Paradise Lost Best Quotes

Solitude sometimes is best society.

Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight.

O fairest of all creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflow'red, and now to death devote?

To mee, who with eternal Famine pine, Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven, There best, where most with ravin I might meet; Which here, though plenteous, all too little seems To stuff this Maw, this vast unhide-bound Corpse.

The weird in me found the weird in you. I was a lost kid until I met you, and the best part of my life, hands down, has been you being my friend.

...So little knows Any but God alone to value right The good before him but perverts best things To worst abuse or to their meanest use.

My husband claims I have an unhealthy obsession with secondhand bookshops. That I spend too much time daydreaming altogether. But either you intrinsically understand the attraction of searching for hidden treasure amongst rows of dusty shelves or you don't; it's a passion, bordering on a spiritual illness, which cannot be explained to the unaffected. True, they're not for the faint of heart. Wild and chaotic, capricious and frustrating, there are certain physical laws that govern secondhand bookstores and like gravity, they're pretty much nonnegotiable. Paperback editions of D. H. Lawrence must constitute no less than 55 percent of all stock in any shop. Natural law also dictates that the remaining 45 percent consist of at least two shelves worth of literary criticism on Paradise Lost and there should always be an entire room in the basement devoted to military history which, by sheer coincidence, will be haunted by a man in his seventies. (Personal studies prove it's the same man. No matter how quickly you move from one bookshop to the next, he's always there. He's forgotten something about the war that no book can contain, but like a figure in Greek mythology, is doomed to spend his days wandering from basement room to basement room, searching through memoirs of the best/worst days of his life.) Modern booksellers can't really compare with these eccentric charms. They keep regular hours, have central heating, and are staffed by freshly scrubbed young people in black T-shirts. They're devoid of both basement rooms and fallen Greek heroes in smelly tweeds. You'll find no dogs or cats curled up next to ancient space heathers like familiars nor the intoxicating smell of mold and mildew that could emanate equally from the unevenly stacked volumes or from the owner himself. People visit Waterstone's and leave. But secondhand bookshops have pilgrims. The words out of print are a call to arms for those who seek a Holy Grail made of paper and ink.

But what is [the] quality of originality? It is very hard to define or specify. Indeed, to define originality would in itself be a contradiction, since whatever action can be defined in this way must evidently henceforth be unoriginal. Perhaps, then, it will be best to hint at it obliquely and by indirection, rather than to try to assert positively what it is. One prerequisite for originality is clearly that a person shall not be inclined to impose his preconceptions on the fact as he sees it. Rather, he must be able to learn something new, even if this means that the ideas and notions that are comfortable or dear to him may be overturned. But the ability to learn in this way is a principle common to the whole of humanity. Thus it is well known that a child learns to walk, to talk, and to know his way around the world just by trying something out and seeing what happens, then modifying what he does (or thinks) in accordance with what has actually happened. In this way, he spends his first few years in a wonderfully creative way, discovering all sorts of things that are new to him, and this leads people to look back on childhood as a kind of lost paradise. As the child grows older, however, learning takes on a narrower meaning. In school, he learns by repetition to accumulate knowledge, so as to please the teacher and pass examinations. At work, he learns in a similar way, so as to make a living, or for some other utilitarian purpose, and not mainly for the love of the action of learning itself. So his ability to see something new and original gradually dies away. And without it there is evidently no ground from which anything can grow.

Solitude sometimes is the best society.

Doth God exact day-labor, light denied,' I fondly ask; but patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best, his state Is kingly. Thousands at His bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.' ~Sonnet 19: On His Blindness (1655)~

I talk very often in my films that Paradise is not yet lost, there are little bits of Paradise preserved. I am very interested to keep and protect what has really come to us from the past, and to protect what is essential to human beings. I have one song on that subject, and that song you know I was singing three weeks ago with the Big Band group. I was singing, "We are not going to betray you/those who were before us/I am with you here and now/we are not going to betray you/you who did everything to make sure that humanity would go to some other more subtle direction..." So, in that sense I am very conservative. I want to conserve the best that has been done before us by others before us, in that sense.

in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one; for when we suffer, or are exposed to the same miseries by a government, which we might expect in a country without government, our calamity is heightened by reflecting that we furnish the means by which we suffer. Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence; the palaces of kings are built on the ruins of the bowers of paradise.

