Paving Sayings And Quotes

I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her –after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred–I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness (her skin glistening in the neon light coming from the paved court through the slits in the blind, her soot-black lashes matted, her grave gray eyes more vacant than ever–for all the world a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation)–and the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again–and 'oh, no,' Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure–all would be shattered.

Hell, they says, is paved with good intentions.

This barricade is made neither of paving stones, nor of timbers, nor of iron; it is made of two mounds, a mound of ideas and a mound of sorrows. Here misery encounters the ideal. Here the day embraces the night, and says: I will die with you and you will be born again with me.

I am a free man―and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. What do you want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to God alone―if He existed!

Fall down eight times, stand up nine. For me, this saying is less about the dead paving the way for future generations than it is for the women of Jeju. We suffer and suffer and suffer, but we also keep getting up. We keep living. You would not be here if you weren't brave. Now you need to be braver still.

Sometimes a woman is just worn out and needs a break, you know?” The lines on her forehead deepen. “That doesn’t prove that you’re weak or neglectful, it proves to all the women standing by and watching you pave the road to success that it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to shut your door every now and then and put up a sign that says Busy taking care of me today. Piss off.

I'm supposed to be guilty of all sorts of crimes and misdemeanors, but when you get right down to it, I'm really only guilty of one: wondering. The road to Hell, you say, is paved with good intentions. Charming. But actually it's paved with intriguing questions. You want to know. Man do you want to know.

Well, you know what they say, Jamie: The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

While evidence says that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, they're probably all on first steps.

The road to success is paved with doubters and haters.

Follow your heart and take a chance that you'll be wrong. Take a chance that maybe you'll fuck it all up and everyone will say you're crazy. What's the worst that can happen? Face that fear and accept it. Because to silence your heart and forget your dreams is to die while living. LIVE. Don't let the world scare you into being something you're not. Get out there and risk the unusual or you'll have to settle for the ordinary. So, no-one else has done it before? There is no road map for you to follow? Then, you be the first! Pave the way for someone else. Find your courage and follow your heart. Be brave, wild one, be brave.

You know how they say the path to hell is paved with good intentions? Well, maybe the path to heaven is paved with bad ones.

Romanians have a saying, 'Not every dog has a bagel on its tail.' It means that not all streets are paved with gold. When I began my career, I just wanted to do cartwheels.

I am a free man—and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. What do you want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to God alone—if He existed!

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. In the case of William Jessup Brady, it’s been hand carved with a lever-action Henry rifle over his shoulder and a Smith & Wesson six-gun strapped to his hip.’ – Solace Walters

[Dad] So your intentions were good. That's what matters. [Anthony] But isn't, like, the road to hell paved with good intentions? Yeah, well, so's the road to heaven. And if you spend too much time thinking about where those good intentions are taking you, you know where you end up? Jersey? I was thinking 'nowhere,' but you get the point.

The road to Hell, you say, is paved with good intentions. Charming. But actually it's paved with intriguing questions.

The missionaries find it opportune to remind the masses that long before the advent of European colonialism the great African empires were disrupted by the Arab invasion. There is no hesitation in saying that it was the Arab occupation which paved the way for European colonialism; Arab imperialism commonly spoken of, and the cultural imperialism of Islam is condemned.

If the road to Hell is paved in good intentions, a friend of mine used to say, the road to Heaven is paved with bullshit and busy work.

Grandfather looked away from me and out to sea, and when he spoke, it was as though he spoke to himself. “The obligations of normal human kindness – chesed, as the Hebrew has it – that we all owe. But there’s a kind of vanity in thinking you can nurse the world. There’s a kind of vanity in goodness.” I could hardly believe my ears. “But aren’t we supposed to be good?” “I’m not sure.” Grandfather’s voice was heavy. “I do know that we’re not good, and there’s a lot of truth to the saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

That doesn’t prove that you’re weak or neglectful, it proves to all the women standing by and watching you pave the road to success that it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to shut your door every now and then and put up a sign that says Busy taking care of me today. Piss off.

But there’s still more I can do, other ways for me to grow and — as I keep relearning — it’s okay to own a desire for more. In fact, it’s how we honor those who have paved the way for our place at the table. “You don’t want modesty,” Maya Angelou once said, “you want humility. Humility comes from inside out. It says someone was here before me and I’m here because I’ve been paid for. I have something to do and I will do that because I’m paying for someone else who has yet to come.” When we dim our light we don’t do anyone a favor. It’s a disservice because when you’re in the presence of someone who knows his or her worth, like the extraordinary Maya did, you want to shine brighter. Self-honoring energy is contagious.

People say ‘third world’ and think it just means countries without internet or paved roads,” I say. “But ‘third world’ is Cold War terminology. NATO countries are the first world and the Communist bloc is the second world. The third world was where those two clashed. So the mess in Afghanistan is actually a first and second world problem.

...You say you don't mistrust me, yet you quote Chrysostom - Hell is paved with priests' skulls....

No, of course she didn't say it. But there is no other reason she should have called, except to pave the way for her brother. she had nothing whatsoever to talk about. Just sat there like a stick, sipping tea." "I didn't know sticks could sip tea.

You can argue that it expresses a degree of difference between He closed the door and He slammed the door, and you’ll get no argument from me  . . . . but what about context? What about all the enlightening (not to say emotionally moving) prose which came before He closed the door firmly? Shouldn’t this tell us how he closed the door? And if the foregoing prose does tell us, isn’t firmly an extra word? Isn’t it redundant? Someone out there is now accusing me of being tiresome and anal-retentive. I deny it. I believe the road to hell is paved with adverbs, and I will shout it from the rooftops.

The path to wisdom does, in fact, begin with a single step. Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. They make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak butter tea that would give it any meaning. While evidence says that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, they're probably all on first steps.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” This saying, which is found in a broad variety of lands, does not arise from the brash worldly wisdom of an incorrigible. It instead reveals deep Christian insight.

Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy. Then, there will be nothing more like the history of old, we shall no longer, as to-day, have to fear a conquest, an invasion, a usurpation, a rivalry of nations, arms in hand, an interruption of civilization depending on a marriage of kings, on a birth in hereditary tyrannies, a partition of peoples by a congress, a dismemberment because of the failure of a dynasty, a combat of two religions meeting face to face, like two bucks in the dark, on the bridge of the infinite; we shall no longer have to fear famine, farming out, prostitution arising from distress, misery from the failure of work and the scaffold and the sword, and battles and the ruffianism of chance in the forest of events. One might almost say: There will be no more events. We shall be happy. The human race will accomplish its law, as the terrestrial globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be re-established between the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate around the truth, as the planet around the light. Friends, the present hour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! the human race will be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier. Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction, of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron; it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes. Here misery meets the ideal. The day embraces the night, and says to it: 'I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again with me.' From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth. Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn.

How often, in everyday conversation, had I said things I didn’t mean or feel, just to be polite, to make things easier? How often had I said to Brandon what I thought I should say in order to maintain order, to repair a rift? We had never been good at disagreement. One of us always gave in when it got too uncomfortable. One of us would recognize that we were at a dead end, would begin to back out. We rarely paved a road through to the other side. We rarely stuck with it long enough to forge any kind of new, if painful, understanding.

In Mass I wanted to talk to God, but I didn’t know if He’d recognize me. I couldn’t think of nothing to say. So instead I pictured my life as a shattered plate, a fine piece of crockery broke and splintered into a thousand tiny pieces. And then I spent the hour collecting up all them bits of colored wreckage, and one by one, I placed them shards into the invisible hands of God. I hoped He would maybe glue them back together for me. He could stitch them up the way Pavees did, until the cracks was so well healed that nobody could see them at all. After Mass, Dad took me fishing, which made everything worse, because he’d never took me fishing on my own before, and the gravity of that was like a sad confession.

You've got enough fat stored to run to California, so the more you train your body to burn fat instead of sugar, the longer your limited sugar tank is going to last. The way to activate your fat-burning furnace is by staying below your aerobic threshold--your hard-breathing point--during your endurance runs. Respecting that speed limit was a lot easier before the birth of cushioned shoes and paved roads; diet, and those tumors may never appear in the first place. Eat like a poor person, as Coach Joe Vigil likes to say, and you'll only see your doctor on the golf course.

Pull it together, Four-Five-One,” he says firmly. But you can see him suppressing a smile as he’s double-checking the next pod. Positioning the Holo to find the best light in the smoky air. Still facing us as his left foot steps back onto the orange paving stone. Triggering the bomb that blows off his legs.

The last use of the F-word is my favorite because it’s positive and constructive. It sets the stage for honest and empathetic negotiation. Here’s how I use it: Early on in a negotiation, I say, “I want you to feel like you are being treated fairly at all times. So please stop me at any time if you feel I’m being unfair, and we’ll address it.” It’s simple and clear and sets me up as an honest dealer. With that statement, I let people know it is okay to use that word with me if they use it honestly. As a negotiator, you should strive for a reputation of being fair. Your reputation precedes you. Let it precede you in a way that paves success.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. The way back will be paved with blood.

The things my brother and I don't say could pave over the Atlantic Ocean.

SHE SAYS IT’S AN HOMAGE TO FAMILY HISTORY. NEVER FORGET THOSE WHO PAVED THE WAY BEFORE YOU. NEVER STOP TRYING TO BETTER THE WORLD FOR THOSE WHO WILL INHABIT IT AFTER YOU.

