Paul Strand Quotes

The artist's world is limitless. It can be found anywhere, far from where he lives or a few feet away. It is always on his doorstep.

The mustard lined his lips. At one point a strand of sauerkraut was smeared against his chin.

. . . . the materials for the nest must be collected and woven strand by strand. . . . Such a birdy method may at first seem absurd to the forward-thinking nest maker, but soon it will be found that the pleasures of the project are not derived from efficiency.

stranded in the awkward position of being against the ones who were against, which was a lonely place to be for a person who was also against the ones who were for.

In the words of human rights scholar Max Stackhouse, “Intellectual honesty demands recognition of the fact that what passes as ‘secular,’ ‘Western’ principles of basic human rights developed nowhere else than out of key strands of the biblically-rooted religion.”9

The cultural and political strands of change could not be separated, any more than during the turbulence of revolution and romanticism of 1790–1830. It has been noted that James Joyce, Tristan Tzara and Lenin were all resident-exiles in Zurich in 1916, waiting for their time to come.

It felt to me as if the individual strands of biology, morality, life, and death were finally beginning to weave themselves into, if not a perfect moral system, a coherent worldview and a sense of my place in it. Doctors in highly charged fields met patients at inflected moments, the most authentic moments, where life and identity were under threat; their duty included learning what made that particular patient’s life worth living, and planning to save those things if possible—or to allow the peace of death if not. Such power required deep responsibility, sharing in guilt and recrimination.

But listen: The weight of the camera reminds me to see. It helps me decide against deciding that my world is overly familiar, already known. I look for cracks and fissures, for the new or newly announced. I look for water to run a different color in the stream, or for the sun to strike the pond in winter with delirious force. If I can’t see, then I don’t know, and if I don’t know, I’m not writing, and while some may question the value of words, or of memoir in particular, I will again make this claim: Words rendered true spook and spur us. They expect of us. They expect for us. Photographs do the same thing: “Your photography is a record of your living, for anyone who really sees,” said Paul Strand.

Due to his unique position at the Met, John had access to the vaults that housed the museum’s entire photography collection, much of it never seen by the public. John’s specialty was Victorian photography, which he knew I was partial to as well. He invited Robert and me to come and see the work firsthand. There were flat files from floor to ceiling, metal shelves and drawers containing vintage prints of the early masters of photography: Fox Talbot, Alfred Stieglitz, Paul Strand, and Thomas Eakins. Being allowed to lift the tissues from these photographs, actually touch them and get a sense of the paper and the hand of the artist, made an enormous impact on Robert. He studied them intently—the paper, the process, the composition, and the intensity of the blacks. “It’s really all about light,” he said. John saved the most breathtaking images for last. One by one, he shared photographs forbidden to the public, including Stieglitz’s exquisite nudes of Georgia O’Keeffe. Taken at the height of their relationship, they revealed in their intimacy a mutual intelligence and O’Keeffe’s masculine beauty. As Robert concentrated on technical aspects, I focused on Georgia O’Keeffe as she related to Stieglitz, without artifice. Robert was concerned with how to make the photograph, and I with how to be the photograph.

Many Christians grew up reading the Bible in the light of this or that version, often without realizing that these traditions of reading scripture were themselves shaped by cultural forces that distorted some elements of biblical teaching and screened out others altogether. None of us can escape that problem. But what I have tried to do in this book is to outline a way of understanding the New Testament’s vision of Jesus’s death, particularly that in the gospels and Paul, a vision that, by giving attention to various strands often ignored and by sketching a way of combining things that have often been played off against one another, will relaunch something more like the first movement than the second. Such a missional vision will need serious reshaping. There were problems (to put it mildly) with that earlier optimism

And don’t get me started on Canadians. It’s a whole thing. Remember when the feds busted in on that Mormon polygamist cult in Texas a few years back? And the dozens of wives were paraded in front of the camera? And they all had this long mouse-colored hair with strands of gray, no hairstyle to speak of, no makeup, ashy skin, Frida Kahlo facial hair, and unflattering clothes? And on cue, the Oprah audience was shocked and horrified? Well, they’ve never been to Seattle. There are two hairstyles here: short gray hair and long gray hair. You go into a salon asking for hair color, and they flap their elbows and cluck, “Oh, goody, we never get to do color!” But what really happened was I came up here and had four miscarriages. Try as I might, it’s hard to blame that one on Nigel Mills-Murray. Oh, Paul. That last year in L.A. was just so horrible. I am so ashamed of my behavior. I’ve carried it with me to this day, the revulsion at how vile I became, all for a stupid house. I’ve never stopped obsessing about it. But just before I completely self-immolate, I think about Nigel Mills-Murray. Was I really so bad that I deserved to have three years of my life destroyed for some rich prick’s practical joke? So I had some cars towed, yes. I made a gate out of trash doorknobs. I’m an artist. I won a MacArthur grant, for fuck’s sake. Don’t I get a break? I’ll be watching TV and see Nigel Mills-Murray’s name at the end. I’ll go nuts inside. He gets to keep creating, and I’m the one who’s still in pieces?