The best of Milton is in his epic ... Must Noah always figure in our minds drunk and naked, never building the Ark?

Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from him is best

Her hand soft touching, whisper'd thus: Awake, My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight

For solitude sometimes is best society and short retirement urges sweet return.

So spacious, and his line stretched out so far, That Man may know he dwells not in his own— An edifice too large for him to fill, Lodged in a small partition, and the rest Ordained for uses to his Lord best known.

Henceforth I learn, that to obey is best, And love, with fear, the only God; to walk As in His presence, ever to observe His providence, and on Him sole depend, Merciful over all his works, with good Still overcoming evil, and by small Accomplishing great things; by things deemed weak Subverting wordly strong, and worldly wise By simply meek; that suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory; And, to the faithful, death the gate of life - Taught this by His example, whom I now Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest.

Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep Was aerie-light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapors bland, which the only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song Of birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwakened Eve With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek, As through unquiet rest: He, on his side Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamored, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, Her hand soft touching, whispered thus. Awake, My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight! Awake: The morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colors, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.

When, in Paradise Lost, Adam asks about the movements of the heavens, Raphael refuses to answer. “Let it speak,” he says, “the Maker’s high magnificence, who built / so spacious, and his line stretcht out so far; / That man may know he dwells not in his own; / An edifice too large for him to fill, / Lodg’d in a small partition, and the rest / Ordain’d for uses to his Lord best known.

You're up early," I said. "I always rise early. The morning is the best time for me to work." I glanced at the books. "What are you going, Greek?" Henry set the cup back into its saucer. "A translation of Paradise Lost." "Into what language?" "Latin," he said solemly. "Hmm," I said. "Why?" "I am interested to see what I will wind up with. Milton to my way of thinking is our greatest English poet, greater than Shakespeare, but I think in some ways it was unfortunate that he chose to write in English — of course, he wrote a not inconsiderable amount of poetry in Latin, but that was early, in his student days; what I'm referring to is the later work. In Paradise Lost he pushes English to its very limits but I think no language without noun cases could possible support the structural order he attempts to impose. He laid his cigarette back into the ashtray.

So... Dell had been a good boy with bad friends. I knew this – I used to be one of them. I’d always known Dell would disappear one day; he was too decent, too golden. This place never tainted that, and I don’t know why. He made me feel dirty. Dark and corrupt. It hadn’t always that way, and I don’t know when it changed... but I felt it now. I only knew I couldn’t hold onto him tight enough to stop those long legs carrying him away somewhere better. A day’ll come when everybody’s had you and nobody wants you anymore... As Dell drove Erin away in their rent-a-car from the Holiday Inn into the early evening traffic, I felt the walls closing in, the world swelling around me, and I knew that day had finally come. Tomorrow, I leave Paradise. It’s true. Shanise was right. I turned away as the car disappeared up the slushy street. That was the last time I saw them alive.

  Dire was the tossing, deep the groans, despair   Tended the sick busiest from Couch to Couch;   And over them triumphant Death his Dart   Shook, but delaid to strike, though oft invok't   With vows, as thir chief good, and final hope.   Sight so deform what heart of Rock could long   Drie-ey'd behold? ADAM could not, but wept,   Though not of Woman born; compassion quell'd   His best of Man, and gave him up to tears   A space, till firmer thoughts restraind excess,   And scarce recovering words his plaint renew'd.