You guys are brothers? I don’t really see the family resemblance.” “Brothers by choice,” Lev says. Emily takes another bite and then asks, “So it’s just you five? No other siblings or anything?

Self-rejection paves the landing strip for the rejection of others to arrive and pull on up to the gates of our hearts. Think about why it hurts so much when other people say or do things that make you feel rejected. Isn’t it in part due to the fact they just voiced some vulnerability you’ve already berated yourself for? It hurts exponentially more when you’re kicked in an already bruised shin.

After bracken is picked nine times, it will sprout again. The saying Fall down eight times, stand up nine reminds us of this and symbolizes the wish for the dead to pave the way for future generations

Before the Holocaust,” Paul was explaining to Daryl now, “when someone tripped on a paving stone in the road, the folk saying went, A Jew must be buried there. So the stumble stones take the old folk saying

In 1970, when Dr. Edgar Berman said women’s hormones during menstruation and menopause could have a detrimental influence on women’s decision making, feminists were outraged. He was soon served up as the quintessential example of medical male chauvinism.12 But by the 1980s, some feminists were saying that PMS was the reason a woman who deliberately killed a man should go free. In England, the PMS defense freed Christine English after she confessed to killing her boyfriend by deliberately ramming him into a utility pole with her car; and, after killing a coworker, Sandie Smith was put on probation—with one condition: she must report monthly for injections of progesterone to control symptoms of PMS.13 By the 1990s, the PMS defense paved the way for other hormonal defenses. Sheryl Lynn Massip could place her 6-month-old son under a car, run over him repeatedly, and then, uncertain he was dead, do it again, then claim postpartum depression and be given outpatient medical help.14 No feminist protested. In the 1970s, then, feminists

They're kicking us out saying it's time to close We're leaning on each other try'na beat the cold Carry your shoes and I give you my coat Walking these streets like they're paved gold Anymore excuses is not to go Neither one of us want to take that taxi home Singing our hearts, standing on chairs Spending the time like we were millionaires Laughing our heads off, the two of us stared Spending the time like we were millionaires Lost my heart and I hope to die Seeing that sunlight hit your eyes Been up all night but you still look amazing to me Half the time of the night you only dream About if God came down he could take me now Cause in my mind, yeah we will always be

Some books about the Holocaust are more difficult to read than others. Some books about the Holocaust are nearly impossible to read. Not because one does not understand the language and concepts in the books, not because they are gory or graphic, but because such books are confrontational. They compel us to “think again,” or to think for the first time, about issues and questions we might rather avoid. Gabriel Wilensky’s book, Six Million Crucifixions: How Christian Antisemitism Paved the Road to the Holocaust is one book I found difficult, almost impossible to read. Why? Because I had to confront the terrible underside of Christian theology, an underside that contributed in no small part to the beliefs and attitudes too many Christians – Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox – had imbibed throughout centuries of anti-Jewish preaching and teaching that “paved the road to the Holocaust.” I cannot say that I “liked” Gabriel Wilensky’s book, Six Million Crucifixions: How Christian Antisemitism Paved the Road to the Holocaust. I didn’t, but I can say it was instructive and forced me to think again about that Jew from Nazareth, Jesus, and about his message of universal love and service – “What you do for the least of my brothers [and sisters], you do for me” (Matthew 25: 40). As Abraham Joshua Heschel once said, the Holocaust did not begin with Auschwitz. The Holocaust began with words. And too many of those hate-filled words had their origin in the Christian Scriptures and were uttered by Christian preachers and teachers, by Christians generally, for nearly two millennia. Is it any wonder so many Christians stood by, even participated in, the destruction of the European Jews during the Nazi era and World War II? I recommend Six Million Crucifixions: How Christian Antisemitism Paved the Road to the Holocaust because all of us Christians – Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox – must think again, or think for the first time, about how to teach and preach the Christian Scriptures – the “New Testament” writings – in such a way that the words we utter, the attitudes we encourage, do not demean, disrespect, or disregard our Jewish brothers and sisters, that our words do not demean, disrespect, or disregard Judaism. I hope the challenge is not an impossible one.

Where would the shout of love begin, if not from the summit of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the junction between those who think and those who suffer; this barricade is made neither of paving stones, nor of timbers, nor of iron; it is made of two mounds, a mound of ideas and a mound of sorrows. Here misery encounters the ideal. Here day embraces night, and says: I will die with you and you will be born again with me. From the heavy embrace of all desolations springs faith. Sufferings bring their agony here, and ideas their immortality. This agony and immortality will mingle and make up our death. Brothers, whoever dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a grave illuminated by the dawn.

The path to wisdom does, in fact, begin with a single step. Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. They make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe, and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak-butter tea that would give it any kind of meaning. While evidence says that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, they’re probably all on first steps.

If tolerance poses as a middle road between rejection on the one side and assimilation on the other, this road, as already suggested, is paved by necessity rather than virtue; tolerance, as Nietzsche would say, becomes a virtue only retroactively and retrospectively.

People from every political perspective agree that race relations are a horrible wound crying out for healing. But there can be no cure without correct diagnosis. Correct diagnosis is impossible without honest, even fearless investigation. At the very least, Americans must be able to talk about race without fear of retribution. If the notion of free speech has any meaning at all, it must apply to the oldest, greatest, most dangerous problem our nation faces. We must say in public what we think in private; we must throw off the shackles of orthodoxy.

Leadership expert Peter Drucker says, “The better a man is, the more mistakes he will make, for the more new things he will try. I would never promote to a top-level job a man who was not making mistakes . . . otherwise he is sure to be mediocre.” Mistakes really do pave the road to achievement.

I don't mean to say we're perfect. We've got a lot to do in the way of extending the paving of motor boulevards, for, believe me, it's the fellow with four to ten thousand a year, say, and an automobile and a nice little family in a bungalow on the edge of town, that makes the wheels of progress go round!

I thought to do something good by giving an interview to People, which was exceedingly foolish of me. I asked Aaron [Asher] to tell you that the Good Intentions Paving Company had fucked up again. The young interviewer turned my opinions inside out, cut out the praises and made it all sound like disavowal, denunciation and excommunication. Well, we're both used to this kind of thing, and beyond shock. In agreeing to take the call, and make a statement I was simply muddle-headed. But if I had been interviewed by an angel for the Seraphim and Cherubim Weekly I'd have said, as I actually did say to the crooked little slut, that you were one of our very best and most interesting writers. I would have added that I was greatly stimulated and entertained by your last novel, and that of course after three decades I understood perfectly well what you were saying about the writer's trade - how could I not understand, or miss suffering the same pains. Still our diagrams are different, and the briefest description of the differences would be that you seem to have accepted the Freudian explanation: A writer is motivated by his desire for fame, money and sexual opportunities. Whereas I have never taken this trinity of motives seriously. But this is an explanatory note and I don't intend to make a rabbinic occasion of it. Please accept my regrets and apologies, also my best wishes. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about the journalists; we can only hope that they will die off as the deerflies do towards the end of August.

Under the guise of helping the sick, oppressed and hopeless, psychiatry is paving the way for authoritarian governments to suppress a whole society furthermore, with drugs and obscene practices that promote, not only hypnotic suggestions, but also highly suggestible individuals which, otherwise, would oppose a whole repressive system that threatens both their existence and the existence of future generations on Earth. And so, one can very well say that, psychiatry, aided by pharmaceutical corporations and power-driven governments, or merely governments fearful of their own people and the extinction of immoral politics, will contribute vastly to the extermination and full extinction of the human race.

Here we go then," Dad says. "Motoring towards our dreams, Bridge." "You shouldn't follow dreams," Grandma announces. "Why?" I ask her. "Because it's a road paved with disappointments, that's why. People should get on with what they've blinking well got at home." "You can't tell people what their dreams are meant to be." "I can. But they never listen, do they?

Comedy, much of the time, is built on disorder. Comedy is intoxicating to a young mind in distress. You see these famous people pointing out the ridiculousness of a world that you’ve never been able to make sense of. Comedians offer the hope, the chance, however slim, that it’s not you that’s broken but the world. And they dress up in cool clothes! And hang out with various late-night hosts named Jimmy! And they make people laugh, and those people then love them. I can’t say for certain that depression leads people to a career in comedy, but it seems like the path is smoothly paved and well lit. Comedian Solomon Georgio came to the United States as a refugee from Ethiopia when he was three years old, and his family relied on comedy early on for entertainment and education. “We all loved comedy because that’s one of the few things that we comprehended when we didn’t speak the language,” he says. “Surprisingly, standup comedy, too, which, even though we didn’t know what was going on, you kind of see a rhythm and you know people are being entertained and laughing along. So we watched a lot of old television. Three Stooges, I Love Lucy, and, like, slapstick. We just immediately started watching and enjoying. So you can only imagine how disappointed I was when I met my first white person in real life and I was like, ‘Oh, you’re not like the Three Stooges. I can’t slap you and poke you in the eye. You guys aren’t doing any of that stuff out here. Okay.

But Kashmir was watching, his arms folded, standing against the door to the Captain's Cabin. As we approached, he smiled thinly. "Don't they say the road to hell is paved with honorable intentions?" "That's good intentions." I said, making a face. "Ah, yes. Of course." He turned the knob and opened the door with a flourish. "But perhaps Mr. Hart can go to hell anyway.