Sam dragged her over to a small plot. Unlike the historic ones, this seemed like an ordinary grave. The headstone read Paul Danvers 1950-1997. “And this guy,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “Got so drunk one night, he accidentally set his house on fire, killing himself and his seventeen-year-old son.” Margot pulled back. This date had turned as sour as the feeling in her gut. “Murdered his own son.” Sam’s voice was tight and full of emotion. “He was going to college in the fall. Got a full ride and everything.” “That’s awful,” said Margot. “Where’s the son buried?” “So glad you asked.” Sam smiled so mournfully that Margot regretted asking at all. He pointed to the headstone next to Paul’s. In the darkness, it was nearly impossible to make out the young man’s name. Margot knelt on the soft grass and leaned forward, using the light from her cellphone to see the engraving. She gasped and nearly dropped the phone. “Sam Danvers,” she said, barely getting out the words. “That’s not funny.” Margot’s hands shook. “Is your name really Sam?” He no longer smiled, just nodded. “It is.” Sam came in close and said her name in such a soft whisper, Margot ached to touch him. He reached up to her face and tucked a strand of wavy hair behind her ear. “If things were different at all…” She put her hands on his. His skin felt dry and cold while hers felt clammy. “What does that mean? If what was different?” Sam leaned in, his face encased in shadows, and kissed Margot. She gasped before being taken in by the kiss. His breath tasted oddly of licorice and she was suddenly aware of the scent of fresh-cut grass. His lips were soft, but his kiss was urgent. He gripped the belt loops of Margot’s jean shorts and pulled her in tight against his chest. Her head swam and her heart pounded. She pulled away from him and attempted to catch her breath. She looked at him, her eyes bright with fury. “That wasn’t an answer.” He ran his hands through his hair. A typical guy stall tactic, thought Margot. But Sam wasn’t stalling. He was struggling. “Margot, I’m Sam Danvers,” he said. Margot shook her head — “No. No. No.” — and marched away from him.

For while asceticism is certainly an important strand in the frugal tradition, so, too, is the celebration of simple pleasures. Indeed, one argument that is made repeatedly in favor of simple living is that it helps one to appreciate more fully elementary and easily obtained pleasures such as the enjoyment of companionship and natural beauty. This is another example of something we have already noted: the advocates of simple living do not share a unified and consistent notion of what it involves. Different thinkers emphasize different aspects of the idea, and some of these conflict. Truth, unlike pleasure, has rarely been viewed as morally suspect. Its value is taken for granted by virtually all philosophers. Before Nietzsche, hardly anyone seriously considered as a general proposition the idea that truth may not necessarily be beneficial.26 There is a difference, though, between the sort of truth the older philosophers had in mind and the way truth is typically conceived of today. Socrates, the Epicureans, the Cynics, the Stoics, and most of the other sages assume that truth is readily available to anyone with a good mind who is willing to think hard. This is because their paradigm of truth—certainly the truth that matters most—is the sort of philosophical truth and enlightenment that can be attained through a conversation with like-minded friends in the agora or the garden. Searching for and finding such truth is entirely compatible with simple living. But today things are different. We still enjoy refined conversation about philosophy, science, religion, the arts, politics, human nature, and many other areas of theoretical interest. And these conversations do aim at truth, in a sense. As Jürgen Habermas argues, building on Paul Grice’s analysis of conversational conventions, regardless of how we actually behave and our actual motivations, our discussions usually proceed on the shared assumption that we are all committed to establishing the truth about the topic under discussion.27 But a different paradigm of truth now dominates: the paradigm of truth established by science. For the most part this is not something that ordinary people can pursue by themselves through reflection, conversation, or even backyard observation and experiment. Does dark matter exist? Does eating blueberries decrease one’s chances of developing cancer? Is global warming producing more hurricanes? Does early involvement with music and dance make one smarter or morally better? Are generous people happier than misers? People may discuss such questions around the table. But in most cases when we talk about such things, we are ultimately prepared to defer to the authority of the experts whose views and findings are continually reported in the media.

