Oakwood Quotes

She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body.

When I crossed the street, according to my mother, I still had to hold someone’s hand. At ten, I would be able to cross streets unhanded. I’d held on to Joseph’s many times before, for many years, but holding his was like holding a plant, and the disappointment of fingers that didn’t grasp back was so acute that at some point I’d opted to take his forearm instead. For the first few street crossings, that’s what I did, but on the corner at Oakwood, on an impulse, I grabbed George’s hand. Right away: fingers, holding back. The sun. More clustery vines of bougainvillea draping over windows in bulges of dark pink. His warm palm. An orange tabby lounging on the sidewalk. People in torn black T-shirts sitting and smoking on steps. The city, opening up. We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.

Samuel said that Tom was quavering over greatness, trying to decide whether he could take the cold responsibility. Samuel knew his son’s quality and felt the potential of violence, and it frightened him, for Samuel had no violence—even when he hit Adam Trask with his fist he had no violence. And the books that came into the house, some of them secretly—well, Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and he balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, and came up with the book all over his face and hands. Violence and shyness—Tom’s loins needed women and at the same time he did not think himself worthy of a woman. For long periods he would welter in a howling celibacy, and then he would take a train to San Francisco and roll and wallow in women, and then he would come silently back to the ranch, feeling weak and unfulfilled and unworthy, and he would punish himself with work, would plow and plant unprofitable land, would cut tough oakwood until his back was breaking and his arms were weary rags.

my skirt to write a single word on my thigh in blue ink, then I shut my locker and head for the main doors. If I’d thought Oakwood Prep would be simpler

Your strength must come from your mind, as well as your heart. Never let either rule over the other.

I’d burn everything to the ground for you and walk away without another look.

She’s that first ray of sunlight after a bad storm. Peeking through the clouds.

Find it? What do you think was important enough to go back for in that storm?” “This is what got us stranded together in the woods?” I am flying. I am weightless, made of air and hope. “You always had it with you?” “I always had it with me.

She looks at her left hand, the diamond ring Adam gave her sitting atop her wedding band. Whatever power or magic or promises the rings once held have blown away like rotted leaves in the aftermath of everything that happened. She's left London, left Adam. The Oakwood is her fresh start. It's time to let go. Swallowing hard, Kate wiggles off the rings. The bands have left a divot in her finger, the lingering outline of a previous identity, like new skin cells knitting into a scar. She wonders if it will be visible forever.

Whatever you do to me,' I say, too angry to stay quiet, 'I can do worse to you.' 'Oh,' he says, fingers tight on mine. 'Do not think I forget that for a moment.' 'Then why?' I demand. 'You believe I planned your humiliation?' He laughs. 'Me? That sounds like work.' 'I don't care if you did or not,' I tell him, too angry to make sense of my feelings. 'I just care that you enjoyed it.' 'And why shouldn't I delight to see you squirm? You tricked me,,' Cardan says. 'You played me for a fool, and now I am the King of Fools.' 'The High King of Fools,' I say, a sneer in my voice. Our gazes meet, and there's a shock of mutual understanding that our bodies are pressed too closely. I am conscious of my skin, of the sweat beading on my lip, of the slide of my thighs against each other. I am aware of the warmth of his neck beneath my twined fingers, of the prickly brush of his hair and how I want to sink my hands in to it. I inhale the scent of him- moss and oakwood and leather. I stare at his treacherous mouth and imagine it on me. Everything about this is wrong.

The temperature was in the nineties, and on hot nights Chicagoans feel the city body and soul. The stockyards are gone, Chicago is no longer slaughter-city, but the old smells revive in the night heat. Miles of railroad siding along the streets once were filled with red cattle cars, the animals waiting to enter the yards lowing and reeking. The old stink still haunts the place. It returns at times, suspiring from the vacated soil, to remind us all that Chicago had once led the world in butcher-technology and that billions of animals had died here. And that night the windows were open wide and the familiar depressing multilayered stink of meat, tallow, blood-meal, pulverized bones, hides, soap, smoked slabs, and burnt hair came back. Old Chicago breathed again through leaves and screens. I heard fire trucks and the gulp and whoop of ambulances, bowel-deep and hysterical. In the surrounding black slums incendiarism shoots up in summer, an index, some say, of psychopathology. Although the love of flames is also religious. However, Denise was sitting nude on the bed rapidly and strongly brushing her hair. Over the lake, steel mills twinkled. Lamplight showed the soot already fallen on the leaves of the wall ivy. We had an early drought that year. Chicago, this night, was panting, the big urban engines going, tenements blazing in Oakwood with great shawls of flame, the sirens weirdly yelping, the fire engines, ambulances, and police cars – mad-dog, gashing-knife weather, a rape and murder night, thousands of hydrants open, spraying water from both breasts.