What do you want for yourself?” he’d asked, and Henry considered saying my parents’ pride, but that didn’t seem like a good answer, so he’d said the next truest thing—that he honestly wasn’t sure. That he’d blinked and somehow years had gone by, and everyone else had carved their trenches, paved their paths, and he was still standing in a field, uncertain where to dig.

The spirit of the depths even taught me to consider Inyaction and my decision as dependent on dreams. Dreams pave the way for life, and they determine you without you understanding their languageY One would like to learn this language, but who can teach and learn it? Scholarliness alone is not enough; there is a knowledge ofthe heart that gives deeper insight.54 The knowledge of the heart is in no book and is not to be found in the mouth ofany teacher, but grows out ofyou like the green seed from the dark earth. Scholarliness to the spirit of this time, but this spirit in no way grasps the dream, since the soul is everywhere that scholarly knowledge is not. But how can I attain the knowledge of the heart? You can attain this knowledge only by living your life to the full. You live your life fully if you also live what you have never yet lived, but have left for others to live or to think.55 You will say: "But I cannot live or think everything that others live or thinlc" But you should say: "The life that I could still live, I should live, and the thoughts that I could still thinl(, I should thinl(.

A small container of Rocky Road lands on the counter next to me. “I figured Rocky Road was appropriate to pave the way to brown town,” she says with a laugh. The man in front of me takes his receipt, and the cashier, a younger woman, reaches for our purchases as soon as Banner starts laughing at her own joke. The cashier’s eyes go wide when she comprehends. “Brown Town? Is that up in the foothills, Logan? I’m not sure I’ve heard of it,” a familiar voice says from behind me. Oh, for Christ’s sake. I turn around to face Mrs. Harris, her hands full with a box of tea and a bottle of melatonin, but when I open my mouth to respond, nothing comes out. Banner smiles sweetly and says, “It’s just south of Pussy Ridge. At least, I’m pretty sure it is.” I choke, and the cashier’s face turns red. “Pussy Ridge. I haven’t heard of that either. I’ll have to ask Mr. Harris to get out the Rand McNally so we can take a drive there this weekend. I do love my weekend drives.” I have no idea how Banner is keeping a straight face, but she replies, “I love a good long ride too. Especially when it gets a little rough.” The older woman smiles. “Me too. Emmy has never been a fan, though. She’s always gotten carsick at the littlest bump.” Banner finally grins. “That explains so much about her.” The cashier’s eyes are tearing up as I shove money at her before I bag the ice cream, Doritos, and lube myself. “See you later, Mrs. Harris. You’ll have to let us know how that drive goes.

As actor and comedian Lily Tomlin once said, “The road to success is always under construction.” So don’t allow yourself to be detoured from getting to your ONE Thing. Pave your way with the right people and place. BIG IDEAS Start saying “no.” Always remember that when you say yes to something, you’re saying no to everything else. It’s the essence of keeping a commitment. Start turning down other requests outright or saying, “No, for now” to distractions so that nothing detracts you from getting to your top priority. Learning to say no can and will liberate you. It’s how you’ll find the time for your ONE Thing. Accept chaos. Recognize that pursuing your ONE Thing moves other things to the back burner. Loose ends can feel like snares, creating tangles in your path. This kind of chaos is unavoidable. Make peace with it. Learn to deal with it. The success you have accomplishing your ONE Thing will continually prove you made the right decision. Manage your energy. Don’t sacrifice your health by trying to take on too much. Your body is an amazing machine, but it doesn’t come with a warranty, you can’t trade it in, and repairs can be costly. It’s important to manage your energy so you can do what you must do, achieve what you want to achieve, and live the life you want to live. Take ownership of your environment. Make sure that the people around you and your physical surroundings support your goals. The right people in your life and the right physical environment on your daily path will support your efforts to get to your ONE Thing. When both are in alignment with your ONE Thing, they will supply the optimism and physical lift you need to make your ONE Thing happen. Screenwriter Leo Rosten pulled everything together for us when he said, “I cannot believe that the purpose of life is to be happy. I think the purpose of life is to be useful, to be responsible, to be compassionate. It is, above all, to matter, to count, to stand for something, to have made some difference that you lived at all.” Live with Purpose, Live by Priority, and Live for Productivity. Follow these three for the same reason you make the three commitments and avoid the four thieves—because you want to leave your mark. You want your life to matter. 18

Article 5 of NATO’s founding charter, which states: ‘An armed attack against one or more [NATO member states] in Europe or North America shall be considered an attack against them all’, and goes on to say NATO will come to the rescue if necessary. Article 5 was invoked after the terrorist attacks in the USA on 11 September 2001, paving the way for NATO involvement in Afghanistan.

In the 1930s, before the rise of the communist regime, there were already strong forces in the culture that paved the way for it,” says Patrik Benda, a Prague political consultant, of his native Czechoslovakia. “All the artists and intellectuals advocated communist ideas, and if you didn’t agree, you were marked for exclusion. This was almost two decades before actual communism took power.

This definition was not just limited to establishing a method for exploring the specificity of one human group in relation to another. It also desired, from the outset, to renounce the prejudiced and racist ethnography about which the West has never tired of berating itself. The intention could not have been loftier, but the well-known saying tells us that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Because

People shouldn't say one thing if they really mean the other. That's my problem with people, they say something without thinking about it. Without having experienced the opposites. I've been there, I've been everywhere. I tread the path of adventure, and the path was paved with gold, and every little detour was filled with joyous surprises. But then you get to the end, and the fates reveal your truth. One truth. The one truth.

In any sizable park or green space, you’ll likely find two kinds of paths: the formal kind, paved with brick or concrete, and the informal kind, the paths made by people walking over and over a stretch of grass, wearing away the green and carving a scruffy emergent line in its place. These are paths made by sheer repetitive use; they’re not anyone’s executive decision but arise one choice at a time, collected in aggregate. Most of us know them as friendly disobedience: they’re shortcuts, maybe, or just the most commonsense pathway from one frequented site to another. Urban planners call these paths “desire lines,” or sometimes “cow paths,” “pirate paths,” or the slightly stuffier “counter-grid trajectories.” They indicate yearning, some planners say—either to have formal paved lines where there are none or to actively carve out a different path where one had been prescribed.

It was like walking into another world. While the mansion was bright, warm, comfy and filled with sound and color, the outside was dark, cold, colorless and devoid of people. I found myself standing beside Thomas in the street. The paved road felt so cold it was hurting my feet. I kept moving them up and down, afraid my skin would freeze to the pavement. My heart was racing already and I felt a bit out of breath. If we stood there much longer i was going to hyperventilate.

and here instead’s another version of what was happening that morning, as if from a novel in which sophia is the kind of character she’d choose to be, prefer to be, a character in a much more classic sort of story, perfectly honed and comforting, about how sombre yet bright the major-symphony of winter is and how beautiful everything looks under a high frost, how every grassblade is enhanced and silvered into individual beauty by it, how even the dull tarmac of the roads, the paving under our feet, shines when the weather’s been cold enough and how something at the heart of us, at the heart of all our cold and frozen states, melts when we encounter a time of peace on earth, goodwill to all men; a story in which there’s no room for severed heads; a work in which sophia’s perfectly honed minor-symphony modesty and narrative decorum complement the story she’s in with the right kind of quiet wisdom-from-experience ageing-female status, making it a story that’s thoughtful, dignified, conventional in structure thank god, the kind of quality literary fiction where the slow drift of snow across the landscape is merciful, has a perfect muffling decorum of its own, snow falling to whiten, soften, blur and prettify even further a landscape where there are no heads divided from bodies hanging around in the air or anywhere, either new ones, from new atrocities or murders or terrorisms, or old ones, left over from old historic atrocities and murders and terrorisms and bequeathed to the future as if in old french revolution baskets, their wickerwork brown with the old dried blood, placed on the doorsteps of the neat and central-heating-interactive houses of now with notes tied to the handles saying please look after this head thank you, well, no, thank you, thank you very much:

Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they’re winning when they say “Get over it.” This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

Will you dare to say so?–Have you never erred?–Have you never felt one impure sensation?–Have you never indulged a transient feeling of hatred, or malice, or revenge?–Have you never forgot to do the good you ought to do,–or remembered to do the evil you ought not to have done?–Have you never in trade overreached a dealer, or banquetted on the spoils of your starving debtor?–Have you never, as you went to your daily devotions, cursed from your heart the wanderings of your heretical brethren,–and while you dipped your fingers in the holy water, hoped that every drop that touched your pores, would be visited on them in drops of brimstone and sulphur?–Have you never, as you beheld the famished, illiterate, degraded populace of your country, exulted in the wretched and temporary superiority your wealth has given you,–and felt that the wheels of your carriage would not roll less smoothly if the way was paved with the heads of your countrymen? Orthodox Catholic–old Christian–as you boast yourself to be,–is not this true?–and dare you say you have not been an agent of Satan? I tell you, whenever you indulge one brutal passion, one sordid desire, one impure imagination–whenever you uttered one word that wrung the heart, or embittered the spirit of your fellow-creature–whenever you made that hour pass in pain to whose flight you might have lent wings of down–whenever you have seen the tear, which your hand might have wiped away, fall uncaught, or forced it from an eye which would have smiled on you in light had you permitted it–whenever you have done this, you have been ten times more an agent of the enemy of man than all the wretches whom terror, enfeebled nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced into the confession of an incredible compact with the author of evil, and whose confession has consigned them to flames much more substantial than those the imagination of their persecutors pictured them doomed to for an eternity of suffering! Enemy of mankind!' the speaker continued,–'Alas! how absurdly is that title bestowed on the great angelic chief,–the morning star fallen from its sphere! What enemy has man so deadly as himself? If he would ask on whom he should bestow that title aright, let him smite his bosom, and his heart will answer,–Bestow it here!

