Past Judgement Quotes

The difference in judgement between you and me originates from different rules derived from past experience.

At some point, you just gotta forgive the past, your happiness hinges on it.

Your actions will always be what the world sees, but people who choose to see through God's eyes will always have the compassion to understand why.

It's easy to look at people and make quick judgements about them, their present and their pasts, but you'd be amazed at the pain and tears a single smile hides. what a person shows to the world is only one tiny facet of the iceburg hidden from sight. And more often then not, it's lined with cracks and scars that go all the way to the foundation of their soul.

Don’t judge me by my past. I don’t live there anymore.

The Führer's judgement will be proved right - again.' 'Of course it will, Erik.' 'He has never yet been wrong!' 'A man thought he could fly, so he jumped off the top of a ten-storey building, and as he fell past the fifth floor, flapping his arms uselessly in the air, he was heard to say: So far, so good!

Pain results from a judgement you have made about a thing. Remove the judgement and the pain disappears.

Don't spend your life believing a story about yourself that you didn't write that's been fed to you - that simply you've accepted, embedded and added to. Let the story go and there beneath is the real you...and your unique gifts, heart and path that await you.

by now you've already formed your own impression. you believe that an act committed a lifetime ago defines a man, or you believe that a person's past has nothing to do with his future. you think i am either a hero, or a monster. maybe knowning more about circumstances will make you think differently about me, but it won't change what happened twenty-eight years ago.

it seems a shame to have to sneak to get to the truth.To make the truth such a dirty old nasty thing.You gotta sneak to get to the truth, the truth is condemned.The truth is in the gas chamber.The truth has been in your stockyards.Your slaughterhouses.The truth has been in your reservations, building your railroads, emtying your garbage.The truth is in your ghettos.In your jails.In your young love,not in your courts or congress where the old set judgement on the young.What the hell do the old know about the young?They put a picture of old George on the dollar and tell you that he's your father, worship him.Look at the madness that goes on, you can't prove anything that happened yesterday.Now is the only thing that's real.Everyday, every reality is a new reality.Every new reality is a new horizon,a brand new experience of living.I got a note last night from a friend of mine.He writes in this note that he's afraid of what he might have to do in order to save his reality, as i save mine.You can't prove anything.There's nothing to prove.Every man judges himself.He knows what he is. You know what you are, as i know what i am,we all know what we are.Nobody can stand in judgement, they can play like they're standing in judgement.They can play like they stand in judgement and take you off and control the masses, with your human body.They can lock you up in penitentiaries and cages and put you in crosses like they did in the past,but it doesn't amount to anything. What they're doing is, they're only persecuting a reflection of themselves. They're persecuting what they can't stand to look at in themselves,the truth.

Judgement is always based on experience and sometimes you will battle a person's history first, before commonsense will ever win the war.

Sometimes you have to look past a person’s mistakes to see God’s presence.

Is your life story the truth? Yes, the chronological events are true. Is it the whole truth? No, you see and judge it through your conditioned eyes and mind - not of all involved - nor do you see the entire overview. Is it nothing but the truth? No, you select, share, delete, distort, subtract, assume and add what you want, need and choose to.

Don't judge my past base on my present action, remember past and present are of two different timeline

Leia would never hold someone's past against them. She had enough demons in her family tree to guarantee she was not one to judge.

If we demand perfection from ourselves we are not living in the real world...The inherent problem in the relationship between the ideal & the real is that the ideal judges the real as unacceptable and brings down condemnation and wrath on the real. This sets up an adversarial relationship between the two and like all adversaries, they move further and further apart.

It is simple to follow the easy and familiar path of personal ambition and private gain. It is more comfortable to sit content in the easy approval of friends and of neighbours than to risk the friction and the controversy that comes with public affairs. It is easier to fall in step with the slogans of others than to march to the beat of the internal drummer - to make and stand on judgements of your own. And it far easier to accept and to stand on the past, than to fight for the answers of the future

God is willing and able to turn his judgements into joys . . . Don't ever think that the sin of your past means there is no hope for your future.

There are parts of a woman’s heart that are reserved for certain types of love. Experiencing the love of a father figure in an appropriate way is essential in paving the way for the love of a man to be experienced in the right way. The love of a father is vital in ensuring that a woman’s heart is kept open in this area. If this area is not kept open, it produces problems later on in a woman’s life, for that area is also reserved for the romantic love that comes in the form of a marriage relationship. This is an extremely sensitive area of the heart for a woman, and has plenty of opportunity to be easily bruised. When that does occur, she will put up a protective barrier to try and avoid any such pain occurring again. If this barrier isn’t dismantled fairly soon, a woman’s heart becomes accustomed to its protective barrier, and the heart shielded inside gradually becomes hardened. As women, we may be able to function like this for awhile. But there will come a time in your life where God will begin to peel away those hard layers surrounding your heart, and you probably won’t like that sensation. But you have to fight your natural instinct to run away. This is where many Christian women may get stuck. They view every man through the lens of what their father was to them, or what he was not. Their perception of men is shaded, and often damaged, by the very people who should have been modeling the world of adult relationships to their daughters. As a result, their judgement is often clouded, and women find themselves settling for less than what they truly deserve. Many marriages, even Christian marriages, have been damaged and even terminated because one or both partners refused to sit down and deal with their past issues.

When your trust has been betrayed, the only thing to do is live, learn and let go. Otherwise the betrayal done by another will turn into hate for them. But they will not feel this hate, it will only hurt you more, growing bigger and darker. So, live, learn and let go. By living, it means they did not hurt you so deep that you can not move forward. Learn, learn to not trust this person again, and to make more of a sound judgement in the future. Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It means that you have let go of the pain it caused. And by not forgetting, you will learn and move forward from the betrayal of the past.

It's easy to look at people and make quick judgements about them, their present and their pasts, but you'd be amazed at the pain and tears a single smile hides. What a person shows to the world is only oneone tiny facet of the iceberg hidden from site. And more often than not, it's lined with cracks and scars that go all the way to the foundation of their soul." ~Acheron 2008

This kind of thing is so awkward and horrible, and from your end, you know it must… Okay, I’m just going to come out and tell you: I’m asking you out. That’s what I’m doing. Please don’t answer yet, because I know you might have a “No” queued up in your head already, but will you please let me say a few things? I know that being a woman in New York must be hard, because it’s basically disappointing that you try to be nice to men as human beings, and then they respond by just torpedoing to your vagina. And I want you to know that I’m aware that you’re young and beautiful - and I’m not… either of those things. And part of me knows that as soon as my lips stop moving, you’re going to say no. But please think of the fact that it’s low risk what I’m asking. You just come out with me for a drink, and even if you got up in the middle of the one drink, I wouldn’t hold it against you. Just make a judgement based on nothing horrible would happen if you came out with me. I think you’re so attractive. I’m attracted to you because you’re nice, and you’re a decent person, and those are probably the reasons you want people to be attracted to you, right? Also, you’re horribly cute. I mean, you’re cute as hell. And I grow on people - women. Some times go by, and you get past the bald head and that I sweat a lot and I’m lumpy… I’ve run out of things to say. Can you just tell me now? Did this work?

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense. Arraigned to my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rapidly devoured the ideal--I pronounced judgement to this effect-- That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar. "You," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester? You're gifted with the power of pleasing him? You're of importance to him in any way? Go!--your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world to dependent and novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe! Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night? Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does no good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and if discovered and responded to, must lead into miry wilds whence there is no extrication. "Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own pictures, faithfully, without softening on defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.' "Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imageine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental eye--What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order! No snivel!--no sentiment!--no regret! I will endure only sense and resolution... "Whenever, in the future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them--say, "Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious thought on this indignent and insignifican plebian?" "I'll do it," I resolved; and having framed this determination, I grew calm, and fell asleep.