ultimately, most of us would choose a rich and meaningful life over an empty, happy one, if such a thing is even possible. “Misery serves a purpose,” says psychologist David Myers. He’s right. Misery alerts us to dangers. It’s what spurs our imagination. As Iceland proves, misery has its own tasty appeal. A headline on the BBC’s website caught my eye the other day. It read: “Dirt Exposure Boosts Happiness.” Researchers at Bristol University in Britain treated lung-cancer patients with “friendly” bacteria found in soil, otherwise known as dirt. The patients reported feeling happier and had an improved quality of life. The research, while far from conclusive, points to an essential truth: We thrive on messiness. “The good life . . . cannot be mere indulgence. It must contain a measure of grit and truth,” observed geographer Yi-Fu Tuan. Tuan is the great unheralded geographer of our time and a man whose writing has accompanied me throughout my journeys. He called one chapter of his autobiography “Salvation by Geography.” The title is tongue-in-cheek, but only slightly, for geography can be our salvation. We are shaped by our environment and, if you take this Taoist belief one step further, you might say we are our environment. Out there. In here. No difference. Viewed that way, life seems a lot less lonely. The word “utopia” has two meanings. It means both “good place” and “nowhere.” That’s the way it should be. The happiest places, I think, are the ones that reside just this side of paradise. The perfect person would be insufferable to live with; likewise, we wouldn’t want to live in the perfect place, either. “A lifetime of happiness! No man could bear it: It would be hell on Earth,” wrote George Bernard Shaw, in his play Man and Superman. Ruut Veenhoven, keeper of the database, got it right when he said: “Happiness requires livable conditions, but not paradise.” We humans are imminently adaptable. We survived an Ice Age. We can survive anything. We find happiness in a variety of places and, as the residents of frumpy Slough demonstrated, places can change. Any atlas of bliss must be etched in pencil. My passport is tucked into my desk drawer again. I am relearning the pleasures of home. The simple joys of waking up in the same bed each morning. The pleasant realization that familiarity breeds contentment and not only contempt. Every now and then, though, my travels resurface and in unexpected ways. My iPod crashed the other day. I lost my entire music collection, nearly two thousand songs. In the past, I would have gone through the roof with rage. This time, though, my anger dissipated like a summer thunderstorm and, to my surprise, I found the Thai words mai pen lai on my lips. Never mind. Let it go. I am more aware of the corrosive nature of envy and try my best to squelch it before it grows. I don’t take my failures quite so hard anymore. I see beauty in a dark winter sky. I can recognize a genuine smile from twenty yards. I have a newfound appreciation for fresh fruits and vegetables. Of all the places I visited, of all the people I met, one keeps coming back to me again and again: Karma Ura,

Isabelle and Amory were distinctly not innocent, nor were they particularly brazen. Moreover, amateur standing had very little value in the game they were playing, a game that would presumably be her principal study for years to come. She had begun as he had, with good looks and an excitable temperament, and the rest was the result of accessible popular novels and dressing-room conversation culled from a slightly older set. Isabelle had walked with an artificial gait at nine and a half, and when her eyes, wide and starry, proclaimed the ingenue most. Amory was proportionately less deceived. He waited for the mask to drop off, but at the same time he did not question her right to wear it. She, on her part, was not impressed by his studied air of blasé sophistication. She had lived in a larger city and had slightly an advantage in range. But she accepted his pose--it was one of the dozen little conventions of this kind of affair. He was aware that he was getting this particular favor now because she had been coached; he knew that he stood for merely the best game in sight, and that he would have to improve his opportunity before he lost his advantage. So they proceeded with an infinite guile that would have horrified her parents.

All that can best be expressed in words should be expressed in verse, but verse is a slow thing to create; nay, it is not really created: it is a secretion of the mind, it is a pearl that gathers round some irritant and slowly expresses the very essence of beauty and of desire that has lain long, potential and unexpressed, in the mind of the man who secretes it. God knows that this Unknown Country has been hit off in verse a hundred times... Milton does it so well in the Fourth Book of Paradise Lost that I defy any man of a sane understanding to read the whole of that book before going to bed and not to wake up next morning as though he had been on a journey.

    Whom thus the Sin-born Monster answerd soon.   To mee, who with eternal Famin pine,   Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven,   There best, where most with ravin I may meet;   Which here, though plenteous, all too little seems   To stuff this Maw, this vast unhide-bound Corps.     To whom th' incestuous Mother thus repli'd.   Thou therefore on these Herbs, and Fruits, & Flours   Feed first, on each Beast next, and Fish, and Fowle,   No homely morsels, and whatever thing   The Sithe of Time mowes down, devour unspar'd,   Till I in Man residing through the Race,   His thoughts, his looks, words, actions all infect,   And season him thy last and sweetest prey.

Society is produced by our wants, and government by wickedness; the former promotes our happiness POSITIVELY by uniting our affections, the latter NEGATIVELY by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first is a patron, the last a punisher. Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one; for when we suffer, or are exposed to the same miseries BY A GOVERNMENT, which we might expect in a country WITHOUT GOVERNMENT, our calamity is heightened by reflecting that we furnish the means by which we suffer. Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence; the palaces of kings are built on the ruins of the bowers of paradise.