The question we must all ask ourselves is how Mr. Benn was able to come within striking distance of the very heart of our economic life in the first place...an important part of the answer must be that our industry, economic life and society have been so debilitated by 30 years of Socialistic fashions that their very weakness tempts further inroads. The path to Benn is paved with 30 years of interventions: 30 years of good intentions: 30 years of disappointments. These have led the collectivists to say that we are failing only because we are taking half measures. The reality is that for 30 years the private sector of our economy has been forced to work with one hand tied behind its back by government and unions. Socialist measures and Socialist legacies have weakened free enterprise.

The neon orange orb sat low in the sky, slowly breaking free of the horizon like the waking memory of a dream. The salty air smelled faintly of fish, and was thick with humidity and hung like a cloak over my body. The lavender sky at the horizon faded into cerulean above and behind me. The soft breeze whispered past my face, teasing my hair on its way to tickle the sawgrass that swayed in gratitude as if laughing like a child.
 I sat on the top plank of the boardwalk rail, the wood heavy with atmosphere and was damp and cool under my left palm. The surprising warmth of the winter air and the cool of the wood reminded me that yes, I am alive! Yes, I am grateful for this morning! And yes, I am glad to be here!
 The paper in my notebook as I wrote this began to feel sticky and moist within a few minutes. The ink from my pen seemed to grip the paper faster and firmer as if to say, I’m here, I’m happy, and I don’t want to lose this moment. Like my ink, I too wanted to cling to this morning.
 The sky started turning a peachy orange at the bottom and the ocean was sea foam green. The waves were breaking quietly, as if to give my thoughts amplitude so I could record and rejoice in the sea’s majesty. 
 The sand was gray and silky like a freshly pressed pair of slacks. The smooth beach seemed paved with sunlight. A jogger ran by, his knees probably grateful for the even stride the flat surface provided. 
 Chunks of sea foam lay strewn on the beach like remnants of Poseidon’s nightly bubble bath. A seagull circled low in the air, gliding in the sky with its streamlined body as the sun lit its white wings up like an angel’s halo.

Despite the fact that Uncle Rulon and his followers regard the governments of Arizona, Utah, and the United States as Satanic forces out to destroy the UEP, their polygamous community receives more than $6 million a year in public funds. More than $4 million of government largesse flows each year into the Colorado City public school district—which, according to the Phoenix New Times, “is operated primarily for the financial benefit of the FLDS Church and for the personal enrichment of FLDS school district leaders.” Reporter John Dougherty determined that school administrators have “plundered the district’s treasury by running up thousands of dollars in personal expenses on district credit cards, purchasing expensive vehicles for their personal use and engaging in extensive travel. The spending spree culminated in December [2000], when the district purchased a $220,000 Cessna 210 airplane to facilitate trips by district personnel to cities across Arizona.” Colorado City has received $1.9 million from the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development to pave its streets, improve the fire department, and upgrade the water system. Immediately south of the city limits, the federal government built a $2.8 million airport that serves almost no one beyond the fundamentalist community. Thirty-three percent of the town’s residents receive food stamps—compared to the state average of 4.7 percent. Currently the residents of Colorado City receive eight dollars in government services for every dollar they pay in taxes; by comparison, residents in the rest of Mohave County, Arizona, receive just over a dollar in services per tax dollar paid. “Uncle Rulon justifies all that assistance from the wicked government by explaining that really the money is coming from the Lord,” says DeLoy Bateman. “We’re taught that it’s the Lord’s way of manipulating the system to take care of his chosen people.” Fundamentalists call defrauding the government “bleeding the beast” and regard it as a virtuous act.

In fact, every American that Dickens shows in the book is a homicidal idiot, except one--and he wanted to live abroad! Well! You can't tell me that a degenerate bunch like that could have taken the very river- bottom swamps that Dickens describes, and in three generations have turned 'em into the prosperous cement-paved powerful country that they are today! Yet Europe goes on reading hack authors who still steal their ideas from 'Martin Chuzzlewit' and saying, 'There, I told you so!' Say, do you realize that at the time Dickens described the Middlewest--my own part of the country--as entirely composed of human wet rags, a fellow named Abe Lincoln and another named Grant were living there; and not more than maybe ten years later, a boy called William Dean Howells (I heard him lecture once at Yale, and I notice that they still read his book about Venice IN Venice) had been born? Dickens couldn't find or see people like that. Perhaps some European observers today are missing a few Lincolns and Howellses!

I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her—after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred—I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness (her skin glistening in the neon light coming from the paved court through the slits in the blind, her soot-black lashes matted, her grave gray eyes more vacant than ever—for all the world a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation)—and the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again—and “oh, no” Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure—all would be shattered

I have to get out of here. Now. Where I go and what time I get there are largely irrelevant. I am never in the right place. The present, here, is just an anxious pit stop I make between memory (which is to say regret) and the dreadful anticipation of hoping there will be better but knowing it won’t. Many people—usually the happier ones, apparently—spend the bulk of their lives living in the here and now rather than continuously running the stoplight at its intersection. And judging by the number of self-help and talk-show gurus around, many more are looking to buy in the neighborhood. I, on the other hand, speed through, running lights and stop signs, causing one accident after another. I know this is not the way happy people live. I’ve tried to make here matter. But for whatever reason, I can’t make it count, much less make it last. Unhappy people think like this. Like me. But I try not to dwell on it. It’s a buzzkill. And inevitably leads me down a road paved with nooses and guns and toxic combinations of sedatives, vodka, and oven cleaner. It’s better just to move on.

If the State says to him, “I take your money to pay the gendarme, who saves you the trouble of providing for your own personal safety; for paving the street that you are passing through every day; for paying the magistrate who causes your property and your liberty to be respected; to maintain the soldier who maintains our frontiers,” John Q. Citizen, unless I am much mistaken, will pay for all this without hesitation. But if the State were to say to him, “I take this money that I may give you a little prize in case you cultivate your field well; or that I may teach your son something that you have no wish that he should learn; or that the Minister may add another to his score of dishes at dinner; I take it to build a cottage in Algeria, in which case I must take more money every year to keep an emigrant in it, and another to maintain a soldier to guard this emigrant, and yet more to maintain a general to guard this soldier,” etc., etc., I think I hear poor James exclaim, “This system of law is very much like a system of cheat!” The State foresees the objection, and what does it do? It jumbles all things together, and brings forward just that provoking reason which ought to have nothing whatever to do with the question. It talks of the effect of this money upon labor; it points to the cook and purveyor of the Minister; it shows an emigrant, a soldier, and a general, living upon the money; it shows, in fact, what is seen, and if John Q. Citizen has not learned to take into the account what is not seen, John Q. Citizen will be duped.

They found a wide gateway open and passed through it into a paved courtyard. And it was here that they had their first indication that there was something odd about this island. In the middle of the courtyard stood a pump, and beneath the pump a bucket. There was nothing odd about that. But the pump handle was moving up and down, though there seemed to be no one moving it. “There’s some magic at work here,” said Caspian. “Machinery!” said Eustace. “I do believe we’ve come to a civilized country at last.” At that moment Lucy, hot and breathless, rushed into the courtyard behind them. In a low voice she tried to make them understand what she had overheard. And when they had partly understood it even the bravest of them did not look very happy. “Invisible enemies,” muttered Caspian. “And cutting us off from the boat. This is an ugly furrow to plow.” “You’ve no idea what sort of creatures they are, Lu?” asked Edmund. “How can I, Ed, when I couldn’t see them?” “Did they sound like humans from their footsteps?” “I didn’t hear any noise of feet--only voices and this frightful thudding and thumping--like a mallet.” “I wonder,” said Reepicheep, “do they become visible when you drive a sword into them?” “It looks as if we shall find out,” said Caspian. “But let’s get out of this gateway. There’s one of these gentry at that pump listening to all we say.” They came out and went back on to the path where the trees might possibly make them less conspicuous. “Not that it’s any good really,” said Eustace, “trying to hide from people you can’t see. They may be all round us.

GET MOVING People are often scared of the word exercise. We associate the word with pain, and we think of it as a chore. (And it can be--who likes going to the gym at 6 A.M.?) If that’s how you’re thinking, then you need to change your psychology. I don’t think of my body in terms of exercise; I think in terms of movement. Look at the actual word--I see it as “meant to move.” As human beings, going back to the beginning of civilization, we’ve had to move to survive. We had to throw spears to hunt, we had to prepare land to plant seeds, we had to gather firewood. Our bodies are hardwired to move. Not even TiVo can rewire those thousands of years of DNA. This isn’t a new idea, but it’s easy to forget: your body is connected to your mind and spirit. People say, “I’m miserable because I’m overweight” or “I’m overweight because I’m miserable,” but these two go hand in hand. I know when I drink to excess or put poisons in my body, the next day I’m not going to feel happy or inspired. The body is the vehicle that can help you reach your dreams. Keeping it moving, strong, and healthy paves the way to overall well-being. You can’t say you love yourself when you abuse yourself physically, and by not using your body, you’re abusing it. But here’s the first piece of good news: you don’t have to be in the gym to exercise. You just need to move--and keep moving. It can be anywhere, at any time. Sometimes I’ll do push-ups during a commercial break while watching TV. Sometimes I take a short walk, even around the block with my dog, just to break up my day. Your body wants to move; your body was created to move. You have to feed that. When you’re feeling miserable, your body is telling you to get on your feet. Moving makes you feel good. It helps you slay the demon of procrastination that lurks in the shadow of every human being. Most of us sleepwalk through life because we’re waiting for the perfect time, the perfect place, and the perfect opportunity to improve ourselves. Stop waiting. Start moving and keep moving.