Where exactly does it come from, I’d like to know, this ineradicable attitude of superiority toward the past? This stubbornly dumb, can’t-kill-it-with-an-ax conviction that we, the now, critically and categorically know better than they, the past. Is it from the mere fact that their future is known to us, that we know what happens? (Nothing good.) It’s much the way we treat small children— pedantic and permissive at the same time. And we always think of the people of the past — just as we do of children — as being naïve in everything from their clothes and hairstyles to their thoughts and feelings.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.

The problem with ID, of course, is that it leaves open the possibility that the intelligence behind nature may have a moral interest in us, having communicated already with humanity in the past, and might try to boss you around in your private affairs. With hypothetical advanced aliens residing at a safely distant address in the hypothetical multiverse, that is - to the relief of folks like Gribbin, Dawkins and the New Scientist - manifestly not the case.

I'll heal, like I'm sure you will. I won't fix you and you won't fix me. We’ll just hug each other like we used to do in the past. If Samantha stirs any shit up, I'll kiss you in front of the world and shout that you're mine, their judgement be damned. The universe doesn't matter, Green, you do. Then. Now. Always.

Every time someone reaches out to you, even if it's to point out your sin and they seem to be judging you, it is a token of God's mercy. He sees the past, present, and future. He knows that you're headed for an eternity of pain and sorrow and He's begging you to turn to Him for salvation. Jesus is the only way to Heaven: the Way, the Truth, and the Life. He is your only hope. He is your Creator and He loves you more than you could ever love yourself. Please turn to Him. Please don't be deceived into thinking your way is better than His. God's way is perfect.

In my work with hundreds of women over the past few years a theme has emerged: women’s desperate, unquenchable desire to step into their power, countered by the fear of what will happen if they do. The longing to express the riches inside them, wrestling with the deep terror of being burned by the judgement, hatred or rejection of strangers or loved ones if they do. This fear of being burned is an oddly female one. It is a fear which keeps us small and scared… but seemingly safe. From the outside this can seem like an overreaction. Both the need, and the fear. But women, it seems, have an innate knowing of what it means to burn… and be burned. They know the dangers in their bones. And it makes them wary.

Embrace YOU...Believe in yourself, in this very moment...forgive yourself for all mistakes and 'bad' decisions you may have made in the past. Do not allow others opinions or judgements of who you were yesterday or decades ago define who you are today. Each and every day opens new doors for miracles of healing to occur in our lives. Embrace these miracles, big or small, even those you may presently be unaware of. Live in this moment, for this is all we have. Give thanks to your Higher Power for all that you are, for the very breath that allows life, love, and abundance to flow to you and through you forever more. Live in the Light of All That IS.

There is no judgment upon you; there is no memory of the past; there is only the understanding of this moment.

The present is a fleeting moment, the past is no more; and our prospect of futurity is dark and doubtful. This day may possibly be my last: but the laws of probability, so true in general, so fallacious in particular, still allow about fifteen years. I shall soon enter into the period which, as the most agreeable of his long life, was selected by the judgement and experience of the sage Fontenelle. His choice is approved by the eloquent historian of nature, who fixes our moral happiness to the mature season in which our passions are supposed to be calmed, our duties fulfilled, our ambition satisfied, our fame and fortune established on a solid basis. In private conversation, that great and amiable man added the weight of his own experience; and this autumnal felicity might be exemplified in the lives of Voltaire, Hume, and many other men of letters. I am far more inclined to embrace than to dispute this comfortable doctrine. I will not suppose any premature decay of the mind or body; but I must reluctantly observe that two causes, the abbreviation of time, and the failure hope, will always tinge with a browner shade the evening of life. ...The warm desires, the long expectations of youth, are founded on the ignorance of themselves and of the world: they are generally damped by time and experience, by disappointment or possession; and after the middle season the crowd must be content to remain at the foot of the mountain: while the few who have climbed the summit aspire to descend or expect to fall. In old age, the consolation of hope is reserved for the tenderness of parents, who commence a new life in their children; the faith of enthusiasts, who sing Hallelujahs above the clouds; and the vanity of authors, who presume the immortality of their name and writings.

The restaurant was cliché sprinkled with a pinch of tacky. Beckit tried to reserve judgement as she walked past the rows of bamboo tables, but all she could think was 1980 called and they want their restaurant back.

I'm proud of you, and I love you," Blay said yet again, that old, familiar voice cutting through all of those years of rejection and judgement, giving him not just a rope of acceptance to hang onto, but a flesh-and-blood hand to lead him out of the darkness of his past... And into a future that didn't require lies or excises, because of what he was, and what they were, was both extraordinary--and nothing out of the ordinary. Love, after all, was universal.

Don’t underestimate the power of a celebrity lawyer, especially if she had been a public prosecutor or advocate general in the past. She can barge into the court of any senior judge and obtain a stay on the arrest of a person. She can force a Supreme Court or a High Court bench to meet at midnight to hear her case. And Indrani is notorious for trying to bribe judges for getting favourable judgements. Of course, all these are backroom manoeuvres and no one gets to know them.

We are all mysteries, to those who love us and also to ourselves. When you find someone who embraces you, loves and desires you every moment, accepts your mysteries and flaws without judgement, you’ve struck gold. How delicious is the thought that this mysterious complex creature, chooses to share a life with you? Too many of us undervalue ourselves by digging too deep into the mistakes we have made or dwelling on when we failed at something like relationships, responsibilities, careers, whatever it might be. All those experiences make up the mystery and story of who we are. We are complex beings, all together in this fucked up but beautiful world. Whatever the mistakes or failures of someone’s murky past that leads them to your door should be experiences you are grateful for and that is cause for celebration. All of us have had experiences, good and bad, and those make up the intricate tapestry of who we are. I often feel insecure in so many ways, fragile and easily broken even when I know that is only a self-defeating perception that sometimes rears its ugly head. I am doing what I love, and deeply in love with someone with whom I want to share my future and write our own magical mystery story. I guess what I am trying to say is don’t dig so deep that you end up cutting your roots and the lifeblood that feeds and makes you. Match your energy and vibration with what you envision. Believe. You deserve love and success, so go for it.

It had a strange resemblance to Kafka's novel,The Trial- that dream-like allegory of a man who,having received a mysterious convocation to attend his 'trial",strives and struggles in vain to find out where the trial would be held and what it would be about; wherever he inquires he receives non - commital,elusive replies,as if everybody has joined in a secret conspiracy:the closer he gets to his aim,the farther it recedes,like the transparent walls of a dream:and the story ends abruptly,as it began,in tormenting suspense.The High Court which Kafka's hero is unable to find is his own conscience:but what was the symbolic meaning of all these nut-cracker-faced,nail-biting,pimpled,slimy features,spinning their spider webs of intrigue and sabotage in the bureaux of the French Administration?Perhaps I was really guilty,I and my like:perhaps our guilt was the past,the guilt of having forseen the catastrophe and yet failed to open the eyes of the blind.But if we were guilty-who were they to sit in judgement over us?

She had no criticism of his dress, which was bagged at the knees, dropping at the lapels, rucked around the buttons, while she-although she wore a flowing white cotton-appeared (she knew it and wished it was not so) as starched and pressed as a Baptist in a riding habit. They were different, and yet not ill matched. They had both grown used to the attentions that are the eccentric’s lot-the covert glances, smiles, whispers, worse. Lucinda was accustomed to looking at no one in the street. It was an out-of-focus town of men with seas of bobbing hats. But on this night she felt the streets accept them. She thought: When we are two, they do not notice us. They think us a match. What wisdom does a mob have? It is a hydra, an organism, stupid or dangerous in much of its behaviour, but could it have, in spite of this, a proper judgement about which of its component parts fit best together? They pushed past bold-eyed young women with too many ribbons and jewels, past tight-laced maidens and complacent merchants with their bellies pushing so forcefully against their waistcoats that their shirts showed above their trousers. Lucinda was happy. Her arm rested on Oscar’s arm. She thought: Anyone can see I have been crying. She thought: I have pink eyes like a dormouse. But she did not really care.

it is exceptionally lonely, being Draco Malfoy. I will always be suspected. There is no escaping the past. I never realised, though, that by hiding him away from this gossiping, judgemental world, I ensured that my son would emerge shrouded in worse suspicion than I ever endured.