I remember one party when we seemed to be absolutely stranded. Perhaps that was symbolic, Mr Turner. I mean everyone else gone and just Tusker and me, peering out into the dark waiting for transport that never turned up.

There is a modern parable I am particularly fond of that illustrates my point: A man is caught in a flood and as the water begins to rise, he climbs up onto the roof of his house and awaits rescue. As the hours pass and the water rises, no help comes, so he begins to pray: Dear Lord, in your divine mercy please save me from the rising floodwater. Suddenly a helicopter appears and lowers a rope down to the stranded man—'take the rope' says the pilot. 'No thanks' replies the stranded man, 'I'm waiting for God to rescue me.' Three more times the pilot of the helicopter tries to convince the stranded man to climb up the rope and three more times he is refused: 'I'm waiting for God.' All the while, the water is rising and rising, until finally, the house is swept away, the man with it. His last words being 'God, why have you forsaken me?' So you see, when God announces his presence he always makes it obvious to humanity. How much more obvious than the events of the last few years does he need to make it before you will believe?

You’re wet,” she said, instinctively pushing a strand of brown away from his left eye. “Very observant,” he remarked. “I see those private tutors are really paying off.

According to string theory, which Professor Tamashi and other scientists have been using to try to solve the Big Bang, in addition to the four dimensions of spacetime we know, there are six of these very small, curled-up dimensions, making ten all told. And the strings, which are little strands of energy, wiggle around vibrating in these ten dimensions.’ ‘Like Dennis’s mother,’ Mario, seeking vengeance for the ant slur, interjects, ‘wiggling around vibrating with her vibrator, because she is a famous slut, and also, she has ten dimensions because she is a fat bitch.

If you believe there is a better system than capitalism, then the last 25 years have felt like being, as Alexander Bogdanov put it in Red Star, a martian stranded on earth.

It is one thing to photograph people. It is another to make others care about them by revealing the core of their humanness." - Paul Strand

Photography, because it preserves the appearance of an event or a person, has always been closely associated with the idea of the historical. The ideal of photography aesthetics apart, is to seize an “historic” moment. But Paul Strand’s relation as a photographer to the historic is a unique one. His photographs convey a unique sense of duration. The I am is given it’s time in which to reflect on the past and to anticipate its future: the exposure time does no violence to the time of the I am: on the contrary, one has the strange impression that the exposure time is the lifetime.

the first to do so. Maybe the universe . . . has slept in ignorance of itself these aeons until suddenly in a few years mankind’s curiosity . . . has opened its cosmic eyes and the universe has seen itself for the first time. Maybe we are the brains of this outfit. . . . We are like Robinson Crusoe, stranded on a cosmic island, not knowing whether or not we are alone until we can see the footprints in the sand. —Paul Hodge, Concepts of Contemporary Astronomy (1979)

you will kill me again? Mmm, but there's a problem, dear Paul. If I am dead as you claim, then how would you kill a dead woman?! Just tell me, how Paul?

Moses was stuck on the backside of the desert for years, unaware of God’s future for him (Ex. 3:1). Naomi was trapped in Moab after the deaths of her husband and sons (Ruth 1:5). Elijah was stuck in the wilderness, feeling sorry for himself after his failure to bring about the revival he’d hoped for Israel (1 Kings 19:10). Ezekiel was stranded in Babylon at age thirty, frustrated he couldn’t enter his priestly service in Jerusalem at the temple (Ezek. 1:1). Peter was caught in a dark, depressive cycle on the Saturday before Easter (Matt. 26:75). Thomas was cast into faithless despondency when he missed the Savior’s appearance on Easter Sunday (John 20:24). Paul was stuck in Troas where a great door of evangelism was open for him, but he had no peace of mind because of anxiety about problems in the Corinthian church (2 Cor. 2:12–13). The apostle John was exiled on the Island of Patmos, lonely and unable to continue his ministry—or so he thought (Rev. 1:9).

Those who can’t afford a uniform may wear a blue armband / from which the meadow pipit filches a single strand / to bind its nest. The rest of us are bound / by honor alone.