  But whether thus these things, or whether not,   Whether the Sun predominant in Heav'n   Rise on the Earth, or Earth rise on the Sun,   Hee from the East his flaming rode begin,   Or Shee from West her silent course advance   With inoffensive pace that spinning sleeps   On her soft Axle, while she paces Eev'n,   And bears thee soft with the smooth Air along,   Sollicit not thy thoughts with matters hid,   Leave them to God above, him serve and feare;   Of other Creatures, as him pleases best,   Wherever plac't, let him dispose: joy thou   In what he gives to thee, this Paradise   And thy faire EVE; Heav'n is for thee too high   To know what passes there; be lowlie wise:   Think onely what concernes thee and thy being;   Dream not of other Worlds, what Creatures there   Live, in what state, condition or degree,   Contented that thus farr hath been reveal'd   Not of Earth onely but of highest Heav'n.

And what books should we so read? The principle which has never failed to confer superiority on a man's thinking activity is the well-worn precept: DO NOT READ GOOD BOOKS—life is too short for that—ONLY READ THE BEST. This simple recipe is as infallible as good air and good food are in physical hygiene. Yet, it is a fact that nineteen out of twenty modern people quake away from it. "Masterpieces again," they groan, "The Aeneid, the Divina Commedia, Paradise Lost, we have heard that before: much rather be ordinary than bored." The notion that masterpieces are boresome school books interpreted by dull teachers, or examination stuff, is a marvellous product of education. Ignorance is assuredly less deadly, for it can create no such inferiority complex as the schoolboy's notion of his lack of kinship with the best literature. But this phantasm can easily be exorcised if we modify the above principle to: ONLY READ WHAT GIVES YOU THE GREATEST PLEASURE.

When the Kingdom Comes Your mother is not your mother, she is something else, a bird nesting in the heart of a hollowed out tree, a saint whose skin is cool and soft as apple-flesh, the will of God. And your brothers are not your brothers, they are the ash that is all of us, scattered in its periphery, unfortunate multitude. Your sister, your lover, your friend none of these are yours. The stone belongs only to the river which bled it smooth. What you call your face, that canvas of mercy which smiles with grief at even November's drizzle and chill, is the face of someone else, someone to come, good tidings, the Christ child in a stable, cooing as Mary tends such tiny hands. It is her face that seems so familiar, the answer to everything whetting the tip of your tongue. The hairs on your head, they belong only to themselves, and when they are done with such a manner of belonging, they offer themselves to stars which outnumber them galacticly. Everything you think is yours is not. A father had two sons, and one of them was heavy with desire. Friend—what's lost is found, forever. You will wear the very best robe. You will wear rings on every finger of each hand. And they are not your hands. They are God's hands and She formed you with them Herself turning tricks with clay until finally the sand sang alleluia, and it was good. These hands, She will hold like treasure all the way to Paradise, where under the glimmer of the moon and the spark of light that fuels every prayer, She keeps her family. And we will all be there. And we will all be.

The industrial revolution has held in contempt not only the 'obsolete skills' of those classes, but the concern for quality, for responsible workmanship and good work, that supported their skills. For the principle of good work it substituted a secularized version of the heroic tradition: the ambition to be a 'pioneer' of science or technology, to make a 'breakthrough' that will 'save the world' from some 'crisis' (which now is usually the result of some previous 'breakthrough'). The best example we have of this kind of hero, I am afraid, is the fallen Satan of Paradise Lost--Milton having undoubtedly having observed in his time the prototypes of industrial heroism. This is a hero who instigates and influences the actions of others, but does not act himself. His heroism is of the mind only--escaped as far as possible, not only from divine rule, from its place in the order of creation or the Chain of Being, but also from the influence of material creation: A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n This would-be heroism is guilty of two evils that are prerequisite to its very identity: hubris and abstraction. The industrial hero supposes that 'mine own mind hath saved me'--and moreover that it may save the world. Implicit in this is the assumption that one's mind is one's own, and that it may choose its own place in the order of things; one usurps divine authority, and thus, in classic style, becomes the author of results that one can neither foresee nor control.