If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

It was clear to me that, if nothing could be achieved by means of voluntary discussion and negotiation in Geneva, we had to leave Geneva. Never in my life have I imposed on anyone. Whoever does not want to speak to me does not have to. I don’t care! We are eighty-five million Germans, and these Germans do not need that; they have a mighty historic past. They already had an empire when England was only a small island. And that for more than three hundred years. For England these colonies are useless. It has forty million square kilometers [this forty-million figure consists mostly of the colonies]. What is it doing with them? Nothing at all. It is the avarice of old usurers, who do not want to give away what they possess. They are sick creatures. If they see that their neighbor has nothing to eat, they would still rather throw what they possess into the sea than give it away, even if they cannot use it themselves. They get ill at the thought that they could lose something. And I did not even ask for anything that belonged to the English. I asked only for what they robbed us of and stole from us in the years 1918 and 1919! Robbery and theft contrary to the solemn assurances of the American president Wilson! We did not ask anything of them, we did not make any demands. Again and again, I stretched my hand out to them, and, still, everything was in vain. The reasons are clear to us: for one, it is German unification as such. They hate this, our state, irrespective of what it looks like, whether it is imperial or National Socialist, democratic or authoritarian. That makes no difference to them. And second: above all, they hate the rise of this Reich. And here lust for power abroad and base egoism at home join forces. When they say, “We can never come to an understanding with this world,” then this world is the world of the awakening social conscience, with which they cannot come to an understanding. I can make only one response to these gentlemen on both sides of the ocean: the socialist world will be the victorious one in the end! The social conscience of all people will be roused. They can wage wars for their capitalist interests, but these wars themselves will ultimately pave the way for social upheaval among their people. It is not possible in the long run to gear hundreds of millions of people to the interests of a few individuals. The common interest of mankind will gain the victory over the interests of these small, plutocratic profiteers! Just a short while ago, they conclusively proved to us that our officers and generals are worthless because they are young and infected with National Socialist thinking, that is, they have some contact with the broad masses. Now events have shown where the better generals are, over there or here! If this war lasts any longer, then this will be a great misfortune for England. They will get to see real action. And, one day, perhaps the English will send a commission over here in order to adopt our platform! National Socialism will determine the coming millennia in German history, which would be unthinkable without it. It will fade away only when its political planks have become self-evident. Speech in the Sportpalast Berlin, January 30, 1941

The Key to success starts from what you welcome into your mind. You only get what you consume into it. Your mind is a powerful force which can either holds a positive or negative energy. Start by saying the word 'I CAN AND I WILL' and see where that pushes you towards. It is like using the power of cosmos, you don't know where to start from but ingesting positivity into your mind, is like putting things in place and paving way for you.

Separate but equal” has become an awkward issue for the “historically black colleges.” Plenty of blacks oppose integrating them, claiming that this would halt the special nurturing they give blacks. Unlike white colleges, they have therefore not been forced to integrate. The state of Louisiana appointed a commission to study the problem and came up with a plan for integration. Virtually all-black Southern University promptly went to court to fight the plan. It is not as though Southern was going to be swamped with whites; the plan required that it set aside 10 percent of its openings for whites.779 Another solution the commission has studied would be the merger of black colleges with nearby white colleges. One commission member, a black New Orleans lawyer named Norbert Simmons, says that black students would find the postmerger environment “devastating.

Slanted reporting of this kind has convinced many Americans that their justice system is riddled with racism. A black law student attending a recent political convention in New York City put it as bluntly as anyone: “The criminal justice system is set up to incarcerate blacks and Latinos, particularly the males.”109 This illusion can have real, unfortunate consequences. The Kerner Commission found that, in the 1960s, many blacks justified looting and burning on the grounds that “the system” was racist.110* One black sociologist says, “There has been a growing belief among blacks and lower-class groups … that the criminal processing system has been an instrument of political repression … and that criminal behavior may be the only way to produce social change….”111

Miami police were reportedly hesitant to pursue these crimes for fear that they would be accused of racial and religious persecution.313 And, in fact, that is precisely the argument that defense attorney and former judge Alcee Hastings tried to make. He claimed that the prosecutions were racially motivated. In May 1992, a jury found Mr. Mitchell guilty of conspiracy to commit murder.314 Needless to say, there would be a coast-to-coast media din of unprecedented proportions if a white group were discovered to have engaged in ritual murder and mutilation of blacks. In fact, the Yahweh trial ran concurrently with the trial of the Los Angeles policemen who were videotaped beating Rodney King. Mr. King’s name was constantly in the news and practically a household name; few outside of Miami had heard of the Yahweh cult.

Charity stems from compassion and generosity. The proof of this is that it is freely given. Contributions to welfare, on the other hand, are coerced. Everyone understands the difference between what we are made to do and what we choose voluntarily to do. Welfare is a form of obligatory charity to which all taxpayers are forced to contribute. It is fundamentally different from taxes that pay for the common good: roads, soldiers, diplomats, policemen, etc. In effect, our government says to its citizens, “You will give part of your money to poor people or you will go to jail for tax evasion.” Obligatory charity is thus a contradiction—not charity at all. If a beggar forces a citizen, under threat of violence, to hand over his money, this is robbery. If government forces the same citizen, under threat of jail, to give money to beggars, the same transfer is called welfare. As far as the citizen is concerned, the outcome is the same: He has been parted from his property against his will. In real life, obstreperous beggars are less of a threat than government, for they can be avoided or fought. Government cannot be avoided, and it is much more difficult to fight.

Yet, despite this constant focus on critical thinking, millions of parents—Good parents! Nice parents!—offer their children no choice at all when it comes to religious beliefs. Instead, many children are taught to put their faith in one particular god, to trust that the Lord has a plan for them, that Muhammad paved a way for them, that Jesus will save them, that the saints will watch over them, and that a devil may tempt them to do "bad things" for which they could be eternally punished. That many religious parents do so with little concern as to how those messages may affect their children's ability to think critically is a testament to a gaping dichotomy of expectations they have for their youngsters. Think for yourself, these parents seem to be saying, until it comes to religion. Religion gets a pass.

Black economist William J. Wilson is tired of hearing whites blamed for everything. “[T]alented and educated blacks are experiencing unprecedented job opportunities…” he writes, “opportunities that are at least comparable to those of whites with equivalent qualifications.”78 As George Lewis, a hardworking black man who is vice president and treasurer of Philip Morris, says, “If you can manage money effectively, people don’t care what color you are.”79 Reginald Lewis is a black lawyer and investment banker. In 1987 his company, TLC Group, raised $985 million to acquire BCI Holdings, an international food conglomerate with $2.5 billion in sales. Mr. Lewis, whose net worth is estimated to be $100 million, is not very concerned about race. “I don’t really spend a lot of time thinking about that,” he says. “[T]he TLC Group is in a very competitive business and I really try not to divert too much of my energy to considering the kind of issues [race] … raised.

3 While trauma keeps us dumbfounded, the path out of it is paved with words, carefully assembled, piece by piece, until the whole story can be revealed. BREAKING THE SILENCE Activists in the early campaign for AIDS awareness created a powerful slogan: “Silence=Death.” Silence about trauma also leads to death—the death of the soul. Silence reinforces the godforsaken isolation of trauma. Being able to say aloud to another human being, “I was raped” or “I was battered by my husband” or “My parents called it discipline, but it was abuse” or “I’m not making it since I got back from Iraq,” is a sign that healing can begin. We may think we can control our grief, our terror, or our shame by remaining silent, but naming offers the possibility of a different kind of control. When Adam was put in charge of the animal kingdom in the Book of Genesis, his first act was to give a name to every living creature.

But the road to hell is paved with good intentions,

The life at the Semmon Dōjō, which, by way of abbreviation, will be later spoken of as the Zendo life, is something altogether out of keeping with modern life. We can almost say that anything modern and many things ordinarily regarded as symbolic of a pious life are absent here. Instead of labour-saving machinery, what may appear as labour-wasting is encouraged. Commercialism and self-advertisement are banned. Scientific, intellectual education is interdicted. Comfort, luxury, and womanly kindness are conspicuous for their absence. There is, however, a spirit of grim earnestness, with which higher truths are sought; there is determined devotion to the attainment of superior wisdom, which will help to put an end to all the woes and ailments of human life, and also to the acquirement of the fundamental social virtues, which quietly pave the way to world-peace and the promotion of the general welfare of all humankind. The Zen life thus aims, besides maturing the monk's spiritual development, at turning out good citizens as social members as well as individuals.

Hey, Alina,” Matvey says, taking one of the plates she offers. Her whole face heats up at his attention. It’s no secret that my eight-year-old sister has a huge crush on Matvey. It’s something he pretends he doesn’t see, but he always makes a point of saying hi to her. He has a younger sister, so he knows how it is.

I’m eighteen. I want to go and get a drink, and I’ll be safe as long as I’m with all of you.” She gives us all another once-over. “Or I can just go alone if you’d prefer that.” “Not a chance in hell,” Matvey says, and with his gravelly voice it sounds a lot like a growl.