Bakunin's warnings about the "Red bureaucracy" that would institute "the worst of all despotic governments" were long before Lenin, and were directed against the followers of Mr. Marx. There were, in fact, followers of many different kinds; Pannekoek, Luxemburg, Mattick and others are very far from Lenin, and their views often converge with elements of anarcho-syndicaIism. Korsch and others wrote sympathetically of the anarchist revolution in Spain, in fact. There are continuities from Marx to Lenin, but there are also continuities to Marxists who were harshly critical of Lenin and Bolshevism. Teodor Shanin's work in the past years on Marx's later attitudes towards peasant revolution is also relevant here. I'm far from being a Marx scholar, and wouldn't venture any serious judgement on which of these continuities reflects the "real Marx," if there even can be an answer to that question.

There is, certainly, an unbreachable chasm between the subjective and objective world. A reasonable person expects subjective facts to be overturned, because subjective facts are not facts; they're just well-considered opinions, held by multiple people at the same time. Whenever the fragility of those beliefs is applied to a specific example, people bristle—if someone says, "It's possible that Abraham Lincoln won't always be considered a great president," every presidential scholar scoffs. But if you remove the specificity and ask, "Is it possible that someone currently viewed as a historically great president will have that view reversed by future generations?" any smart person will agree that such a scenario is not only plausible but inevitable. In other words, everyone concedes we have the potential to be subjectively wrong about anything, as long as we don't explicitly name whatever that something is.

It was in her disposition at all times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she could summon back her faith, in case of need, with with an effort, but the effort was often painful even when the reality had been pleasant. The past was apt to look dead and its revival rather to show the livid light of a judgement-day.

I strongly disagree that we should not judge other people. Wisdom means good judgement. Those who fail to judge wisely often fall victim to superficial deceits. However, we should: Judge ourselves before judging others; Judge their hearts not their clothes; Judge their actions not their words; Judge the present not the past.

I honestly didn't know how I'd arrived at this place, this time, this moment. I was a person I didn't recognize, but I had a faint sense of knowing from a long time ago. I was someone from my past when trust was freely given, and my overly idealistic mind jumped to romanticized conclusions even when faced with realistic expectations, good judgement, and logic.

Do you have any idea what the typical response is whenever I do give someone a glimpse of my life?" Gideon paused, as if he waited for her to answer. And Monroe hesitated. Yes. She did know. She knew because it was the same response she would get it she chose to let down her own guard. Hell, it was practically the same response Miles had given the night she had told him the unadulterated truth of her past. She shook her head again. "Standard response," he said. "I swear to God. First thing out of their mouth's is: 'Wow. It's shocking you're so normal.' What the fuck? Do I have to be damaged for my past to make sense? And what the hell is normal anyway? And does white bread America have dibs on it?" Gideon stopped talking, crossed his arms, and the look on his face said he regretted saying as much as he had.

Stories people told themselves were biased by the availability of the material used to construct them...what people remember about the past, [Kahneman and Tversky] suggested, is likely to warp their judgement of the future. "We often decide that an outcome is extremely unlikely or impossible, because we are unable to imagine any chain of events that could cause it to occur. The defect, often, is in our imagination.

Still his loud iniquity is still what only the Greatest of saints become-someone who dqes not lie : He because he cannot Stop the vivid present to think, they by having got Past reflection into A passionate obedience in time. We have our BoyMeets-Girl era of mirrors and muddle to work through, Without rest, without j oy. Therefore we love him because his judgements are so Frankly subjective that his abuse carries no Personal sting.

Now, even though it be neither necessity nor caprice, history, for the authentic reactionary, is not, for all that, an interior dialectic of the immanent will, but rather a temporal adventure between man and that which transcends him. His labors are traces, on the disturbed sand, of the body of a beast and the aura of an angel. History is a tatter, torn from man’s freedom, waving in the breath of destiny. Man cannot be silent because his liberty is not merely a sanctuary where he escapes from deadening routine and takes refuge in order to become his own master. But in the free act the radical does not attain possession of his essence. Liberty is not an abstract possibility of choosing among known goods, but rather the concrete condition in which we are granted the possession of new goods. Freedom is not a momentary judgement between conflicting instincts, but rather the summit from which man contemplates the ascent of new stars among the luminous dust of the starry sky. Liberty places man among prohibitions that are not physical and imperatives that are not vital. The free moment dispels the unreal brightness of the day, in order that the motion of the universe which slides its fleeting lights over the shuddering of our flesh might rise up on the horizon of our soul. If the progressive casts himself into the future, and the conservative into the past, the authentic reactionary does not measure his anxiety with the history of yesterday or with the history of tomorrow. He does not extol what the new dawn might bring, nor is he terrified by the last shadows of the night. His spirit rises up to a space where the essential accosts him with its immortal presence. One escapes the slavery of history by pursuing in the wildness of the world the traces of divine footsteps. Man and his deeds are a vital but servile and mortal flesh that breathes gusts from beyond the mountains. To be reactionary is to champion causes that do not turn up on the notice board of history, causes where losing does not matter. It is to know that we only discover what we think we invent; to admit that our imagination does not create, but only lays bare smooth surfaces. It is not to espouse settled cases, nor to plead for determined conclusions, but rather to submit our will to the necessity that does not constrain, to surrender our freedom to the exigency that does not compel; it is to find sleeping certainties that guide us to the edge of ancient pools. The reactionary is not a nostalgic dreamer of a canceled past, but rather a seeker of sacred shades upon eternal hills.

There will come a point where every hing falls into place. Everything makes sense. Why this didn't happen, why that did. Every past experience, moment, and memory is just that: in the past. And you won't look back. You'll be too busy living in the present world enjoying your beautiful life without hesitations or fear of anything. You'll catch yourself smiling for no apparent reason except the realization that this is your life and you are here for it. It might seem absurd to you right now. It might not. Maybe the world is weighing down on you; you feel like you're drowning and there is no way to make it stop. No way to reach the light in whatever dark void you've found yourself. Maybe you haven't even found yourself at all. Your time is coming. I remember feeling empty, alone, scared of the world and what it had in store for me. I remember having these fears of judgement and failure and letting these drive my actions each day. I remember my late nights, the ones where I would spend hours sitting in darkness thinking "Is this how the rest of my life will be? What if it doesn't change?" Even worse: "What if I keep believing it will and then it never does?

The illusionists of quantity are performing sleights of hand wherever it concerns the topic of quality. A profession that went from being second in command under the throne, to outsourced to the cheapest external providers, is perhaps one of greatest conflicts of interest society faces today, not to mention the blatant disrespect of the people quality is intended for in the first place. Quality is about ascertaining the absolute best, for the sake of all involved. It therefore, is a lofty profession combining research, science, and morality to make the best judgements for today based on the history of the past in order to most adequately prepare for an ever oncoming future. Most importantly, quality removes personal preference that is not in the best interest of all people. Thus, anyone who would launch a war on quality can be considered an enemy of mankind, as they are would be purveyors of an ultimate breach of trust and security. Until the concept of quality is reinstituted as the governing advisor in all aspects of society, sychophants will chant "more" is "better". They will sell mediocrity at top dollar, and make top profits. Mediocrity should not be the accepted, celebrated standard, it should be the rudimentary blueprint for the greatest rollouts of progress ever marked in human history.