Alan Jacobs, author of The Narnian, said this about Lewis: Lewis’s mind was above all characterized by a willingness to be enchanted, and it was this openness to enchantment that held together the various strands of his life —his delight in laughter, his willingness to accept a world made by a good and loving God, and (in some ways above all) his willingness to submit to the charms of a wonderful story

My glance slowly and wearily travels over my forehead, my cheeks: it finds nothing firm, it is stranded. Obviously there are a nose, two eyes and a mouth, but none of it makes sense, there is not even a human expression.

Right after church, my great Aunt Theresa comes to visit. She drives one of those long white Cadillacs which is so old that I can hear the muffler long before I spot the car. Whenever it sounds like a log truck is tearing down our drive, nine times out of ten it’s my great Aunt Theresa. Out of all of Grandpa’s sisters, she is the only one I can remember. Not because she always stores a pinch of snuff between her cheek and gum and not because a puff of brown dust escapes her mouth every time she speaks. It’s because my great Aunt Theresa is a twiddler. She’s constantly twiddling with something—a strand of hair, her nails, an earlobe, a sock, the bottom of her shoe. But in the past five years, she’s developed a new twiddling habit—trailing her fingers up and down pillowcase fabric. In fact, she stores pillowcases everywhere, like in the trunk of her car or in the oversized purse always swinging from her hip. Where most people can’t go five minutes without their phone, Aunt Theresa can’t go five minutes without her pillowcase.

It would have been helpful (Psalm 39:2) if David had felt able to tell us the sort of thing he was fearful he might say in the presence of someone with no profession of faith. We can, of course, try to guess. We have all heard Christians speak in such a carelessly confident way about dying that their testimony sounded glib and brash, failing to take into account the solemnity of death, or that in the majority of cases it comes as an unwelcome intruder into a life we are loathe to leave. Again, have we not heard Christians speak of death – or pray for someone seriously ill – as if death was the very worst thing that could possibly happen (whereas the truth is that for a Christian, considered solely as an individual, setting aside relationships and responsibilities, to die is the very best thing that can happen)! David discovered that the ending of earthly life and the advent of death was, putting it mildly, a hurdle to be faced, and a task to be prepared for. First, be careful what we say – and maybe best say nothing. Dying without being afraid is one of the pearls of great price of being a Christian, so be careful, in the words of Jesus, not to cast this pearl before swine. A calm and unanxious demeanour could well speak louder than words. And, secondly, David certainly does tell us how we can go about cultivating this – in the threefold directive implied in 39:7–8. As ever that great old song ‘Turn your eyes upon Jesus’ strikes the essential note – or as David put it: ‘my hope is in you’. Are you in the prime of life? Are you in the later years when death waits round the corner? Are you, by divine sovereign appointment, in a terminal illness? Whatever: turn your eyes on Jesus and keep them fixed there. Beyond this, we must take up Paul’s motto – to have a conscience void of offence towards God and man always (Acts 24:16), for is that not what David is saying in Psalm 39:8? Yes, of course, all our sins were anticipated at Calvary and covered there, but what was done once and for all on the Cross becomes real all over again in our experience as we obey the divine command that all men everywhere should repent (Acts 17:30). The third strand in a ‘good death’ is the repute among others that we leave behind – a ‘savour of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing’ (2 Cor. 2:15, niv).

Hi,” I say quietly. I’m surprised that noise crept past the emotion in my throat because I still feel like it’s going to choke me. “Hi,” he says quietly. He looks over at Jill, and she gives him a thumbs-up. She doesn’t get up, though. I see her wipe a tear from her cheek. “Did you meet my friend, Hayley?” I ask. He nods. Paul keeps trying to catch my eyes with his, but I won’t let him. “I’m Friday,” I say. I’m your mother, and I love you more than anything, anywhere, anytime. The words rush to my lips, but I bite them back. “What’s your name?” Jacob runs over to his mother and says something to her. She reaches into the big bag at her feet and takes out a box. She hands it to him, and he runs back over. He never did tell me his name, but that’s okay. I’d rather he have a little stranger danger. And I’m a stranger, after all. Jacob sits down on the sidewalk and opens his box. He takes out a clunky piece of chalk and says, “Do you want to draw with me?” I sit down beside him and say, “What color should I use?” He gives me a blue piece of chalk. “This one.” So I sit for hours and draw with my son in chalk on the sidewalk. We draw rainbows and dragons, and we even make some flowers for his mom. I look around and see that the sidewalk is completely full of our art. There’s not an available space to be had. “You’re a really good drawer,” he says. He grins up at me, and I see the space where his missing tooth should be. “So are you.” I reach out a tentative hand and touch the top of his head. I close my eyes and breathe, letting my hand riffle through the silky strands. I pull back way sooner than I want to because he’s looking at me funny. I look over and see Paul sitting and talking quietly with Jill. He gets up and yells over to us. “We’re going to get some lunch! We’ll be right back!” I give him a thumbs-up and get up to chase Hayley and Jacob over to the swings. “Push me!” Hayley cries. “Push me!” Jacob calls at the same time. He laughs, and I put my hand in the center of both their backs, standing between them, and give them both a shove. It’s only a minute or two later when Paul and Jill come back carrying hot dogs and drinks. The kids race to the table. I jam my hands into my pockets and walk over a little more slowly. Paul and Jill sit side by side on one side of the picnic table, and Hayley and Jacob sit on the other. “Sit beside me!” Hayley cries. “No, me!” Jacob says. I put my legs over the bench and sit between them, and Paul hands me a hot dog. Jacob scoots so close to me that I can feel his thigh against mine. The heat of his little body seeps into the cold of mine and warms me everywhere. I close my eyes for a moment and just breathe, enjoying the feel of having my living, breathing child pressed into my side.