Dear me, I am happy the way you have turned out. I am happy the way you have closed in all the broken parts of your self and made them look like waves cutting across the edges of a shore that seems so distant yet alive. I am happy the way you screamed at every gust and almost fell back with choked tears and yet walked on while your mind told you otherwise. I am happy the way you caressed the numb tears of your heart and poured it out unashamedly for they made you so much more than just a piece of Earth. I am happy the way you believed in Love even when your love left you empty with scars and wounds that are yet unhealed. I am happy the way you left your wounds untouched for you knew the value of Life and the reason to walk on this pit of fire. I am happy the way you learnt to sprinkle rays from your ashes and yet remain unabsorbed in the chained hollows of your once broken soul. I am happy the way you tried to listen to your heart's cry for that led you to a paradise of a world lulled by His Mercy and Love. I am happy the way you chose to rise from your corpse and know that Life means love and light not only for your self but for everyone around. I am happy that you finally realized that your life is complete within itself and you are perfect beyond all your imperfections. I am happy that you found your calling in the horizon of smiles that you leave behind each time you cross path with a fellow Traveller of this voyage called Life. I am happy that in your solitude you found the company of your best friend that lies within. I am happy that even in the night you shine bright with the sun of your soul that knows no bound and trusts no fear. I am happy that you keep trying and pushing off all that puts you behind and never cease to wonder at the marvel of Life. I am happy that you never stopped to gaze at what you lost but stayed amazed at what you gained. I am happy that you keep stumbling through Life, waiting for the light that runs through an endless tunnel of hope, counting through the ever falling leaf of a grey rose that murmurs through an unending story of Hope and Faith. I am happy that you are all that you have become. And I am happy the way you have turned out. - A flicker, that lies inside of you.

All about her she saw that two thousand out of the horde had made it across the water. They were on the frontier of Eden. A mere two thousand combatants for the invasion of an impregnable fortress. Five out of six Nephilim had perished at the mercy of Rahab and her brood of Leviathan and the tentacled one. The devastation was inestimable. It could lose her the war. Still, she had two thousand warriors with her. They were on the shores of the entrance to the Garden that hid the Tree of Life deep in its midst. Thanks to the Cursed One, she knew exactly where that tree was. She looked for her Rephaim generals but could not find them. They had all been lost to the denizens of the deep. An earthquake rocked the land. It was deep, the precursor of something much bigger. “Now what?” Inanna complained. She looked onto the horizon of her destination. Black smoke billowing out of the mountaintops of not only Mount Sahand, but the more distant northern Mount Savalan. The earth rumbled again. She realized she did not have much time. She signaled for her Anzu bird, and called out to Utu, flying above them at a safe height. “SOUND THE CRY OF WAR!” she bellowed. Utu put the trumpet to his lips and blew with all his might. The war cry of Inanna echoed throughout the land. Her Nephilim gathered their arms and dashed toward the heart of Eden. Inanna mounted her thunderbird. She glanced out at the Lake. Rahab glided on the surface, its eyes watching her. It would not forget this day, nor the Watcher, who for one moment bested the sea dragon of the Abyss.               • • • • • At the top of the Mount Sahand ridge, six thousand Nephilim prepared their sail-chutes. They waited for the call of war. When it came, they jumped off the cliff edge by the dozens. They opened up their sails to float down into the Garden. Handfuls of them failed and Nephilim plummeted to their deaths a thousand feet below. But most of them worked. The Nephilim drifted from the heavens into the pristine paradise. Right into the flaming whirling swords of the Cherubim.

In Genesis, the trees are understood best in the context of sacred space rather than as isolated trees that happen to be in a garden. Whether interpreters consider them real, physical, floral specimens with the ability to bestow benefits to those who partake, figurative symbols of divine gifts, mythological motifs, or anything else, we must not miss the theological and textual significance that they have. Whether they confer or represent, they provide what is only God’s to give. He is the source of life, which is given by him and found in his presence (Deut 30:11-20). He is the center of order, and wisdom is the ability to discern order. Relationship with God is the beginning of wisdom (Job 28:28; Prov 1:7). Consequently, we make a mistake to think that this is simply about magical trees in a garden paradise. It is about the presence of God on earth and what relationship with him makes available.38

There was still needed the masterwork, the culmination Of everything that had been done; a creature who was not low And brutish as the other creatures, but given The holy virtue of reason, who might stand up Straight and upright with a serene face and Govern the rest, having self-knowledge, and that Will allow his soul to talk with Heaven, Gratefully acknowledging where his good comes from And turn his heart, voice and eyes there With devotion, adoring And worshipping the supreme God, who made him the best Of all his works; so the all powerful Eternal Father (for where is he not Present?) spoke to his Son:

You're up early," I said. "I always rise early. The morning is the best time for me to work." I glanced at the books. "What are you going, Greek?" Henry set the cup back into its saucer. "A translation of Paradise Lost." "Into what language?" "Latin," he said solemnly. "Hmm," I said. "Why?" "I am interested to see what I will wind up with. Milton to my way of thinking is our greatest English poet, greater than Shakespeare, but I think in some ways it was unfortunate that he chose to write in English — of course, he wrote a not inconsiderable amount of poetry in Latin, but that was early, in his student days; what I'm referring to is the later work. In Paradise Lost he pushes English to its very limits but I think no language without noun cases could possible support the structural order he attempts to impose. He laid his cigarette back into the ashtray.

Lewis, it seems, could remember texts primarily because he had absorbed their deep inner logic. His diaries bear witness to his habit of reading an astonishing number of texts; his personal library contains annotations indicating when a book was first read, and then read again. He was good at explaining complex ideas to others, because he had first explained them to himself: “I’m a professional teacher and explanation happens to be one of the things I’ve learned to do.”[369] Lewis achieved this feat partly by neglecting other sources of reading—such as daily newspapers. As a result, even his friends sometimes found him worryingly ignorant of current affairs. William Empson (1906–1984), a leading literary critic who had little time for Lewis’s views on Milton, nevertheless declared that “he was the best read man of his generation, one who read everything and remembered everything he read.”[370] It showed. Students attending his lectures were impressed by his grasp not simply of the texts of leading works of literature—above all, Milton’s Paradise Lost—but his deeper grasp of their internal structure. Rarely did university lectures both inform and inspire; yet these quickly became the hallmarks of Lewis’s academic lecturing style.

Finally, we must note The Great Divorce, a highly imaginative book which Lewis composed in 1944. Tolkien described this book as “a new moral allegory or ‘vision’ based on the medieval fancy of the Refrigerium, by which the lost souls have an occasional holiday in Paradise.”[513] Lewis has been much criticised by Catholic theologians for his obviously faulty analysis of medieval theology at this point.[514] Indeed, The Great Divorce is clearly best regarded as a “supposal”: if the inhabitants of hell were to visit heaven, what would happen? Lewis initially titled this work Who Goes Home? but was happily persuaded to alter the title. The work is chiefly remarkable on account of its use of an innovative imaginative framework, similar in some ways to The Screwtape Letters, to explore a series of very traditional questions—such as the limits of human free will and the problem of pride. Perhaps the most important feature of this work, however, is Lewis’s demonstration—by art of narrative rather than by force of argument—that people easily become trapped in a way of thinking from which they cannot break free. Those in hell, on exploring heaven, turn out to be so comfortable with their distorted view of reality that they choose not to embrace truth on encountering it. Lewis deploys familiar cultural stereotypes of his day—such as the career artist who is obsessed with the avant-garde, or the theologically liberal bishop infatuated with his intellectual fame—to challenge the lazy and unevidenced Enlightenment assumption that humans recognise and accept truth when they see it. Human nature, Lewis suggests, is rather more complex than this trite, superficial rationalism allows.

II-238. Suppose he should relent / And publish Grace to all, on promise made / Of new Subjection; with what eyes could we / Stand in his presence humble, and receive / Strict Laws impos'd, to celebrate his Throne / With warbl'd Hymns, and to his Godhead sing / Forc't Halleluiah's; while he Lordly sits / Our envied Sovran, and his Altar breathes / Ambrosial Odours and Ambrosial Flowers, / Our servile offerings. This must be our task / In Heav'n, this our delight; II-238. Let's say he forgives us all if we promise to worship him. Are you ready to follow his laws, sing his praises, bring him flowers? II-248. how wearisom / Eternity so spent in worship paid / To whom we hate. II-248. It would make us sick to spend eternity worshiping the one we hate. II-249. Let us not then pursue / By force impossible, by leave obtain'd / Unacceptable, though in Heav'n, our state / Of splendid vassalage, II-249. Let's forget about fighting a war we can't win, or returning to Heaven in miserable slavery. II-252. but rather seek / Our own good from our selves, and from our own / Live to our selves, though in this vast recess, II-252. Let's make the best of what we have here where we don't owe anybody anything.