I glance over at Simeon, the man who’s been my personal bodyguard since I hit puberty and Konstantin decided I needed to be put in a virginity box. Simeon barely meets my eyes, but even when he does, I can tell he’s looking through me, not at me. I know it’s a self-preservation thing, but I still hate it. Six months ago, one of Konstantin’s enforcers made the mistake of smiling at me. He’d had Osip drag him in front of the entire Bratva and had then beaten him to within an inch of his life as a warning. Needless to say, it was the last damn smile I ever got.

I was just wondering how Matvey survives each day without Alina. I didn’t understand it before, not fully anyway, not about how deep the pain would be.” I keep my eyes locked on hers when I say, “But I get it now.

When the Bishop Projectius brought the relics of St. Stephen to the town called Aquae Tibiltinae, the people came in great crowds to honour them. Amongst there was a blind woman, who entreated the people to lead her to the bishop who had the HOLY RELICS. They did so, and the bishop gave her some flowers which he had in his hand. She took them, and put them to her eyes, and immediately her sight was restored, so that she passed speedily on before all the others, no longer requiring to be guided." In Augustine's day, the formal "worship" of the relics was not yet established; but the martyrs to whom they were supposed to have belonged where already invoked with prayers and supplications, and that with the high approval of the Bishop of Hippo, as the following story will abundantly show: Here, in Hippo, says he, there was a poor and holy old man, by name Florentius, who obtained a living by tailoring. This man once lost his coat, and not being able to purchase another to replace it, he came to the shrine of the Twenty Martyrs, in this city, and prayed aloud to them, beseeching that they would enable him to get another garment. A crowd of silly boys who overheard him, followed him at his departure, scoffing at him, and asking him whether he had begged fifty pence from the martyrs to buy a coat. The poor man went silently on towards home, and as he passed near the sea, he saw a large fish which had been cast up on the sand, and was still panting. The other persons who were present allowed him to take up this fish, which he brought to one Catosus, a cook, and a good Christian, who bought it from him for three hundred pence. With this he meant to purchase wool, which his wife might spin, and make into a garment for him. When the cook cut up the fish, he found within its belly a ring of gold, which his conscience persuaded him to give to the poor man from whom he brought the fish. He did so, saying, at the same time, "Behold how the Twenty Martyrs have clothed you!" Thus did the great Augustine inculcate the worship of dead men, and the honouring of their wonder-working relics. The "silly children" who "scoffed" at the tailor's prayer seem to have had more sense than either the "holy old tailor" or the bishop. Now, if men professing Christianity were thus, in the fifth century, paving the way for the worship of all manner of rags and rotten bones;

I know you what you told me.” He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “And I’m telling you that the road to fatherhood is paved with good intentions.” “It’s ‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ Gibs.” “Considering pussy is one of the leading factors in a man’s admission to hell, I’d say both statements are fairly on point, lad.

I need you to know that I’m not going to hurt you.” “You’re not the first man to say that and have it turn out to be a lie,” I say before I can think better of it. “I’m not lying, and when I give my word, I mean it, Katya.

I want you to understand something very important, wife. Your brothers don’t have a say in what happens between us, and they sure as fuck don’t get a say in what happens in our bedroom. This is between us and no one else, and what happens in here, or what doesn’t happen in here, is no one’s business but ours.

Grief is a strange thing, and people process it in different ways. I think the only way I can process mine is with blood on my hands. I’m going to kill the man who murdered my sister, but I’d also like to kill the others that are involved.” He gives Matvey a soft smile. “I think it’ll be very healing for me.” “The best kind of therapy is the kind that leaves your hands bloody,” I say with a smile.

One day you’re going to learn to keep your big mouth shut.” He’s already raising his hand, so I might as well go all in. I give him the smirk he despises and say, “Maybe one day, Bastian, but not today, you stupid fuck.” He backhands me, and the pain is quick and sharp, radiating through my head and down my neck. Fucking jackass.

Eyes the same hazel as mine glare at me with hatred. “You’re a monster,” he growls. “You killed our mom, and I wish you’d never been born.” “I hate you,” I whisper, but even as I say it, my heart aches from what he’s just said. He’s right. I did kill our mom, and if I’d never been born, then she’d still be here. “Not as much as I hate you,” Sebastian spits out,

I head straight for the protein bars, wondering how in the hell my life has come to this. It’s not like it’s a big shocker that I’m stuck living at home with my absent father and ass of an older brother. When I graduated high school, no one was pointing at me and thinking, now there’s a girl that’s going places. Nope. If they were pointing at me, it was to say things like, Isn’t that the Rousseau girl? Didn’t her brother get arrested last week for beating the hell out of some guy? They weren’t wrong. The Rousseau name is synonymous with fighting, poverty, and a healthy dose of low-class.

You’re very close to your brothers.” “I am,” he says, choosing to not elaborate. “That’s really nice.

A second and more radical response opens up when you reject the “speech is violence” view: you can use your opponents’ ideas and arguments to make yourself stronger. The progressive activist Van Jones (who was President Barack Obama’s green jobs advisor) endorsed this view in February of 2017 in a conversation at the University of Chicago’s Institute for Politics. When Democratic strategist David Axelrod asked Jones about how progressive students should react when people they find ideologically offensive (such as someone associated with the Trump administration) are invited to speak on campus, Jones began by noting the distinction we described in chapter 1 between physical and emotional “safety”: There are two ideas about safe spaces: One is a very good idea and one is a terrible idea. The idea of being physically safe on a campus—not being subjected to sexual harassment and physical abuse, or being targeted specifically, personally, for some kind of hate speech—“you are an n-word,” or whatever—I am perfectly fine with that. But there’s another view that is now I think ascendant, which I think is just a horrible view, which is that “I need to be safe ideologically. I need to be safe emotionally. I just need to feel good all the time, and if someone says something that I don’t like, that’s a problem for everybody else, including the [university] administration.”90 Jones then delivered some of the best advice for college students we have ever heard. He rejected the Untruth of Fragility and turned safetyism on its head: I don’t want you to be safe ideologically. I don’t want you to be safe emotionally. I want you to be strong. That’s different. I’m not going to pave the jungle for you. Put on some boots, and learn how to deal with adversity. I’m not going to take all the weights out of the gym; that’s the whole point of the gym. This is the gym.

since it is the experience that gives traveling its value and not the traveling unto itself, you may want to focus on having adventures instead of just merely travel.  For example, I have individually “traveled” to: The Wind River mountain range in Lander, Wyoming. Dinosaur National Monument in Vernal, Utah. Canyonlands National Park in Moab, Utah. The Grand Canyon outside Williams, Arizona. And The Hoover Dam outside Las Vegas, Nevada. And each individual visit was fun and enjoyable in its own regard. But what I really want to do is raft the Green and Colorado Rivers, which connect all those locations above.  This will not only send me through the Flaming Gorge of Utah, but the confluence of the Green and Yampa Rivers in the canyons of Dinosaur Park, the heart of Canyonlands National Park, Lake Powell, the Grand Canyon, and inevitably a long paddle across Lake Meade to the Hoover Dam.  It will be a genuine, epic, Indiana Jones adventure that very few, if any people, have ever done.  And instead of a mere picture of the Hoover Dam or the Grand Canyon comfortably taken from a paved road, when my little nieces ask me, “What did you do, Uncle Aaron” I won't say, “I went to Paris and sat at a cafe.” I will say, “Uncle Aaron kayaked the whole damn Green and Colorado rivers from Wyoming to the Hoover Dam!”  This doesn't mean we all have to become Larry Ellison, sailing around the world or racing in regattas.  But having adventures as opposed to mere site seeing will add an inordinate amount of purpose and meaning to your life, not to mention a lot of fun.

And in the center of all this activity, with an eye on every assistant and a finger in every pot, stands Emile Zhukovsky, his chopping knife in hand. If the kitchen of the Boyarsky is an orchestra and Emile its conductor, then his chopping knife is the baton. With a blade two inches wide at the base and ten inches long to the tip, it is rarely out of his hand and never far from reach. Though the kitchen is outfitted with paring knives, boning knives, carving knives, and cleavers, Emile can complete any of the various tasks for which those knives were designed with his ten-inch chopper. With it he can skin a rabbit. He can zest a lemon. He can peel and quarter a grape. He can use it to flip a pancake or stir a soup, and with the stabbing end he can measure out a teaspoon of sugar or a dash of salt. But most of all, he uses it for pointing. “You,” he says to the saucier, waving the point of his chopper. “Are you going to boil that to nothing? What are you going to use it for, eh? To pave roads? To paint icons? “You,” he says to the conscientious new apprentice at the end of the counter. “What are you doing there? It took less time for that parsley to grow than for you to mince it!