Felix.” She let go, suddenly shy to speak. But that tense, tickly sensation running from her throat to her belly was giving her some kind of superhuman nerve. And besides, he wasn’t really Felix Callahan anymore, not in that ethereal, big-screen sense. So. She cleared her throat. “Felix, will you be my friend?” He did laugh at her, though he didn’t seem to mean it. “Yes, we’ll get matching lockets holding strands of each other’s hair.” “I wish the English language gave us a better option. ‘Pals,’ ‘chums,’ ‘buddies’ . . . but a word that implies the sudden and unusual nature—like ‘metabuddies.’ ” “ ‘Metabuddies.’ Wow. This is getting serious.” “So?” “So. Yes. Let’s be friends. That would solve some of this confused muss. Do we spit in our palms and shake?” “I think this calls for a pinky pledge.” She hooked her pinky around his. “I, Becky Jack, agree to be Felix Callahan’s pal, even though he’s way overrated as an actor and screen hunk and can be such a brat.” Felix cleared his throat. “I, world-famous and fabulously wealthy Felix Paul Callahan, agree to be mates with Becky, even though she wears grandmother shoes and insists on popping out children with reckless abandon and shows no remorse for her vicious right hook.” “That was very nice. I almost shed a tear.” “Apparently all it takes to make you weep is a singing puppet.” “Hey, don’t sell me short. I also cry at talking socks and animated washcloths.” “You cry in terror.” “Well, yeah, that’s true.

She could feel Cameron move up behind her; the warmth of his body was right there, though he didn’t touch her. Then one hand caressed her upper arm while the other pulled her hair away from her ear. “This is the first time I’ve ever driven two hundred miles to see a woman I’ve barely met, Vanessa,” he whispered. Vanni bit on her lower lip. She’d been sleepless last night, thinking. She knew Cameron was interested in her, but that wasn’t enough. Her mind was on Paul. She turned around. “I’m very vulnerable, Cameron,” she said by way of warning. “I know. I’ll treat you carefully.” “You’re going to have to treat me patiently,” she said. “I’m not prepared to be any more than friends right now.” He laughed and shook his head. “I’d sure like to see where this could go.” “Friends,” she said. “Or nothing at all.” He cocked his head and smiled. “Do friends kiss? Just to see if there’s…chemistry?” She shook her head. “They do not. Not yet.” “Yet is a much more encouraging response than nothing at all. I guess friends kiss when they’ve gotten to know each other and there’s trust. Do I have that right?” She sighed deeply. If not for Paul, she might be attracted to Cameron. He was handsome, sexy, sweet. “It’s too soon. My mother-in-law jumped the gun, introducing us and—” “Nah, it’s not Carol’s fault. I’m jumping the gun because…” He shrugged. “Because you’re beautiful and fun. So shoot me.” She smiled at him. “I don’t think your life is in danger for calling me beautiful and fun. That’s very nice. But I’m not getting involved with you right now.” “You said we’d be friends,” he argued. And he reached out to stroke her hair. “Behave like a friend, Cameron. Like a Boy Scout.” He laughed at her. “You’re asking way too much. I’ll behave, but let’s keep this in perspective. I’m a man. You’re a damn sexy woman.” “Do I have to worry you won’t mind your manners?” she asked, lifting a brow. “Absolutely not,” he promised. “You’re in charge.” “Then no touching until… No touching.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Whatever you want, Vanessa. I’m just going to—” At that very moment, Plenty whinnied, backed away from the stream and bolted. “Shoot!” Vanni said. “That little troublemaker.” She pushed Cameron away, grabbed the reins of the gelding, leaped into the saddle and said, “I’ll be back.” She directed her horse after Plenty. “Don’t go away,” she yelled, laughing, as if he could go anywhere, stranded as he was.

