, using the whole weight of her upper body, sheared the mano over the grain. After half a dozen motions, she had broken the grains, which now clustered at the bottom end of the metate. Carefully scraping them up with her fingertips, she moved them back to the top, and started shearing again, this time producing white streaks of flour. By the time she had sheared the grain from top to bottom five or six times, she had produced a handful of flour.

But ... there's military law, isn't there?" "Well, yes ... but when it's pissing with rain and when you're up to your tonk– your waist in dead horses and someone gives you an order, that ain't the time to look up the book of rules, miss. Anyway, of it's about when you're allowed to get shot, sir." "Oh, I'm sure there's more to it than that, sergeant." "Oh, prob'ly, sir," Colon conceded diplomatically. "I'm sure there's lots of stuff about not killing enemy soldiers who've surrendered, for instance." "Oh, yerss, there's that, captain. Doesn't say you can't duff 'em up a bit, of course. Give 'em a little something to remember you by." "Not torture?" said Angua. "Oh, no, miss. But ... " Memory Lane for Colon had turned into a bad road through a dark valley "... well, when your best mate's got an arrow in his eye an' there's blokes and horses screamin' all around you and you're scared shi– you're really scared, an' you come across one of the enemy ... well, for some reason or other you've got this kinda urge to give him a bit of a ... nudge, sort of thing. Just ... you know ... like, maybe in twenty years' time his leg'll twinge a bit on frosty days and he'll remember what he done, that's all.

Every day struck with tsunami force, and only by running full speed did I think I could outwit the daily violence[...] But to run is eventually to run out of breath. Soon I realized that life was not ever going to slow for me -- that I would have to slow for it. Slowing, in fact, would be my only hope of living life, not simply surviving it. And so, in one of the most improbably seasons of my life, I started practicing sabbath, nudged toward the discipline of rest by Gordon Macdonald's book Ordering Your Private World. "If my private world is in order," writes MacDonald, "it will be because I have chosen to press Sabbath peace into the rush and routine of my daily life in order to find the rest God prescribed for himself and all of humanity." As the mother of three young children, I gave up, for one day of the week, the rush to get ahead. The alternative felt like death.

My favourite part is the almost-kiss,” he whispered. “It’s intoxicating.” He was using big words and complete sentences while my head was spinning in circles, and when he nudged his nose to mine, all I could come out with was, “I have a stupid brain.

friends had started hanging around. Franny could feel her stomach hardening and twisting into knots when they arrived, pushing and shoving one another and tripping over their huge basketball shoes. It was a wonder they didn’t knock over a display rack or topple one of the neatly stacked pyramids of paint cans. They seemed to be everywhere at once, and she couldn’t possibly keep an eye on all of them. Actually, she was a little afraid of them. While they dressed like kids, she knew they were actually young men. They were bigger than she was and full of rough male energy. From what she observed it seemed Ben was their leader and they were reporting to him. She was sure they were up to no good. Their whispered conversation was full of winks and nudges, and they constantly checked over their shoulders to see if they were being overheard. She tried to keep her distance, but if she had to approach them to help a customer, she noticed they would move away or fall silent. Whenever Mr. Slack appeared, they disappeared. Returning to the invoices, Franny went through them one more time. She couldn’t understand it. According to the paperwork, the store had received enough batteries to last through the summer, based on her best estimate using last year’s figures. They’d gotten twenty boxes each of AA and D batteries, the most popular sellers, and ten boxes each of the other sizes. Last week she’d noticed the display rack was nearly empty, and she’d asked Ben to fill it. “Can’t,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “They’re all gone.” “There should be plenty in the storeroom,” she’d insisted, looking curiously at his two buddies, who were lounging by the paint display. They seemed to find the conversation extremely amusing. “Go check again.” “There’s no point. I’m telling you, they’re all gone. Look, I’m taking a break now,” he’d said, signaling his friends to follow him outside. Sure enough, she couldn’t find any batteries in the storeroom, either. She was sure they hadn’t been sold; she would have noticed the unusual number of sales and ordered more. Where had they gone? It was very disturbing, especially since she’d been having such a hard time lately making up the bank deposit. That was always the first task of the day. She would take the previous day’s take out of the safe and add up the checks and cash, square them with the total sales figure, and fill out the deposit slip. Then Mr. Slack would put the whole business in a blue vinyl zippered pouch and take it to the red-brick bank across the street. For the past few weeks, however, she hadn’t been able to get the figures to match, even though

As he drove on, the sense that they were not on the same page –that they needed different things at this crucial time –entered the car like a discomfiting presence. He’d thought –he’d felt –that yesterday morning had been their proper leavetaking, and that this trip to the airport was just . . . a postscript, almost. Yesterday morning had been so right. They’d finally worked their way to the bottom of their ‘To Do’list. His bag was already packed. Bea had the day off work, they’d slept like logs, they’d woken up to brilliant sunshine warming the yellow duvet of their bed. Joshua the cat had been lying in a comical pose at their feet; they’d nudged him off and made love, without speaking, slowly and with great tenderness.

She nudged him with an elbow. “You say the word, General, and I’ll transform into the face of their nightmares.” “And what creature is that?” She gave him a knowing little smile. “Something I’ve been work- ing on.” “I don’t want to know, do I?” White teeth flashed. “No, you really don’t.

next to the sagging windmill. “I have to get in there to find where Bockius is buried. Otherwise we’ll be out here all night.” Samantha von Oppelstein nudged Lucas. “Lucas and I will draw him out,” she whispered. “We will?” Lucas asked. “Yeah,” she said. “We’ll create a distraction.” “What kind of distraction are—” Before Parker could finish, Samantha von Oppelstein stood up, cupped her hands around her