Let’s go, I’ll walk you down and get you cleaned up.” “You will?” He slanted me a look before picking up his trekking poles and backpack, slipping the straps on, then maneuvering the two sticks through crisscrossing cords on his back, leaving his arms free. Finally aiming his body back up the trail toward me, he held out his hand. I hesitated but set my forearm into his open palm, and I watched as some emotion I didn’t initially recognize slid over his face. “I meant your backpack, angel. I’ll take it for you. The trail’s not wide enough for both of us to go down at the same time,” he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse. Maybe if I hadn’t been in so much pain, and been so damn cranky, I would’ve been embarrassed. But I wasn’t, so I nodded, shrugged, and gingerly tried to take my backpack off. Luckily, I just started to shimmy a strap off when I felt the weight leave my shoulders as he tugged it away. “Are you sure?” “Positive” was all he replied with. “Come on. We’ve got half an hour to get back to the trailhead.” My whole body slumped. “Half an hour?” I’d thought I had… ten minutes max. My landlord pressed his lips together and nodded. Was he trying not to laugh? I wasn’t sure because he turned around and started heading down the path ahead of me. But I was pretty sure I saw his shoulders shaking a little. “Let me know when you want water” was one of the only two things he said on the way down. The other being, “Are you humming what I think you’re humming?” And me replying with “Yes.” “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” I had no shame. I tripped twice, and he turned around both times, but I gave him a tight smile and acted like nothing had happened. Like he predicted, thirty minutes later, when I was basically wheezing and he was acting like this was a stroll down a paved path, I spotted the parking lot and almost cried. We’d made it. I’d made it. And my hands hurt even worse from how dry the cuts were, and my elbows felt the same way, and I was sure my knees would too, but their joints were so bad, they didn’t have room to wonder about any other pain. But just as I started heading toward my car, Rhodes slipped his fingers around my biceps and steered me toward his work truck. He didn’t say another word as he unlocked it and dropped the tailgate, shooting me a look over his shoulder as he patted it briefly before heading around to the passenger door. I went straight for the tailgate and eyed it, trying to figure out how to sit on it without using my hands to boost myself up. That was how he found me: staring at it and trying to decide if I went face-first and shimmied up on my stomach, I could wiggle around and sit up on my butt eventually. “I’m trying to figure out how to—okay.” He scooped me up, one arm under the backs of my knees, the other around my lower back, and planted me on the truck. In a sitting position. Like it was no big deal. I smiled at him. “Thanks.” I would’ve figured it out, but it was the thought that counted.

2. Corah, a Hebrew of principal account, both by his family and by his wealth, one that was also able to speak well, and one that could easily persuade the people by his speeches, saw that Moses was in an exceeding great dignity, and was at it, and envied him on that account, (he of the same tribe with Moses, and of kin to him,) was particularly grieved, because he thought he better deserved that honorable post on account of great riches, and not inferior to him in his birth. So he raised a clamor against him among the Levites, who were of the same tribe, and among his kindred, saying, "That it was a very sad thing that they should overlook Moses, while he hunted after and paved the way to glory for himself, and by ill arts should obtain it, under the pretense of God's command, while, contrary to laws, he had given the priesthood to Aaron, the common suffrage of the multitude, but by his own vote, as bestowing dignities in a way on whom he pleased.

We must understand the significance of suffering in spiritual life; it is only when we go through immense suffering that we start to seek the source of suffering, the purpose of life, and so on, and make a beginning in our journey towards God. Here, for Arjuna, the suffering has come in this form. And by the grace of Krishna, Arjuna’s vishāda transformed as yoga. “śūnyamāpūrṇatāmeti,” says Yoga Vasishtha. When one comes in contact with an Enlightened Master, śūnya becomes pūrṇa; depression becomes fulfilment. Since Arjuna’s vishāda took place in the presence of the Sat-guru, his vishāda itself paved the way for his yoga; otherwise, it would have remained as his roga (disease)! When faced with suffering, rather than lamenting about it to others, if we submit to the Lord, even suffering can lead towards our upliftment. The simplest way to transform sorrow into spiritual energy is to have contact with the Lord. When we turn towards God, all our problems become a path towards bhakti. If we are happy and satisfied in life, we may go to the temple and pray to the Lord and make a show of our bhakti, but it may not have come from the heart. Śruti-mātā consoles us by saying that suffering never comes for the sake of suffering alone—as each dark cloud brings comforting rain, and as each dark night is followed by lustrous light, so too after each sorrow, the cool spring of bliss is sure to follow. Here, Arjuna’s grief became a great blessing for him and the whole world, as it gave us the treasure that is the Gita.

Stronger Than That” I've walked through fire, I've felt the rain, Worn my heart on my sleeve, felt love and pain. They say life's a road that you travel blind, But I'm the one in the driver's seat, I'm takin' back what's mine. Face your life, take the wheel, and drive, Be whoever the hell you want to be, feel alive. When they knock you down, cut you deep, just believe, You're stronger than that, stand tall, and be free. Whispers behind my back, like thorns they sting, But I'm a wildflower, I bloom in the spring. I've got scars to show, and stories to tell, I've danced with my demons, been through heaven and hell. Face your life, take the wheel, and drive, Be whoever the hell you want to be, feel alive. When they knock you down, cut you deep, just believe, You're stronger than that, stand tall, and be free. So let 'em talk, let 'em spin their lies, I'm a storm, I'm the sun, I'm the clear blue skies. I'll brush off the dust, wear a smile, and say, "I'm stronger than that," and I'll pave my own way. Face your life, take the wheel, and drive, Be whoever the hell you want to be, feel alive. When they knock you down, cut you deep, just believe, You're stronger than that, stand tall, and be free. Yeah, face your life, with each sunrise, Give yourself the freedom, let your spirit rise. When life knocks you down, just take it in stride, Brush yourself off, with a smile, take pride.

In 2008 an official website commemorating Sharon’s life and achievements was established, in which, rather than hiding his role in Gaza in those days, it proudly lauded it: Sharon participates in these searches himself. He orders the soldiers to perform a full body search on all males and sometimes imposes curfews on refugee camps in order to conduct a search. The clear goal of the mission is finding terrorists and killing them. The soldiers have orders not to try and capture the terrorists alive. Sharon instructs them to be rough with the local population, to perform searches in the streets and even to strip suspects naked if necessary; to shoot to kill any Arab who holds a gun; to shoot to kill any Arab who does not obey a Stop! call; and to diminish the risk to their lives by employing a big volume of fire, by uprooting trees from orchards which makes it difficult to capture terrorists, by demolishing houses and driving out their owners to other houses in order to pave secure roads. Haider Abd al-Shafi, Senior Palestinian leader, says: ‘Sharon took a decision to open roads in Al Shateya camp and in Rafah for security. That led to removing houses, the houses of refugees, which is an action not to be taken lightly, but there was no objection neither from Dayan nor from the Israeli government. They let Sharon realize his aim and he really destroyed a lot of refugees’ houses.’ Eli Landau, political ally and a friend of Ariel Sharon, says: ‘He was a very senior officer going with the troops from house to house, from bunker to bunker, from orange grove to orange grove, to explain what he meant. Three months later, Gaza was quiet. The terror was crushed with an iron fist, with a vicious hand. He cast fear in Gaza, he was feared.’9 The manner and detail of the retaliation were based on British military counter-insurgency methods employed against the Palestinians during the Arab revolt in the 1930s; it seems that the new rulers of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip were highly impressed by this ruthless methodology. In the case of the British this pattern of inhumanity was in place for three years; in the case of the Palestinians it has lasted for more than fifty years.

deepen. “That doesn’t prove that you’re weak or neglectful, it proves to all the women standing by and watching you pave the road to success that it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to shut your door every now and then and put up a sign that says Busy taking care of me today. Piss off.

adults, nothing crucial’s been exchanged. Arnie just needed someone to show his mangled house to. And there’s no reason that someone shouldn’t be me. It’s a not-unheard-of human impulse. Arnie walks right past me in the direction of my car. “You’re well out of it, Frank,” he says. Close up, I can see better the elements of his new feminized visage. Possibly he forgets how he looks, then remembers and feels skittish and starts looking for an exit. He realizes everyone’s seeing the new Arnie, the same way he does in the mirror every morning, and that it’s weird as hell. The smoothed-out, previously raveled Gumper forehead, the stupid tree-line hair implantation, the re-paved cheeks and un-ruckled neck. I don’t look in mirrors anymore. It’s cheaper than surgery.

Licorice tattoo turned a gun metal blue Scrawled across the shoulders of a dying town Took the one eyed-jacks across the railroad tracks And the scar on its belly pulled a stranger passing through He's a juvenile delinquent, never learned how to behave But the cops would never think to look in Burma-Shave And the road was like a ribbon and the moon was like a bone He didn't seem to be like any guy she'd ever known He kind of looked like Farley Granger with his hair slicked back She says, I'm a sucker for a fella in a cowboy hat How far are you going? Said depends on what you mean He says I'm only stopping here to get some gasoline I guess I'm going thataway just as long as it's paved And I guess you'd say I'm on my way to Burma Shave And with her knees up on the glove compartment She took out her barrettes and her hair spilled out like root beer And she popped her gum and arched her back Hell, Marysville ain't nothing but a wide spot in the road Some nights my heart pounds like thunder Don't know why it don't explode 'Cause everyone in this stinking town's got one foot in the grave And I'd rather take my chances out in Burma Shave Presley's what I go by, why don't you change the stations? Count the grain elevators in the rearview mirror She said mister, anywhere you point this thing It got to beat the hell out of the sting Of going to bed with every dream that dies here every mornin' And so drill me a hole with a barber pole And I'm jumping my parole just like a fugitive tonight Why don't you have another swig and pass that car if you're so brave I wanna get there before the sun comes up in Burma Shave And the spiderweb crack and the mustang screamed The smoke from the tires and the twisted machine Just a nickel's worth of dreams and every wishbone that they saved Lie swindled from them on the way to Burma Shave And the sun hit the derrick and cast a batwing shadow Up against the car door on the shotgun side And when they pulled her from the wreck You know she still had on her shades They say that dreams are growing wild Just this side Of Burma Shave

That was one hell of a lap dance, sladkaya, but I’ve changed my mind. You’re not allowed to do this in front of anyone else.” When I smile, he gives my bottom lip a soft bite. “I’m not allowed to, huh?” “No,” he says. “No one gets to see this but me, and I swear to god if you have an orgasm in front of anyone else, I’m going to cut their fucking eyes out.