The wretchedness of the masses, and their hopeless condition, had no relation whatever to religion; their murmurs and groans were not against their gods or for want of gods. In the oak-woods of Britain the Druids held their followers; Odin and Freya maintained their godships in Gaul and Germany and among the Hyperboreans; Egypt was satisfied with her crocodiles and Anubis; the Persians were yet devoted to Ormuzd and Ahriman, holding them in equal honor; in hope of the Nirvana, the Hindoos moved on patient as ever in the rayless paths of Brahm; the beautiful Greek mind, in pauses of philosophy, still sang the heroic gods of Homer; while in Rome nothing was so common and cheap as gods. According to whim, the masters of the world, because they were masters, carried their worship and offerings indifferently from altar to altar, delighted in the pandemonium they had erected. Their discontent, if they were discontented, was with the number of gods; for, after borrowing all the divinities of the earth they proceeded to deify their Caesars, and vote them altars and holy service. No, the unhappy condition was not from religion, but misgovernment and usurpations and countless tyrannies.

She was, as you know already without as yet knowing anything, the Lily of this valley, where she grew for heaven, filling it with the fragrance of her virtues. Love, infinite love, without other sustenance than vision, dimly seen, of which my soul was full, was there, expressed to me by that long ribbon of water flowing in the sunshine between the grass-green banks, by the lines of the poplars adorning with their mobile laces that vale of love, by the oak-woods coming down between the vineyards to the shore, which the river curved and rounded as it chose, and by those dim varying horizons as they fled confusedly away.

This was the very heart of Wales' rainforest zone, where the oceanic climate conspires to make conditions perfect for the rich profusion of plant life that we'd spent the past week exploring. Yet here, humanity had found a rainforest and turned it into a desert. It had started long ago, no doubt: Wales' Green Desert is the product of agricultural malpractice dating back to the twelfth-century monks of Strata Florida. But what began as a profitable enterprise in medieval times today supports a mere twenty-eight farms over an area covering 46,000 acres. The farming unions claim that rewilding will lead to rural depopulation, but centuries of overgrazing have already drained the land of both people and wildlife. And in doing so, Wales is losing part of its heritage, its culture. Because the Wales of this great country's myths and legends was a rainforest nation, whose peoples lived and coexisted with the Atlantic oakwoods that once carpeted their land, celebrating them in song. They knew these rainforests and knew them deeply, weaving them into their stories, vesting their greatest heroes with a magic derived from that profound knowledge of place and ecology. There is a way back from this, but it is unlikely to come through a culture war between sheep farmers and rewilders. The truth is that there is more than enough space in Wales, as there is in the rest of Britain, both for farming to continue and for more rainforest to flourish.

On the other hand, everyday language would soon prove inadequate for designating all the olfactory notions that he had accumulated within himself. Soon he was no longer smelling mere wood, but kinds of wood: maple-wood, oak-wood, pine-wood, elm-wood, pear-wood, old, young, rotting, mouldering, mossy wood, down to single logs, chips and splinters – and could clearly differentiate them as objects in a way that other people could not have done by sight. It was the same with other things. For instance, the white drink that Madame Gaillard served her wards each day, why should it be designated uniformly as milk, when to Grenouille’s senses it smelled and tasted completely different every morning depending on how warm it was, which cow it had come from, what that cow had been eating, how much cream had been left in it and so on … Or why should smoke possess only the name ‘smoke’, when from minute to minute, second to second, the amalgam of hundreds of odours mixed iridescently into ever new and changing unities as the smoke rose from the fire … or why should earth, landscape, air – each filled at every step and every breath with yet another odour and thus animated with another identity – still be designated by just those three coarse words. All these grotesque incongruities between the richness of the world perceivable by smell and the poverty of language were enough for the lad Grenouille to doubt that language made any sense at all; and he grew accustomed to using such words only when his contact with others made it absolutely necessary.

Universal City Oakwood, a complex of furnished temporary-stay apartments on Barham Boulevard. The Oakwood was popular with businessmen, airline pilots and stewardesses, recently divorced fathers, and actors staying in LA for auditions, episodic guest shots, or movie shoots. Visiting assassins liked it, too. The best part of staying there was the sex. Unless you had leprosy, it was almost impossible not to get laid. And even then, your chances were still pretty good.

No such suspension of disbelief was needed on the morning of 13 September 1645. If I had been looking south from my house, I would have seen an awesome sight. During the civil war fought all over Britain and Ireland, the Scottish army led by General David Leslie surprised the Royalists and the Marquis of Montrose at Philiphaugh, west of Selkirk. In the early morning mist, he sent about 2,000 cavalry troopers through our little valley, perhaps keeping to the metalled surface of the old road leading to Oakwood Fort. They moved quietly around Howden Hill and, while Leslie led the rest of his army in a frontal assault, the cavalry attacked the rear of the Royalists and scattered them. Philiphaugh was a savage, sadistic rout with much unnecessary slaughter excused by fundamentalist piety. The greater part of the landscape of the valley was much altered after 1645. The fields, the thorn hedges, the shelterbelts of hardwoods, the steadings, the big houses and their policies are not old. After the middle of the 18th century, the pace of agricultural improvement quickened and shaped much of the countryside we see now and believe to be traditional. One of the most important catalysts was drainage and below where I sit in the evening stretches the 35-acre Tile Field. It is billiard-table flat because it was scraped for clay and at the western end stood a tile works. Its kilns were fired by the trees of the Hartwood and the clay puddled in a pond formed by the Common Burn and the Hartwoodburn.