Strands of straight, damp hair fell across her face, and he brushed them away gently and thought how beautiful she was. He could not recall when or how the change had taken place, or even that he had ever thought her plain. It was as though her features had come to take on a special meaning and unfold their beauties one by one. They had lost their individual identity as nose, or mouth, or lashes spread against a cheek. The tender sweetness of each had become intimately familiar to him. He had explored them all, experienced their texture, discovering new enchantments of human architecture in the gentle flare of a nostril, the smooth surface of brow or temple, the innocent and touching gallantry of the spot where her head and neck were joined.

We are all different, and as the old Puritans said, God does not break all hearts in the same way. But it is a central strand of most Christian living that everybody needs, from time to time, to wrestle privately with God and his will.

I like to photograph people who have strength and dignity in their faces; whatever life has done to them, it hasn’t destroyed them. I gravitate towards people like that.

through an actual haunted forest! Just hope that your tram doesn't break down, because this forest is PACKED with monsters...   Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson). An outbreak of feral vampires in a secluded hospital. This one isn't much like Twilight.   For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand's more-or-less official

ALL PROCEEDS FROM THE SALE OF THIS BOOK WILL GO TO CAMPAIGNS FIGHTING FOR THE SURVIVAL OF OUR NHS STRAND PUBLISHING ISBN 978-1-907340-22-2

Did I tell you about what happened last week with Marco?” Cass shook her head. “Well,” Mada began coyly, leaning in close to Cass and speaking quietly, “Father was out of town, you know, on business. But still, I can’t just have Marco over to the house, because one of the servants will tattle on me, guaranteed.” “So what did you do?” Cass played with a strand of hair that had escaped from her bonnet. Madalena lowered her voice even more. “I didn’t do anything. It was all Marco. He climbed the ivy vines from the canal to my window. I’m lucky he didn’t fall and drown.” She smiled dreamily. “I woke up in the middle of the night. I don’t know why. I just did. And Marco was sitting next to my bed, watching me sleep.” Madalena giggled. “At first I was mad at him for scaring me.” Cass couldn’t keep her jaw from dropping a little. She tried to imagine a boy sneaking into her own room to watch her sleep. Immediately, it was the face of the artist Falco she saw. Bright blue eyes. Crooked smile. She struggled to push his image from her mind. “And then?” Mada paused just long enough to allow the suspense to build. “And then he sat down next to me and took me in his arms. And we kissed until sunrise.” “Madalena Rambaldo! In your father’s house?” Cass made a pretend-scandalized face. Madalena giggled again. “Marco snuck back out--through the house, thankfully--just before first light, when the servants begin to go about their chores. A few minutes later and he might have gotten caught.” At that moment, the gardener, a stern-faced old man, appeared around a column in the courtyard with a large pot of water in his arms. Ignoring the girls, he began to water the rosebushes, which were still awaiting their first buds. Madalena and Cass bent their heads close together and laughed. “Let’s just say last week’s confession was interesting,” Madalena finished. “I think I made the priest blush.” Cass took a sip of her wine, savoring its sweetness. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss someone all night. Falco’s face materialized in her head again and she felt her cheeks redden.

Falco tucked the drawing he’d been working on into the pocket of his cloak and leaned back against a tall grave marker topped with a cross. His dark brown hair curled around his face, making him look like an angel in a painting. Cass stood directly in front of him, acutely aware of the fact that they were almost eye to eye. And lip to lip, she realized, tilting her body slightly backward at the thought. “What if,” Falco continued slowly, as though he were only just piecing together the idea, “you and I do a bit of investigating on our own?” His eyes lit up as he spoke. Cass took a step back. She felt her breathing slow and her head clear a little. Even the mist seemed to thin. “The two of us? Together?” Cass tucked an unruly strand of hair back into her bun. Falco reached up and yanked the tortoiseshell clip out of her hair, letting the tangled waves fall around her face. “Could be fun, don’t you think?” A hot flame coursed through Cass’s blood. She looked away from Falco, hurriedly retwisting her hair up on top of her head. She turned back just in time to see his sketch fall from his pocket and, picked up by the wind, go tumbling end over end across the grass. “Your drawing!” Her lantern fell to the ground, the candle flame blowing out as she ran after the flying parchment and tackled it. “So fierce,” Falco murmured, holding out a hand to help Cass to her feet. “I’m beginning to enjoy picking you up off the ground.