two or ALL the puppies if I could’ve. But whatever, it was just cool to have puppies in the mall. My sister’s gonna FREAK when I tell her about it. Anyways, Fergus and Annie returned to our tournament table with the biggest plate of nachos I’d ever seen in my whole entire life, so me and Emma went and joined them. The four of us dug into the towering mountain of chips and cheese and chicken and onions and queso and tomatoes and salsa and sour cream and guac and jalapenos and O.M.CHEESE, it was SO good! I filled my belly with warm food and then sat back, watching all the people around the tournament having fun. What a great start to a weekend full of friends, puppies, and video games. I mean, seriously, everything was PERFECT, and there wasn’t a single thing that could change that… And immediately, Annie goes, “It was stolen,” but she didn’t know that! Isn’t it funny how some people go to the worst-case scenario first? That’s called “catastrophic thinking” and helps ABSOLUTELY NOBODY in times of stress. So, until we had more details, I thought it best to simply call the camera “missing.” I ran up to Callie, HOPING that maybe she had taken the camera to a Lost & Found box somewhere inside Hacktronics, but nope. Apparently, they didn’t have one. Not good. That meant somebody MIGHT have stolen it. I went to the other players in the tournament and asked if THEY saw anything suspicious, but nobody did! I just couldn’t believe it! How was it possible that NOBODY saw some fool GANK an $800 camera?? That doesn’t even make any sense! Fergus had completely shut down. Annie was angry at me. And Emma was just caught in the middle of it, sitting there, like, “Awkwaaaaaard.” Then, outta nowhere, Annie let me have it. She shouted a bunch of stuff at me that weren’t the kindest things ever, but I fixed all that through the MAGIC of editing…

If not a lost art, then an art that often rushes away from contemporary writers with all the excited energy of a disobedient dog. At least, that dog runs off from me. The best I have been able to do is run after it, try to head it off, circle back, call its name, and eventually just wait for it to come trotting back covered with mud. And the odd tick.

You’re the best adventure I could’ve taken. There is no such thing as bored whenever you’re around. I hardly want the trip to be over. When I close my eyes. There is no place I’d rather be. When I open my eyes, I know that there is no greater paradise. It all begins when I see your face. I’ve collected my ticket and boarded my train. In a place this beautiful, how could I afford to be lost.

The first, Ben Azzai, looked at the divine presence and immediately perished. The second, Ben Zoma, lost his mind. The third, Elisha ben Abuyah, became a heretic and was, from that moment on, known simply as Acher, or “the Other.” Only Akiva, we’re told, entered in peace and left in peace. Why? Jewish scholars have spent centuries offering various intricate explanations, but Akiva’s is best. “It is not because I am greater than my colleagues,” he is quoted as saying in a midrash, “but because of the teaching in the Mishnah, ‘Your deeds will bring you near and your deeds will keep you far.’ ”25 Just as his status as a self-made man of low lineage kept him from receiving the highest honor on earth, so did his deeds enable him to receive the highest honor in higher, celestial spheres. In Yavneh, the kid from nowhere could never be appointed Nasi; in paradise, he and only he is welcomed and protected. Even the angels themselves, the Talmud tells us, resented Akiva this privilege and sought to push him out, but “the Holy One, Blessed be He, said to them: Leave this Elder, for he is fit to serve My glory.”26