adult men enjoy having sex with one another, and they don’t harm anyone while doing so, why should it be wrong, and why should we outlaw it? It is a private matter between these two men, and they are free to decide about it according to their own personal feelings. If in the Middle Ages two men confessed to a priest that they were in love with one another, and that they had never felt so happy, their good feelings would not have changed the priest’s damning judgement – indeed, their lack of guilt would only have worsened the situation. Today, in contrast, if two men are in love, they are told: ‘If it feels good – do it! Don’t let any priest mess with your mind. Just follow your heart. You know best what’s good for you.’ Interestingly enough, today even religious zealots adopt this humanistic discourse when they want to influence public opinion. For example, every year for the past decade the Israeli LGBT community has held a gay pride parade in the streets of Jerusalem. It’s a unique day of harmony in this conflict-riven city, because it is the one occasion when religious Jews, Muslims and Christians suddenly find a common cause – they all fume in accord against the gay parade. What’s really interesting, though, is the argument they use. They don’t say, ‘These sinners shouldn’t hold a gay parade because God forbids homosexuality.’ Rather, they explain to every available microphone and TV camera that ‘seeing a gay parade passing through the holy city of Jerusalem hurts our feelings. Just as gay people want us to respect their feelings, they should respect ours.’ On 7 January 2015 Muslim fanatics massacred several staff members of the French magazine Charlie Hebdo, because the magazine published caricatures of the prophet Muhammad. In the following days, many Muslim organisations condemned the attack, yet some could not resist adding a ‘but’ clause. For example, the Egyptian Journalists Syndicate denounced the terrorists for their use of violence, but in the same breath denounced the magazine for ‘hurting the feelings of millions of Muslims across the world’.2 Note that the Syndicate did not blame the magazine for disobeying God’s will. That’s what we call progress.

Miyata was fluent and intelligent. Nothing was beyond his curiosity. He seemed to be above the confusion of life, as if he had been commissioned to spend his own in undisturbed judgement of the world about him, protected always by a mandate from the gods. They spoke briefly of Korea and then of the past war with the United States. Miyata had been in Japan for its entire duration and must have been deeply affected, but when he talked about it, it was without bitterness. Wars were not of his doing. He considered them almost poetically, as if they were seasons, the cruel winters of man, even though almost all the work he had done in the 1930s and early 1940s had been lost when his house was burned in the great incendiary raid of 1944. He described the night vividly, the endless hours, the bombers thundering low over the storms of fire.

What franticke fit (quoth he) hath thus distraught Thee, foolish man, so rash a doome to give? What justice ever other judgement taught, But he should die, who merites not to live? None else to death this man despayring drive, But his owne guiltie mind deserving death. Is then unjust to each his due to give? Or let him die, that loatheth living breath? Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath? Who travels by the wearie wandring way, To come unto his wished home in haste, And meetes a flood, that doth his passage stay, Is not great grace to helpe him over past, Or free his feet, that in the myre sticke fast? Most envious man, that grieves at neighbours good, And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast, Why wilt not let him passe, that long hath stood Upon the banke, yet wilt thy selfe not passe the flood? He there does now enjoy eternall rest And happie ease, which thou doest want and crave, And further from it daily wanderest: What if some litle paine the passage have, That makes fraile flesh to feare the bitter wave? Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease, And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave? Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please. [...] Is not his deed, what ever thing is donne, In heaven and earth? did not he all create To die againe? all ends that was begonne. Their times in his eternall booke of fate Are written sure, and have their certaine date. Who then can strive with strong necessitie, That holds the world in his still chaunging state, Or shunne the death ordaynd by destinie? When houre of death is come, let none aske whence, nor why. The lenger life, I wote the greater sin, The greater sin, the greater punishment: All those great battels, which thou boasts to win, Through strife, and bloud-shed, and avengement, Now praysd, hereafter deare thou shalt repent: For life must life, and bloud must bloud repay. Is not enough thy evill life forespent? For he, that once hath missed the right way, The further he doth goe, the further he doth stray. Then do no further goe, no further stray, But here lie downe, and to thy rest betake, Th'ill to prevent, that life ensewen may. For what hath life, that may it loved make, And gives not rather cause it to forsake? Feare, sicknesse, age, losse, labour, sorrow, strife, Paine, hunger, cold, that makes the hart to quake; And ever fickle fortune rageth rife, All which, and thousands mo do make a loathsome life. Thou wretched man, of death hast greatest need, If in true ballance thou wilt weigh thy state: For never knight, that dared warlike deede, More lucklesse disaventures did amate: Witnesse the dongeon deepe, wherein of late Thy life shut up, for death so oft did call; And though good lucke prolonged hath thy date, Yet death then, would the like mishaps forestall, Into the which hereafter thou maiest happen fall. Why then doest thou, O man of sin, desire To draw thy dayes forth to their last degree? Is not the measure of thy sinfull hire High heaped up with huge iniquitie, Against the day of wrath, to burden thee? Is not enough, that to this Ladie milde Thou falsed hast thy faith with perjurie, And sold thy selfe to serve Duessa vilde, With whom in all abuse thou hast thy selfe defilde? Is not he just, that all this doth behold From highest heaven, and beares an equall eye? Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold, And guiltie be of thine impietie? Is not his law, Let every sinner die: Die shall all flesh? what then must needs be donne, Is it not better to doe willinglie, Then linger, till the glasse be all out ronne? Death is the end of woes: die soone, O faeries sonne.

You, er..." He hesitated. "Not that I mind, but you may want to fix your frock." She glanced downward. Seeing her exposed breast, she quickly tucked it back in her stays. "See what I mean? Heaps of humiliations. Heaps." Gabe wondered if the past quarter hour went into her heaps of humiliations, or whether she regarded it as something else. He wondered, but he wasn't going to ask. On his part, he wouldn't be filing this memory under the heading of "Humiliations." Oh, no. It was going straight into the stash of "Fantasies" that every man kept under his mattress, figuratively if not literally. He was never going to forget the taste of her, pure and sweet. The way her skin moved liked satin under his hands, warming to his touch. And the way she'd responded to him? That was already etched on his brain. I think it's the urges, she'd said. The worrisome part of it was, their urges had gone unsatisfied. They would remain so, he told himself. This afternoon had been a mistake. An enjoyable mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Time to revive his judgement. Gabe could survive deprivation of all sorts, including this one. He would not put his hands on Lady Penelope Campion again. Absolutely not. Definitely not. Probably not. Damn.

In the casual opinion of most Americans, I am an old man, and therefore of little account, past my best, fading in a pathetic diminuendo while flashing his AARP card; like the old in America generally, either invisible or someone to ignore rather than respect, who will be gone soon, and forgotten, a gringo in his degringolade. Naturally I am insulted by this, but out of pride I don’t let my indignation show. My work is my reply, my travel is my defiance. And I think of myself in the Mexican way, not as an old man but as most Mexicans regard a senior, an hombre de juicio, a man of judgement; not ruco, worn out, beneath notice, someone to be patronized, but owed the respect traditionally accorded to an elder, someone (in the Mexican euphemism) of La Tercera Edad, the Third Age, who might be called Don Pablo or tio (uncle) in deference. Mexican youths are required by custom to surrender their seat to anyone older. They know the saying: Mas sabe el diablo por viejo, que por diablo - The devil is wise because he’s old, not because he’s the devil. But “Stand aside, old man, and make way for the young” is the American way. As an Ancient Mariner of a sort, I want to hold the doubters with my skinny hand, fix them with a glittering eye, and say, “I have been to a place where none of you have ever been, where none of you can ever go. It is the past. I spent decades there and I can say, you don’t have the slightest idea.

Preparatory men. I welcome all signs that a more manly, a warlike, age is about to begin, an age which, above all, will give honor to valor once again. For this age shall prepare the way for one yet higher, and it shall gather the strength which this higher age will need one day - this age which is to carry heroism into the pursuit of knowledge and wage wars for the sake of thoughts and their consequences. To this end we now need many preparatory valorous men who cannot leap into being out of nothing - any more than out of the sand and slime of our present civilisation and metropolitanism: men who are bent on seeking for that aspect in all things which must be overcome; men characterised by cheerfulness, patience, unpretentiousness, and contempt for all great vanities, as well as by magnanimity in victory and forbearance regarding the small vanities of the vanquished; men possessed of keen and free judgement concerning all victors and the share of chance in every victory and every fame; men who have their own festivals, their own weekdays, their own periods of mourning, who are accustomed to command with assurance and are no less ready to obey when necessary, in both cases equally proud and serving their own cause; men who are in greater danger, more fruitful, and happier! For, believe me, the secret of the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously! Build your cities under Vesuvius! Send your ships into uncharted seas! Live at war with your peers and yourselves! Be robbers and conquerors, as long as you cannot be rulers and owners, you lovers of knowledge! Soon the age will be past when you could be satisfied to live like shy deer, hidden in the woods! At long last the pursuit of knowledge will reach out for its due: it will want to rule and own, and you with it!