You mean it got out of the specimen room?" "Yes, sir." "Holy crap!" "Agreed, sir. Permission to unlock the gun case?" Paul shook his head. "You don't shoot two years' worth of work just because somebody lost an arm.

So what, in the light of all this, would Paul say had actually happened by six o’clock on the first Good Friday evening? If Romans 3:21–26 was all we had to go on, what might we conclude? First, he would say that the age-old covenant plan of the Creator, to rescue humanity and the world from sin and death, had been accomplished. The new Passover had taken place, in fulfillment of God’s promises to Abraham. Second, he would say that this had been accomplished by God himself, in his act of covenant faithfulness (for which the shorthand is “love,” though Paul does not use that word until chapters 5 and 8), drawing together Israel’s vocation and his own deepest purposes in the faithful death of the Messiah. Third, as befits a “Passover” moment, he would say that people of all sorts—Jews and Gentiles alike—were now free, free from past sins, free to come into the single covenant family. They were “freely declared to be in the right,” to be within God’s justified people, able to look ahead to the final day without fear of condemnation (5:9; 8:1; 8:31–39). Fourth, as we have seen in all the other early Christian strands of thought we have studied, Paul saw the new Passover also as the “dealing with sins” through which exile was undone. This is where Passover and the “Day of Atonement” meet and merge. Fifth, and at the heart of it all, Paul saw Israel’s representative Messiah “handed over because of our trespasses,” in the sense intended in Isaiah 53. Dealing with sins robs the “powers” of their power; and this, as we have seen, is the key that unlocks all the other doors.

Slipping the collar of her fur-lined cloak around her neck, she fumbled with the clasp. Her bodice slipped down around her waist. Falco sat on the divan, watching her with amusement. “Need help?” he asked. Cass imagined Falco methodically threading the satin laces through each eyelet, his hands repeatedly brushing across her back as he worked. “I’m fine,” she said curtly, pressing her arms tight to her sides to hold up her bodice. “I can see that.” Falco’s brown hair was sticking up in clumps. Cass had to resist the urge to return to the divan to run her fingers through it. She considered her reflection in an unbroken section of the mirror. Her skirts were wrinkled and her bodice twisted crookedly to one side. She looked like a six-year-old who had tried to dress herself. The strand of amethyst stones still hung around her neck. She started to remove it. “Keep it for now,” Falco said, yawning. He leaned back on the divan like he wished he could fall back to sleep. “It looks good on you.” Cass stroked the necklace with her good hand. She flung her velvet cloak over her shoulders and wrapped it around her whole body. There. She looked almost civilized. She’d just have to hide behind her cloak until she got home.

What is Signor Dubois doing here?” Siena shrugged. “Personal business with your aunt, I imagine.” She lifted her chin daintily. “I am not privy to Signora Querini’s affairs.” Cass elbowed Siena in the ribs. “I am not privy to Signora Querini’s affairs,” she mimicked. “Come on, Siena. I know those ears hear everything.” Siena dropped her glance to the floor and Cass immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t meant to imply that the girl’s ears were too big, only that the servants always seemed to be hovering just out of sight. Siena put the silver hairbrush back on the dressing table and picked up a hair ornament carved from sea coral and adorned with pearls. She began to twist Cass’s hair into a tight bun. “If I heard anything, it was purely accidental,” she said, shooting Cass’s reflection a warning look. “And only as a result of the normal course of my duties.” Cass winked at Siena in the mirror, amazed at the sleek topknot the girl had created. “Fine. What did you accidentally hear while you were responsibly completing your duties?” Siena pinned the pearl ornament around Cass’s hair and pursed her lips. She liberated a couple of strands from the bun and nodded as they curled naturally around Cass’s face. “I may have heard Dubois say he saw you in unsavory company at his masquerade ball last evening.