Gandhi wrote: ‘I seem to have detected a flaw in me which is unworthy of a votary of truth and ahimsa. I am going through a process of self-introspection, the results of which I cannot foresee. I find myself for the first time during the past 50 years in a Slough of Despond.’ One wonders what readers of the press statement made of this decidedly odd interpolation. To them, the cause, manifestation and the precise nature of this flaw was left unelaborated. Gandhi’s close disciples knew the details; and the labours of the editors of his Collected Works have since made them public for us to examine it. Here is what happened. On 14 April 1938, Gandhi awoke with an erection; and despite efforts to contain his excitement, had a masturbatory experience. He was sleeping alone, and it was decades since he had been aroused in such a way. The details of the incident were kept from his ‘political’ followers such as Jawaharlal Nehru, but discussed with the spiritual followers who had stayed with him in Sabarmati and Segaon. To one Gujarati ashramite he wrote that ‘I was in such a wretched and pitiable condition that in spite of my utmost efforts I could not stop the discharge though I was fully awake.... After the event, restlessness has become acute beyond words. Where am I, where is my place, and how can a person subject to passion represent non-violence and truth?’ To Mira, Gandhi wrote in a language even more vivid in its self-abasement: ‘That dirty, degrading, torturing experience of 14th April shook me to bits and made me feel as if I was hurled by God from an imaginary paradise where I had no right to be in my uncleanliness.’ To his other close woman disciple, Amrit Kaur, Gandhi spoke of ‘an unaccountable dissatisfaction with myself’. But he had not lost faith, and was resolved to overcome the memory of his failure. ‘The sexual sense is the hardest to overcome in my case,’ he remarked. ‘It has been an incessant struggle. It is for me a miracle how I have survived it. The one I am engaged in may be, ought to be, the final struggle.’ Gandhi had taken a vow of brahmacharya, as far back as 1906. He thought sex was necessary only for procreation, and rejected the idea that sex might be pleasurable in and of itself. In his writings and speeches, he had often spoken of the importance of the preservation and husbanding of sperm, which he termed ‘the vital fluid’. After this (to him) shocking experience, how could Gandhi best control his passions, best preserve and husband that vital fluid? Several ashramites (Amrit Kaur among them) thought he should avoid close physical contact with women, especially younger women. He should abandon ashram girls as supports while walking (he rested his hands on their shoulders to propel his frail frame along), and discontinue the practice of having his nails cut or his body massaged by women disciples. Gandhi was not convinced of the sagacity of this advice. He had, he reminded one disciple, not ‘advocated total avoidance of innocent contact between the two sexes and I have had a certain measure of success in this’. To Amrit Kaur, he insisted that ‘it is not the woman who is to blame. I am the culprit. I must attain the required purity.’ Gandhi had wanted to write about the experience of 14 April in Harijan, baring to the world his failure and lack of self-control. He discussed this with Rajagopalachari, who was then in Segaon. Rajaji dissuaded him from making his experience public. Afterwards, Rajaji wrote to his son-in-law Devadas, who was also Gandhi’s son. The Mahatma, he said, was deeply worried ‘that he was still unable to overcome the reflex action of his flesh. He discovered, it seems, one day and he was so shocked and felt so unworthy that he was deceiving people and he wrote an article about it for publication in Harijan, which, thank God, I have stopped, after a very quarrelsome hour'.

Next to a planned financial crisis, war is the best way to make money. This is why the Industrial-military complex will never forbid politicians ever to start a war

Judge not what is best by pleasure, though to nature seeming meet, created as thou art to nobler end, holy and pure, conformity divine. It’s Milton, Paradise Lost, something Ashey said to me when I told him I wasn’t into porn. He’s always quoting stuff like that; he thinks it will inspire me. It does.

Deep, fluting emotions were a form of weakness. She'd seen the softening in her work over the years, she'd started making the lazy, homey treats like apple crumble, chocolate muffins, butterscotch pudding, and lemon bars. They were fast and cheap and they pleased her children. But she'd trained at one of the best pastry programs in the country. Her teachers were French. She'd learned the classical method of making fondant, of making real buttercream with its spun-candy base and beating the precise fraction off egg into the pate a choux. She knew how to blow sugar into glassine nests and birds and fountains, how to construct seven-tiered wedding cakes draped with sugar curtains copied from the tapestries at Versailles. When the other students interned at the Four Seasons, the French Laundry, and Dean & Deluca, Avis had apprenticed with a botanical illustrator in the department of horticulture at Cornell, learning to steady her hand and eye, to work with the tip of the brush, to dissect and replicate in tinted royal icing and multihued glazes the tiniest pieces of stamen, pistil, and rhizome. She studied Audubon and Redoute. At the end of her apprenticeship, her mentor, who pronounced the work "extraordinary and heartbreaking," arranged an exhibition of Avis's pastries at the school. "Remembering the Lost Country" was a series of cakes decorated in perfectly rendered sugar olive branches, cross sections of figs, and frosting replicas of lemon leaves. Her mother attended and pronounced the effect 'amusant.

All things are best fulfilled in their due time; And time there is for all things,