You can talk to me, Clay,” I said with a little hope.  I really began to wonder if he could speak.  When he didn’t respond, I spoke again.  “Okay, do you want to go out or stay in?” He moved to the couch and sat in the middle, his choice clear.  Stay in tonight. I hesitated.  The chair, set at an odd angle to the TV, gave you a sore neck if you tried to watch a movie from there.  That meant I’d need to sit next to him to watch a movie.  But I felt so exposed in a skirt and sleeveless shirt. I wasn’t sure if I could sit next to him for a full movie. While I debated my options, he watched me closely. “I’m going to go change,” I stammered. “I’ll be right back.” I turned and made it one step before the back of my shirt snagged on something.  Surprised, I looked over my shoulder and found Clay standing right behind me.  He held a fold of my shirt between his thumb and forefinger.  I could see the glint of his brown eyes behind the still damp strands of his hair.  He tilted his head back toward the couch and gave a slight tug on my shirt.  My stomach dropped, and I couldn’t tell if it was in a good way or a bad one. When I hesitated, he gave another tug.  I surrendered, turned back, and sat on the couch. He padded over to the movies, made a selection I couldn’t see, and crouched to start it.  It amazed me that he knew how to do that.  Then again, he watched everything Rachel and I did.  I wondered if anything escaped his notice. He pressed play, stood, and walked toward me with fluid strides.  I felt graceless in comparison.  He settled next to me and watched the previews.  I tried to focus on them, too, but couldn’t.  Instead, I noticed our bare feet, the scratch on the wall next to the TV, his leg lightly pressed against mine, the sound of the water as it slowly dripped from the showerhead in the bathroom, his hands loosely resting on his lap.  The long list of unimportant details would not let my mind settle. It was midway through the movie when my mind calmed enough to notice we watched an action-comedy I’d wanted to see.  I’d just mentioned it to Rachel this past week.  She must have gotten it after that. Slowly, I began to relax and enjoy the movie.  I even laughed aloud at one point.  Clay’s echoing chuckle startled me, but in a good way.  So, he could do more than growl as a dog.  His deep laugh sounded pleasant. When

You have unfairly tasked me with three very difficult questions. I was very interested in your comments about Christ’s atheism on the cross. That final moment of atheism, that’s something I have never thought about in that way. It’s a very interesting thought because what it really ….it’s an unbelievably merciful idea in some sense. That the burden of life is so unbearable and you see in the Christian passion, of course, torture, unfair judgement by society, betrayal by friends and then a low death. That’s about …as bad as it gets. Right? Which is why it is an archetypal story. It’s about as bad as it gets. And the story that you describe points out that it’s so bad that even God himself might despair about the essential quality of being. Right? Right. So that is merciful in some sense because it does say that there is something that’s built into the fabric of existence, that tests us so severely in our faith about being itself that even God himself falls prey to the temptation to doubt. So that’s…ok now… There is a very large critical literature that suggests that if you want to develop optimal resilience, what you do is lay out a pathway towards somewhere better, someone comes in, they have a problem, you try to figure out what the problem is and then you try to figure out what might constitute a solution. So you have a map. And it’s a tentative map of how you get from where things aren’t so good to where they are better. And then you have the person go out in the world and confront those things that they are avoiding, that are stopping them from moving to that higher place. And there’s an archetypal reality to that, you’re in a fallen state, you are attempting to redeem yourself and there is a process by which that has to occur. And that process involves voluntary confrontation with what you’re afraid of, disgusted by and inclined to avoid. And that’s works. Every psychological school agrees upon that exposure therapy, psychoanalysts expose you to the tragedies of your past, and redeem you in that manner, the behaviourists expose you to the terrors of the present and redeem you in that manner, but there is a broad agreement between psychological schools that that works. My sense is that we are called upon as individuals precisely to do that in our life. We are faced by this unbearable reality, that you made reference to when you talked about the situation on the cross, life itself is fundamentally - and this is a pessimism that we might share - it’s fundamentally suffering and malevolence. But this is I think where we differ, I believe that the evidence suggests that the light that you discover in your life is proportionate to the amount of darkness that you are willing to forthrightly confront and that there is no necessarily upper limit to that. So I think that the good that people are capable of it’s a higher good than the evil that people are capable of. And believe me that I do not say that lightly, given that I know about the evil that people are capable of. And I believe that the central psychological message of the biblical corpus fundamentally it’s that. That’s why it culminates in some sense with the idea that it is necessary to confront the devil and to accept the unjustness of your tortured mortality. If you can do that, and that’s a challenge sufficient to challenge even God himself, you have the best chance of transcending it, and living the kind of life that would set your house in order and everyone’s house in order at the same time. And I think that’s true even in states like North Korea...

Loves Judge A man once hunted; saved by a woman; summoned for past judgment, could only say, “For love, it was all worth it.

We judge others and ourselves through the lens of our past by projecting old experiences onto our current circumstances.

Having a child has become a prodigiously artificial thing. It no longer has anything of the passionately accidental event about it; it has become the parthenogenetic fruit of a calculation of biological, dietary and psychosocial data and you wonder to what extent dream, desire or fatality are still involved. But perhaps the race is losing its interest in sexuality, preferring instead a sort of protozoan transplantation. Leaving out of account that what has been conceived by artificial insemination is very likely to continue its life in artificial intelligence and to die of built-in obsolescence. After the mechanical bride, the mechanical widow. Now every human being is the product of a sexual act, a sexual pact or else we should not be the human race. It takes a sexual copulation successfully to produce a human being, just as, among the Hindus, it takes a copulation between the word and silence for a sacrifice to be successfully carried out. In a sense the child is indeed the continuation of the species. But in another, he or she is a biological vestige of it. The further we go with change, genetic innovations and fashion, the more unreal it becomes, with each new generation, to put our trust in the processes of childbirth and organic growth. The simplicity and slowness of those things are entirely outside the range of our contemporary experience. How can we claim to exercise judgement if we have lost a sense of punishment? How can we claim to judge anything at all if we no longer accept being judged? And if we are no longer able either to judge or be judged, then we lose all hope of being absolved or condemned in the past or the future. Now, what can no longer be reflected in the past or the future takes place in a single instant with all its consequences. The Last Judgement becomes an immediate reality. We have right here before us the unchecked proliferation in epidemic proportions of all processes, the multiplication of all cancers on an epidemic scale.