We shot the film, almost all of it, in a small studio close by the Oakwood Apartments. Burbank, often considered the media capital of the world, is home to Walt Disney Studios, Warner Bros., Nickelodeon Animation Studio, and a massive porn industry.

In December 1882, “Old Chris” Baker had his cover blown. He was arrested, along with several white medical students, for attempted grave robbery at two African American cemeteries—Oakwood and Sycamore. The arrests were cheered by the Virginia Star, a black-owned publication with Republican ties. The news account focused more on the role of Baker as a traitor to his people than to the mendacity of the white MCV students.

Try to distract them for as long as you can,” Metabus instructed Puer, throwing his silver wine goblet against the wall, spilling its contents, and completely ignoring the flute players. They had stopped playing when the slave came barging in and just stood there, staring at the floor. With that, grabbing his oakwood spear, which was leaning against the wall, Metabus ran to the women’s quarters of the palace. Kicking open the door of the nursery, he snatched the baby girl out of her wet-nurse’s arms, barking at her to get lost. The terrified wet-nurse did as she was told. After taking off his exquisitely-embroidered royal robe and quickly wrapping Camilla in it, Metabus flew out the back entrance of the palace, the one usually reserved for the kitchen slaves, and headed for the forest.

This wasn’t Oakwood High where there were enough of us to form whatever factions we liked to fight our own separate battles. It wasn’t Tulsa Zoo, either, where everyone with legs long enough to reach a gas pedal could all fight the same one together. There were adults here, parents, real parents, which is like being around adults squared.

This scar will forever be a reminder that no matter what, I’ll always protect you. - Donovan -

This scar is a symbol of his love for me. The great lengths he will go to protect me. Heaven and back. - Audrey -

He gives me everything. A safe space in his arms. A loyal confidant to lean on. A future to build a family. - Audrey -

I want her to know that she’s safe, that no one could ever take her away from me. I’m a simple man. I don’t need much in this life. - Donovan -

She’s the only one I want in my arms when I fall asleep, and she’s the first face I want to see when I wake up. She’s once in a lifetime. - Donovan -

That motherfucking fucker.

When I dream about you naked, you’re not usually so hobbled, and you’re a lot more enthusiastic about it.

You—” I struggle for the right words. “You’re hitting on me. You realize that, right?” “I’ve been hitting on you all weekend. Thanks for finally noticing.

Just so you’re aware, it’s not required that you preface your feelings by calling yourself names. It’s not your job to keep my ego intact, least of all, by minimizing the way you feel.

I’ll fit you so good, Mel. You and me, we were made for each other. You’ll see.

You realize you’re encouraging me to come up with a plan to meet a guy, right?” “Nah, I’m just waiting for you to realize you can check that off your list at any time. You’ve got one sitting right here.” I make a show of looking around, but he cuts off the beginnings of my comeback with a pointed, unamused look. “That would be me, you brat.

WHAT IS LOVE BOMBING? SEVEN SIGNS TO LOOK FOR.

She looks like the sun, Mom,’ ” Andrea says, voice dropping in apparent imitation. Zac stiffens at my side. “ ‘Mixed with a little bit of rain.’ I’ll never forget it. The sweetest words coming from a fourteen-year-old boy.

We’re sandwiched in the space between our cars, an unnecessary shelter in this empty lot, but it feels like we’re in our own little world, just me and my Clover.

Namely, letting go of the oar that’s now slipping the final inches off the side of the canoe. I dart forward to catch it just as Zac does the same. And this really must be a sappy romance novel come to life, because we end up missing the paddle completely and grabbing each other’s hands instead.

We’ll paint yellow polka dots all over the walls, if that’s what you want.

I was such an easy target for his brand of manipulation, because I so badly wanted to believe I could be special to someone.

But me and her? It’s as personal as it gets. When you’ve been desperately in love with someone for fourteen years, a fling isn’t good enough. I want to be her last, and I need her to be mine.

She nuzzles into me. “I don’t understand how you’re single.” “I’ve never been single. I’ve been yours.

After all, she isn’t supposed to be here with me. But I’m gonna marry that girl one day. There’s no other way about it.

I relate to Sally in the movie. She is down to Earth and realistic, yet her soul yearns for her magic. And I feel that so much. My soul is also yearning for something. Something… more.

How did I get someone like Connor, who doted on me so profusely, to walk away without a thought? I loved him, and I lost him, and I have no idea how. I thought I’d been doing everything right to make him happy.

He’s Zac Porter, the golden boy of Oakwood Bay. Quarterback of the high school football team, on the cusp of taking the field for the University of Oakwood Bay,

Ahh, reading—the first love of my life, the portals to other worlds, the vessels of adventure. There’s no limit to where a good book can take you.

Those who fall with honor are buried here in the Oakwood. So it is written in The Path of the Ranger, and so we honor them,” he proclaimed, showing the tome, “our leaders, in a primal place, in front of the Sacred Oak.