There’s a dead girl in there who’s not supposed to be, and another girl murdered, and you don’t care. You don’t care about them, or me.” She turned and walked away from him, blinking back tears. “I refuse to be lied to any longer.” What an idiot she was. “Cassandra, wait.” Falco ran after her, grabbing her arm just before she reached the edge of Agnese’s garden. “I do care. Give me two days. That’s all I need. And then I will tell you everything you want to know.” He stared at her. “Please. I’m asking you to trust me.” “Why should I?” Cass asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The breeze rustled through the ivy. Cass watched one leaf whip back and forth. “Last night you told me not to trust you, and tonight you tell me I should. What’s changed?” “What’s changed is that I…” Falco reached for her face, his fingertips caressing her cheekbones. “I’m falling in love with you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair back from her eyes. “For the longest time I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. So impossible. But I can’t deny my feelings any longer. You’re more than a muse, Cass. I want you to be more. I want you to be mine.” “But you know--” Cass could barely stutter out a sentence; Falco’s words were so unexpected, she could hardly breathe. “But I’m engaged…” “Forget the engagement. Forget what you’re supposed to do. What do you want to do, Cass? What do you need?” Cass felt her resolve melting away. His fingertips were ten individual spots of heat on her cool skin. She was tired of being cold. All she had to do was lean in and let the warmth engulf her. She thought of their bodies pressed together in the old batèla, her hands caressing his bare skin as their mouths met over and over. She realized she was crying. Falco kissed away her tears one at a time. Each time his lips touched her skin, she felt a brightness, like he was making flowers bloom inside of her. “I want to believe you, but it’s not that simple. I--” “It is that simple.” Falco tilted her face upward and pressed his mouth to hers, gently, then harder. Cass didn’t even try to resist. The wind whipped his hair around, and hers, tickling her skin as Falco pressed her against the framework of the trellis that lined the back of her aunt’s garden. Falco leaned into her and Cass could feel their hearts beating against each other. This was what a kiss should feel like. This was real.

Last night you told me not to trust you, and tonight you tell me I should. What’s changed?” “What’s changed is that I…” Falco reached for her face, his fingertips caressing her cheekbones. “I’m falling in love with you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair back from her eyes. “For the longest time I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. So impossible. But I can’t deny my feelings any longer. You’re more than a muse, Cass. I want you to be more. I want you to be mine.” “But you know--” Cass could barely stutter out a sentence; Falco’s words were so unexpected, she could hardly breathe. “But I’m engaged…” “Forget the engagement. Forget what you’re supposed to do. What do you want to do, Cass? What do you need?

I’m falling in love with you,” he said, brushing a strand of hair back from her eyes. “For the longest time I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. So impossible. But I can’t deny my feelings any longer. You’re more than a muse, Cass. I want you to be more. I want you to be mine.

Fat raindrops splattered across the front of Cass’s dress as the skies opened up in a sudden downpour. Cass ducked quickly inside a nearby arched doorway, pressing her body tightly to the stone to protect herself from the drizzle. Falco squeezed into the arch next to her, his longish hair damp and sticking to his face. “You’re wet,” she said, instinctively pushing a strand of brown away from his left eye. “Very observant,” he remarked. “I see those private tutors are really paying off.” Cass poked him in the side with her elbow. Even half soaked, Falco seemed to be radiating heat. Cass wished another lock of hair would glue itself to his skin so she could touch him again. She felt close to him, yet miles away at the same time. It was as if what she wanted was on the horizon, but kept disappearing like a mirage.

For Chesterton paradox is the truth inherent in a contradiction, in which two strands of truth become inextricably tied up in a knot, but if we try to untie the knot we miss something. “The whole secret of mysticism is this: that man can understand everything by the help of what he does not understand.” The impatient person who seeks consistency and uniformity claims to have untied the knot by his narrow, reductionist philosophy.

Dad," Stephen said. "What, son?" "Remember when we used to walk along the beaches—when you would buy all those shells for me to find?" His father smiled. "I remember." "Well, I was thinking about that beach we went to, the one where there were thousands of starfish that were stranded at low tide. Starfish dying as far as we could see. Seagulls snatching them up, dropping them on the rocks, and eating them. Remember all the starfish in that hot sun?" "Sure," his father said. "You insisted on taking one of them and throwing it back into the water." "I remember you telling me that it didn't make any difference," Stephen said. "Did I say that?" "Yes." "I don't remember." "I do," Stephen said. "Well, I've been thinking about it." "About that starfish?" "Yeah. I was thinking that it did make a difference. At least to that one starfish." His father said nothing for a while. "Maybe you're right... I hope so," he said finally, and put his arm around Stephen's shoulder.