I read all morning". The simple words spoke of the purest and most rewarding kind of leisure. The Buddha had placed no value on prayer or belief in a deity, he had not spoken of creation, original sin or the last judgement. The quality of all human experience depends on the mind and so the Buddha had been concerned with analyzing and transforming the individual mind. India's intellectual backwardness, her inability to deal rationally with her past, which seemed no less damaging than her economic and political underdevelopment. With its literary and philosophical traditions, China was well equipped to absorb and disseminate Buddhism. The Chinese eagerness to distribute Buddhist texts was what gave birth to both paper and printing. There are places on which history has worked for too long and neither the future nor the past can be seen clearly in their ruins or emptiness. In the agrarian society of the past, the Brahminic inspired human hierarchy had proposed itself as a complete explanation not only for what human beings did but also what they were. So, for instance, a Brahmin was not just a priest because he performed rituals; he was innately blessed with virtue, learning and wisdom. A servant wasn't just someone who performed menial tasks, his very essence was poverty and weakness. Meditation was one of the methods used to gain control over one's emotions and passions. Sitting still in a secluded place, the yogi attempted to disengage his perennially distracted mind and force it to dwell upon itself. The discipline of meditation steadily equips the individual with a new sensibility. It shows him how the craving for things that are transient, essence-less and flawed leads to suffering. Regular meditation turns this new way of looking into a habit. it detaches the individual from the temptations of the world and fixes him in a state of profound calm. Mere faith in what the guru says isn't enough and you have to realize and verify it through your own experience. The mind determines the way we experience the world, the way in which we make it our world. The ego seeks to gratify and protect itself through desires. But the desires create friction when they collide with the ever-changing larger environment. They lead only to more desires and more dissatisfaction. How human beings desiring happiness and stability were undermined slowly, over the course of their lives, by the inconstancy of their hearts and the intermittence of their emotions. Buddhism in America could be seen to meet every local need. It had begun as a rational religion which found few takers in America before being transformed again, during the heady days of the 1960s, through the mysticism of Zen, into a popular substitute for, or accessory to, psychotherapy and drugs. It was probably true that greed, hatred and delusion, the source of all suffering, are also the source of life and its pleasures, however temporary and that to vanquish them may be to face a nothingness that is more terrifying than liberating. Nevertheless, the effort to control them seemed to me worth making.

As Lewis pointed out, with the rise of the ideologies of the twentieth century in mind, someone who “has lived in many places” is not likely to be taken in by the “local errors of his native village.” The scholar, Lewis declares, has “lived in many times” and can thus challenge the automatic presumption of finality inherent in present judgements and trends: We need intimate knowledge of the past. Not that the past has any magic about it, but because we cannot study the future, and yet need something to set against the present, to remind us that the basic assumptions have been quite different in different periods and that much which seems certain to the uneducated is merely temporary fashion.[417]

For Lewis, the reading of literature—above all, the reading of older literature—is an important challenge to some premature judgements based on “chronological snobbery.” Owen Barfield had taught Lewis to be suspicious of those who declaimed the inevitable superiority of the present over the past.

he demand for equal rights; the right to sit in judgement on everything and everybody, is anti-aristocratic. Just as noble men are foreign to the age, so too is the assimilation of men into great types, the absence of any real individuality or the desire to possess it: for many elevated men in the past (the greatest poets among them), it was this which they pursued with diligence and in which the sought distinction.

The demand for equal rights; the right to sit in judgement on everything and everybody, is anti-aristocratic. Just as noble men are foreign to the age, so too is the assimilation of men into great types, the absence of any real individuality or the desire to possess it: for many elevated men in the past (the greatest poets among them), it was this which they pursued with diligence and in which the sought distinction.

When making decisions facing VUCA, it all comes down to applying the circle of prudence: explore the memory of your past experience, exercise judgement of the present situation, ask for advice (if applicable), make a decision and act

I think it's really important to remember in today's world of viral posts, images, and sound bites that we all bring our own perceptions to the table. And that inevitably these are skewed by our past experiences or even an unconscious desire to see what we want to see. More than ever, quick judgements based on those snippets too often can have devastating consequences to other - and you'll learn this the hard way. - conversation with the author

To know any thing, returned the poet, we must know its effects; to see men we must see their works, that we may learn what reason has dictated, or passion has incited, and find what are the most powerful motives of action. To judge rightly of the present we must oppose it to the past; for all judgement is comparative, and of the future nothing can be known. The truth is, that no mind is much employed upon the present: recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments. Our passions are joy and grief, love and hatred, hope and fear. Of joy and grief the past is the object, and the future of hope and fear; even love and hatred respect the past, for the cause must have been before the effect.

So many people are living in the past, now... REACTING to PAST memories, projections, judgements, and experiences. Few people embrace, and live, in the the reality of this only moment, NOW. This blocks rebuilding a better identity and self-image. It also blocks rebuilding, repairing, or improving, some important relationships. And this also blocks us from unleashing more of our amazing potential. Time to let go past, and Live NOW!

Celtic Christianity developed in Wales, Cumbria and Cornwall, and in two areas where Roman influence had been marginal, at best – Ireland and Scotland. It was a rural faith that shunned the urbanism that was in the process of collapsing, and its adherents viewed that collapse as God’s judgement on a corrupt society.16 It was also monastic and quite closely mirrored the Benedictine model, as it stressed dedication to the spiritual life and the importance of restoring a proper relationship with the natural world.

The employment of the strategic bombers in the weeks preceding D-Day, and afterwards in support of the armies in Normandy, may today seem cautious and unimaginative. But it was vital insurance, and reflected a perfectly logical view of strategic priorities by the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Overlord had to succeed. Bomber Command and the USAAF were directed to do all in their power to see that it did so, and worked to that end with courage, dedication and professionalism. If their leaders were heard with insufficient respect in the councils of war, they had only their own vast errors of judgement of the past to blame. It is an indulgence of historians and armchair critics to pretend that, in the spring of 1944, there was a better way.

we be, therefore, engaged by arguments to put trust in past experience, and make it the standard of our future judgement, these arguments must be probable only. —DAVID HUME

Trull Sengar could only wonder, what bred such certainties? What made a people so filled with rectitude and intransigence? Perhaps all that is needed…is power. A shroud of poison filling the air, seeping into every pore of every man, woman and child. A poison that twisted the past to suit the mores of the present, illuminating in turn an inevitable and righteous future. A poison that made intelligent people blithely disregard the ugly truths of past errors in judgement, of horrendous, brutal debacles that had stained red the hands of their forefathers. A poison that entrenched the stupidity of dubious traditions, and brought misery and suffering upon countless victims.

(theatrically) Do you realize, Dr. Seldon, that you are speaking of an Empire that has stood for twelve thousand years, through all the vicissitudes of the generations, and which has behind it the good wishes and love of a quadrillion human beings? A.  I am aware both of the present status and the past history of the Empire. Without disrespect, I must claim a far better knowledge of it than any in this room. Q.  And you predict its ruin? A.  It is a prediction which is made by mathematics. I pass no moral judgements. Personally, I regret the prospect. Even if the Empire were admitted to be a bad thing (an admission I do not make), the state of anarchy which would follow its fall would be worse. It is that state of anarchy which my project is pledged to fight. The fall of Empire, gentlemen, is a massive thing, however, and not easily fought. It is dictated by a rising bureaucracy, a receding initiative, a freezing of caste, a damming of curiosity—a hundred other factors. It has been going on, as I have said, for centuries, and it is too majestic and massive a movement to stop.

The matter is to slip past and above all – oh, yes, above all! – it’s a matter of not being judged. I don’t say of avoiding punishment, because punishment without judgement is bearable. Actually, it has a name which ensures our innocence: we call it ‘misfortune’. No, on the contrary, it’s a question of curtailing judgement, of escaping always being judged, without the sentence ever being pronounced. However,

Some of my other judgements were sadly wrong. Russia has not yet lost its imperial itch. Putin's brutal invasion of Ukraine has postponed for many decades the prospect that Russia will become the modern democratic state at peace with its neighbours, which so many courageous Russians had fought so hard to create. But no people should ever be written off beyond redemption. I hang on to the golden image of the firebird which fleets through the dark forests of the Russian folklore to symbolise the hope that Russia will see better days.

We should take every moment, every day, and every person as new and fresh whenever we are presented with them. That way, we won’t misjudge anyone or anything. We won’t miss opportunities. And nor will we carry the burden of accumulated judgements from the past.

Two little lines I heard one day, Traveling along life’s busy way; Bringing conviction to my heart, And from my mind would not depart; Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last. Only one life, yes only one, Soon will its fleeting hours be done; Then, in ‘that day’ my Lord to meet, And stand before His Judgement seat; Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last. Only one life, the still small voice, Gently pleads for a better choice Bidding me selfish aims to leave, And to God’s holy will to cleave; Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last. Only one life, a few brief years, Each with its burdens, hopes, and fears;

The past is not something fixed and unalterable. Its facts are re-discoverable by every succeeding generation, its values re-assessed, its meaning re-defined in the context of present tastes and preoccupations. Out of the same documents and monuments and works of art, every epoch invents its own Middle Ages, its private China, its patented and copyrighted Hellas.

Beast was silent, and only after that silence stretched did I realize how vulnerable those words had been, and how bitter. I was thinking of something to mitigate both when Beast said, “You were well rid of them, if all they saw was your face and your past.” I stared at the monstrous curves and angles of his inhuman face, and I saw the human expression — vulnerable and bitter as mine had been — behind it.

Husserl had picked up this idea from his old teacher Franz Brentano, in Vienna days. In a fleeting paragraph of his book Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint, Brentano proposed that we approach the mind in terms of its ‘intentions’ — a misleading word, which sounds like it means deliberate purposes. Instead it meant a general reaching or stretching, from the Latin root in-tend, meaning to stretch towards or into something. For Brentano, this reaching towards objects is what our minds do all the time. Our thoughts are invariably of or about something, he wrote: in love, something is loved, in hatred, something is hated, in judgement, something is affirmed or denied. Even when I imagine an object that isn’t there, my mental structure is still one of ‘about-ness’ or ‘of-ness’. If I dream that a white rabbit runs past me checking its pocket watch, I am dreaming of my fantastical dream-rabbit. If I gaze up at the ceiling trying to make sense of the structure of consciousness, I am thinking about the structure of consciousness. Except in deepest sleep, my mind is always engaged in this aboutness: it has ‘intentionality’. Having taken the germ of this from Brentano, Husserl made it central to his whole philosophy. Just try it: if you attempt to sit for two minutes and think about nothing, you will probably get an inkling of why intentionality is so fundamental to human existence. The mind races around like a foraging squirrel in a park, grabbing in turn at a flashing phone screen, a distant mark on the wall, a clink of cups, a cloud that resembles a whale, a memory of something a friend said yesterday, a twinge in a knee, a pressing deadline, a vague expectation of nice weather later, a tick of the clock. Some Eastern meditation techniques aim to still this scurrying creature, but the extreme difficulty of this shows how unnatural it is to be mentally inert. Left to itself, the mind reaches out in all directions as long as it is awake — and even carries on doing it in the dreaming phase of its sleep. Understood in this way, the mind hardly is anything at all: it is its aboutness. This makes the human mind (and possibly some animal minds) different from any other naturally occurring entity. Nothing else can be as thoroughly about or of things as the mind is: even a book only reveals what it’s ‘about’ to someone who picks it up and peruses it, and is otherwise merely a storage device. But a mind that is experiencing nothing, imagining nothing, or speculating about nothing can hardly be said to be a mind at all.

Whereas the analytic-synthetic distinction considers some statements absolutely certain and others merely probable, with a rigid barrier between these two categories, it seems more accurate to say there are degrees of belief and certainty throughout one's worldview. Some beliefs are held more firmly than others; some beliefs are held more passionately than others. But the firmly held beliefs are not necessarily the so-called analytic ones, in that they are not trivial, nor are they necessarily self-evident (though they will at least seem to be self-evident to the one who holds them at the center of his network). What determines the strength of a belief is far more complex than the analytic-synthetic distinction will allow. Such factors as past experience, upbringing, self protection, cultural and social background, intelligence level, educational training, stubbornness, pride, prejudice, religious convictions, and so on, can all influence the way we hold our beliefs and the way we revise them. It may be said that our belief system is regulated and controlled by our most basic beliefs, or presuppositions, which are neither trivial analytic truths nor purely observational synthetic truths. Or, to put it another way, everyone will end up treating some beliefs with the authority and certainty of 'analytic' judgements, but give them the significance of 'synthetic' judgements...In other words, not all beliefs are of equal importance to us. Some beliefs are granted virtual immunity from revision while others are held quite loosely. Some are at the center of the web, others on the periphery. But the strength of any given belief is not determined automictically; it is determined in the overall context of one's beliefs...Of course, this does not drive us to a form of relativism. To construe it as such would be to ignore the fact that not all presuppositional networks are equally valid. Some worldviews, or webs, are philosophically stronger than others. Some clearly destroy the intelligibility of human predication and experience and therefore must be rejected.

I am nothing like my past, Before you swing your axe at me so fast. There are questions you should ask .

For iron and pep, I wanted to make a cold lentil salad with a zingy orange-ginger vinaigrette, handfuls of chopped herbs, and slices of white peach. (The purple-green Puy lentils, more common than the orange ones in France, just seemed too dark for a summer salad.) After unpacking half the kitchen while standing, against my better judgement, on a kitchen chair, I ended up not with orange lentils, but with a bag of yellow split peas. That would have to do. The split peas had been hiding up there for a while--- I'm pretty sure I bought them after a trip to Puglia, where we were served warm split-pea puree drizzled with wonderful glass-green olive oil and a grind of fresh pepper. Still hankering after a cold salad, I tried cooking the dried peas al dente, as I would the lentils, but a half hour later, where the lentils would have been perfect, the split peas were a chalky, starchy mess. I decided to boil on past defeat and transform my salad into the silky puree I'd eaten with such gusto in Italy. When the peas were sweet and tender and the liquid almost absorbed, I got out the power tools. I'm deeply attached to my hand blender--- the dainty equivalent of a serial killer's obsession with chain saws. The orange-ginger vinaigrette was already made, so I dumped it in. The recipe's necessary dose of olive oil would have some lively company. The result was a warm, golden puree with just enough citrus to deviate from the classic. I toasted some pain Poilâne, slathered the bread with the puree, and chopped some dill. My tartines were still lacking a bit of sunshine, so I placed a slice of white peach on top.

Those corrupt thoughts fed the attention-starved man my wife had carefully constructed for the past decade and a half, the monster she had watered with manipulative lies and cruel judgement, the villain who would one day have Sakura Sato.

It had taken him a while to realize she was beautiful. Months, actually, to really notice it. And for these past few weeks, against his better judgement, he’d thought often about that face—especially that smart-ass mouth.

​“You didn’t offend me.” Liar. Everything offended me. ​Rejection. ​Judgement. ​Words. ​Actions. ​My past. ​My present. ​Myself.

We instinctively proceed to judgement on the basis of our own experiences, which are inevitably rooted in the modern world. But realising this and trying to overcome it can bring the greatest revelations. Indeed, approaching the past with this one constant in mind – the permanent questioning of received wisdom – is the prime quality necessary to be a historian

The benefit of looking at the past through a series of expanding horizons is that it allows us to see change in the context of the starting point in time, without labouring under the baggage of modern value judgements. The rising skyline and the expansion of travel and trade; growing literacy and the advent of printing; the standardisation of time; the transition of the Christian religion from collective ritual to individual faith; the arrival of guns and the widening of the medical horizon; the extension of the arm of the law – all these we take for granted. Ultimately, the greatest achievement of our medieval forebears was unlocking humanity’s potential. And this too we take for granted.

This event was born from a notion instilled in me by the creator of this very place; his presence has touched many hearts, and his absence has been felt just as potently. So I wanted to remind you, in his words: you’re not alone.” My whole body shook as I spoke about things I felt were personal but was certain would resonate with many standing in the room. “In the words of Oscar Wilde: ‘Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.’ This is the core theme of our event.” I felt like crying, but I persevered through the nerves. “Wilde also said: ‘Be yourself; everyone else is taken.’ We at Sanctuary invite you to be yourself without judgement, welcoming all with enthusiasm and acceptance.

It should now be a truism that the historian must not claim to give _the_ explanation of a complex historical phenomenon. Such questions as: "What were the causes of the Great War, of the Fall of the Roman Republic?" -- expecting, by implication, a list of neatly defined items -- such questions are by now relegated to the privacy of the tutorial or the examination room, where the historian is shielded from the critical eye of his professional colleagues. But it is the historian's legitimate task to single out some of the strands in the complex weave and to trace their importance in the pattern; and it is in this humbler frame of mind that he will most usefully perform his proper task of letting the present and past illuminate each other.

Don't let your past cloud your judgement for the things that are happening in the present. Past is nothing but a distant memory. Fear of something that has happened in the past will ruin your present happiness.

We live in an age when doubt is part of our collective spiritual condition more than in times past. But honest questioning and lack of surety are not the same as active unbelief so often warned against in scripture. As a necessary part of living on this side of the veil, doubt is neither good nor bad necessarily. While it sends some careening, for many others is sparks deeper spiritual yearnings and more mature reflection on the complexities of mortality. Doubt can therefore operate as faith's partner as much as its enemy, depending on our response to it. The quest to eradicate all doubt becomes counterproductive to God's cal for us to live by faith in a mortal existence where uncertainty is so often the norm. Once we recognize with Nephi that it is not wrong to not know all things (1 Nephi 11:17) and we acknowledge that testimonies come in different shapes and sizes, we are prepared to embrace both those within our faith and those beyond with love rather than judgement. Comprehending that faith is a process, a journey, a spectrum–choose your own metaphor–we realize that neither faith nor doubt are all-or-nothing propositions. People can (and most people do) hold both faith and doubt in their minds and hearts simultaneously. The call to belief is not a decree to deny our doubts. It is rather to "give place for a portion" of God's light—whatever portion we have received, in whatever form–to be planted and then grow within us. Desire is enough; "a particle of faith" is sufficient. God's plea is simple and direct: do not cast out the seed of faith, whatever yours looks like, by your unbelief.

To stop at moral judgement on whether caste was good or evil is insufficient, as the assessment has to go much further and examine why this form of discrimination/organization was chosen.

In the past two years, not once had I felt any physical interest in any werewolf.  There’d been some nice ones I’d enjoyed talking to, but nothing more.  No spark that Sam had insisted I would feel.  He’d stressed that whatever I felt, the male would feel infinitely stronger, a compulsion that they wouldn’t be able to deny. No,

I still dug in the bag when Clay walked in without knocking.  He didn’t walk past the threshold, though.  Concern filled his expression when I looked up.  I lifted my hand from the bag and let the bikini I’d found dangle from one finger. “Really, Clay?  You’re killing me.  Where are my jeans?” His lips twitched with a smile as he leaned against the frame, content to watch me dig through the bag some more. Despite

What’s going on?  What news?” I said glancing between the two. Sam gave Clay a sharp look. “You didn’t tell her?” “He’s not talking to me, yet,” I said, wondering what bad news Sam had to share. Sam shook his head at Clay.  “You’ve dug your own hole then, son.”  He focused on me.  “A group of Forlorn have asked Elder Joshua to approach you for an unofficial kind of Introduction.  Joshua approved, but he made it clear they were to keep it brief and then leave, unless any of them had a further request of him.” The meaning of Sam’s words sunk in deep like a vicious bite.  It also explained his less than warm greeting.  He stood in my living room as an Elder on pack business, not as family or a friend.  I struggled to contain my anger. “I thought I was done with that.  We had a deal.”  I crossed my arms and coldly regarded Sam.  “I know I said I was done.” The carefully, composed expression on Sam’s face faltered a bit.  “Honey, there are rules we must follow to keep peace in the pack.  Clay had six months to convince you of his suit.  That time has passed.  That means unMated can once again approach you, with permission.” My mouth popped open.  Six months.  Permission from an Elder.  That’s why they’d stationed Joshua here.  A backup plan because they knew I didn’t want to Claim Clay.  They failed to understand I didn’t want to Claim anyone.  I’d never been free.  I clenched my fists.  My temper boiled. “That’s complete crap,” I gritted out.  “First of all, I didn’t reject anyone.  Second, no one ever told me about this stupid rule.”  My voice rose to a yell, and I took a deep breath and closed my eyes briefly to restrain myself.  When I reopened them, I felt more in control and able to speak calmly.  “You know what?  I don’t care what the pack rules are.  I gave you my word and my time.  Now, I expect you to keep yours.  I worked hard to get here, Sam.  I won’t let anyone take this away from me.”  My hands shook.  That Sam had cared for me in the past and given me a place to call home for two years, kept my tongue marginally civil. “By not completing the Claim, you’ve become eligible again.  Charlene was granted a special consideration because, at that time, we weren’t even sure a Claiming would be possible between a human and a werewolf.  Now that we know it is, you fall under the same rules,” Sam explained calmly, his face again carefully devoid of emotion. “No, I don’t.”  I knew I could stand there and argue all day with Sam, and he wouldn’t budge.  It would always be whatever’s best for the pack with him.  “Is this why Clay was beat up?” Clay made a noise—like a snort of disagreement—behind me. “Feel free to jump in at any time,” I said, turning to arch an eyebrow at him.  He remained mute, but his eyes softened when he looked at me. Sam spoke up from behind me, but I didn’t turn to look at him. “Gabby, it’s the reason he’s been fighting.  He’s not relinquishing his tie to you.  Every time an unMated shows up here, he will challenge that man for his right for an Introduction.  Did Clay get beat up?  Only as a byproduct of handing out beatings.” Clay steadily met my gaze the entire time.  It broke my heart a little to know he was fighting so hard to keep me, and all I’d given him in those six months was a kiss.  Not even spontaneously given, but relinquished as part of a bribe.  I hadn’t rejected him.  I just didn’t want to be forced into a choice.  If I chose to be with Clay, I wanted it to be on our terms. “Why

I’m going back in,” I said as I turned toward the door.  Clay sprang to his feet before I reached it and crowded behind me.  I looked down at him then back at Rachel, who watched us with an enormous grin. “Looks like another guy who can’t take his eyes off you.  Living with you is going to be a riot.”  She laughed and picked up the towels.  “Let’s all go in.  The neighbor’s tree is going to shade the deck soon anyway.” Having little choice, I opened the door for Clay.  His fur brushed my bare thighs as he moved past me into the house.  His head came to about my sternum.  He really was huge...a huge problem. Sam had warned me Clay had taken my speech as an invitation to live together.  At least, Clay had shown up in his fur.  However, any relief I might have felt went unnoticed as I contemplated how he’d found me in a completely different state.  If Sam told him, I’d have to kill Sam.  Since I didn’t have the stomach for outright murder, I’d break his coffee maker. I

I stood in the doorway and studied him while he, in turn, watched me.  We were finally alone, and I was determined to set some rules. “First, I’d like to clarify that this does not qualify as getting to know each other.  Second, you smell like wet dog.  If you want to continue to sleep in my room, on my bed, you’ll let Rachel give you a bath when she gets home.”  He snorted at that but didn’t get off the bed.  “Third, once I’m awake, you get out.  I know what you are, and I am not changing in front of you.” He outright harrumphed at that one, and I swore I saw a canine smile.  But, he did hop down from the bed.  He left the room with quiet dignity. I closed the door behind him, remade the bed—thankfully, he didn’t appear to shed—and grabbed some clothes.  I had two goals for the day.  First, I needed to figure out how long it would take me to walk to the campus from here.  Then, I needed to learn the bus schedule for the days I ran late or the weather prevented walking.  If worst came to worst, I’d buy a beater car to drive. Opening the door, I was startled to see Clay sitting there patiently waiting for me. “What are you doing?” I asked when he didn’t move.  Of course, he didn’t answer. I eyed him warily and walked past him.  In the kitchen, I grabbed the house key from the counter then moved to the back door.  Clay’s nails clicked on the floor as he followed me. “I’m going for a walk, and you’re staying here,” I said when he made to follow me outside. Clay growled slightly in response. His deep growl gave me pause.  He sounded scary. “Please don’t do that.  Unless you really are trying to scare me.”  His fur continued to bristle, but his growl stopped.  Our relationship wouldn’t go anywhere if he thought he could bully and maneuver me to his way of thinking. “And don’t crab at me.  I’m not the unlicensed dog without a leash.  Do you want me to talk Rachel into buying a pink collar for you?” He coughed out a strangled bark then turned and walked back to the living room. “See you later,” I said, feeling a little smug. The