Lot 2079 is a twenty-two-year-old virgin,” the announcer says. She walks out slowly, and even though she looks terrified, she keeps her head held high, and fuck do I admire that. Her big, blue eyes stare out at the wall of dark windows in front of her, and she manages to look like a goddamn queen standing before her enemies. She’s not going to give these fuckers an inch. Bids immediately start coming in, and I make sure to always stay one step ahead.

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Well, as long as we’re on the subject of chickens… the word ‘heaven’ is like saying ‘chicken parts’—stirs up too many questions. Chicken parts gets people thinking beaks and gizzards and turning green. You say ‘heaven’ and you get people thinking pearly gates and streets paved in gold or whatever they were brought up on. It all gets in the way of the truth,” Nana explained.

Always,’ said Evie and Max together. Points for harmony. In truth, in the six years she’d known him, Max had barely mentioned his mother other than to say she’d never been the maternal type and that she set exceptionally high standards for everything; be it a manicure or the behaviour of her husbands or her sons. ‘No engagement ring?’ queried Caroline with the lift of an elegant eyebrow. ‘Ah, no,’ said Evie. ‘Not yet. There was so much choice I, ah...couldn’t decide.’ ‘Indeed,’ said Caroline, before turning to Max. ‘I can, of course, make an appointment for you with my jeweller this afternoon. I’m sure he’ll have something more than suitable. That way Evie will have a ring on her finger when she attends the cocktail party I’m hosting for the pair of you tonight.’ ‘You didn’t have to fuss,’ said Max as he set their overnight cases just inside the door beside a wide staircase. ‘Introducing my soon-to-be daughter-in-law to family and friends is not fuss,’ said Max’s mother reprovingly. ‘It’s expected, and so is a ring. Your brother’s here, by the way.’ ‘You summoned him home as well?’ ‘He came of his own accord,’ she said dryly. ‘No one makes your brother do anything.’ ‘He’s my role model,’ whispered Max as they followed the doyenne of the house down the hall. ‘I need a cocktail dress,’ Evie whispered back. ‘Get it when I go ring hunting. What kind of stone do you want?’ ‘Diamond.’ ‘Colour?’ ‘White.’ ‘An excellent choice,’ said Caroline from up ahead and Max grinned ruefully. ‘Ears like a bat,’ he said in his normal deep baritone. ‘Whisper like a foghorn,’ his mother cut back, and surprised Evie by following up with a deliciously warm chuckle. The house was a beauty. Twenty-foot ceilings and a modern renovation that complemented the building’s Victorian bones. The wood glowed with beeswax shine and the air carried the scent of old-English roses. ‘Did you do the renovation?’ asked Evie and her dutiful fiancé nodded. ‘My first project after graduating.’ ‘Nice work,’ she said as Caroline ushered them into a large sitting room that fed seamlessly through to a wide, paved garden patio.

Carl finally came home and would come to see me almost every night, usually staying to the wee hours. He was working with his father in his asphalt-paving business in South Nashville and I was living in Madison, Tennessee. Between that and the time he spent with me, he wasn’t getting any sleep at all. Finally, one day he said, quite matter-of-factly, “You’re either gonna have to move to the other side of town or we’re gonna have to get married.” That, to Carl, was a proposal. People always want to know how he asked me to marry him, and I always have to say, “He didn’t exactly ask.” Part of me was thrilled that he wanted to marry me, but another part was a little taken aback. That must have been the strongest part because that was the one that answered. “You never have even said you loved me.” “Hell, you know I love you,” was Carl’s answer. I attribute this to that same kind of unspoken communication that I explained when describing life with my daddy. It is one of the Parton/Dean rules of conduct I have become a one-woman committee to abolish. Always at holidays or other family gatherings, people would hug and say good-bye, but they would never say “I love you.” Sure, I know that the love is there, but dammit, I want to hear it! I was the first one in my family, that I know of, to ever tell other family members that I loved them. One day, after I had been living away from home for many years, I was saying good-bye to Daddy when I told him, “I love you.” He responded in the usual nonverbal, look-at-the-ground Parton way, and I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I took his head between my hands and made him look me right in the eye. “You tell me you love me,” I demanded. With no small amount of embarrassment he said, “Aww, you know I love you’uns” (a mountain word meaning more than one). “Not you’uns!” I kept on. “This has got nothing to do with Cassie or Bobby or anybody else. I want to know if you”—I emphasized the word by poking my finger into his chest—“love me,” I said with an emphatic point toward myself. He tried to look to one side, but I held his face firmly. He blushed and sputtered and finally said haltingly, “I love you.” That must have been the crack in the dam. Once the top man had fallen, it was easier to teach the rest of the Partons to say “I love you.” Now it is something we all do freely. It is still not something Carl does on a regular basis. But now and then, in a kind of sidewinding way, he will say it.

When you consistently hold onto your passion with faith and unconditionality regardless of what anyone says or does, the very fire that ignites your passion, will pave a way for your dream to manifest in the physical universe.

It's a funny thing about roads, though. You can hardly ever make them pay off. Say you've got ten roads that need paving, and you can only pave nine. The folks on that nine that you pave aren't grateful because they figure they've got it coming. But those on that one you don't will never forgive you.

Now, in this generation, the entirety of the globe is facing an ideological and socio-political collapse on a grand scale. This is by design, it is man-made. The outcome is still carefully assessed with little room for error or improvement. There is only one flaw: the divine element in humanity. Our sentient consciousness bestows with the capacity to support the freedom of thought and movement with the inherent awareness that both come at a cost. When we speak our minds, we are going to offend and be offended. There are no safe spaces in conversation. People will say things we don't like. We have to accept this is the price of freedom of speech. When we allow for freedom of movement during times of war, we have to accept that we are inviting in enemies as well as refugees, especially when we don't bother to discern which is which. Even the best, most selfless intentions can pave the way to our downfall...

It wasn’t until the ship returned to Castine that my infraction came up as an issue to be dealt with. Once again, I sought out the council of my friendly advisor, Commander Jameson, who surprisingly had a few choice words to say and then advised that I write a statement blaming this mess on my youth and immaturity. I personally didn’t like the idea but followed his advice, along with a plea for clemency. Two long weeks later, I found myself in front of RearAdmiral William W. Warlick USN Ret. I really didn’t know what to expect. The two midshipmen that preceded me into his office were both expelled, for what seemed a minor infraction. I guess that when my turn came, he just gave up on being a hardnosed admiral. Looking me in the eye, he asked if I had learned my lesson. When I said, “Yes sir,” he waved me off with a “Don’t let me see you again.” I later learned that Jameson had talked to him, paving the way for me….

I want to get some fresh air,” I say, and move around him, stepping off onto the stone slabs and promptly sinking with one heel into the narrow space between them. “Oops!” I say idiotically, ignoring the hand that Luca is stretching out to help me. The last thing I need right now is to touch him, for all sorts of reasons. I keep walking, pulling my heel out from between the paving stones; mercifully, it comes out without catching or ripping off. I honestly think that even if it did, I would keep going; I’d walk on a sandal without a heel all night, balance on my toes, pretend nothing had happened, and think it a fair price to pay for my flight into the comparative darkness of the chill-out area, where Luca can’t see the sweat on my face. He’s following me. I can hear his leather-soled shoes on the stone. And I have no idea where I’m going. I feel ridiculous. Luckily, ahead of me I see a terrace with tables, and I walk toward it as if I’d planned to head there all along. “You want a drink?” he asks. He gestures over to the right, and I see the white gleam of the long bar, the translucent milky-white pillars shining as if we’re underwater. I don’t need to drink any more alcohol tonight. Especially in the company of Luca. “Maybe some water. I’m really thirsty.” He nods, turns, and walks toward the bar. I watch him go. Tall, lean, with a nice firm bum in his black jeans. Exactly what I like in a boy. And then I feel my face flaming, because this isn’t just some boy at an airport, or viewed from a car. This is real. He’s real. He’ll be back in just a few minutes, and I won’t have the faintest idea what to say to him…

The curtain billows gently in the breeze behind him as he steps out to meet me, his hair jet-black by contrast with the translucent white fabric. I jump, gasp, and nearly swallow the grip that I’m still holding between my lips; quickly, I pull it out before it goes down my throat and chokes me. It’s wet with drool. Lovely, Violet. Really attractive. I shove it into my hair, anywhere, praying it will stay and not fall on the floor, still dripping with spit. Luca’s smiling down at me. His face is half in light, half in shade, from the spots playing across the dance floor, his blue eyes gleaming. “You like to dance,” he observes conversationally. “Yes…” Safe question, safe answer. Well, at least I didn’t babble. But he doesn’t say anything else; he’s just looking me up and down, and I feel incredibly awkward under his scrutiny. I’m sweaty, catching my breath; my eyeliner’s probably running. I desperately need to escape into the dark night beyond the dance floor, where the breeze will cool me down and the shadows will hide my shiny face. “I want to get some fresh air,” I say, and move around him, stepping off onto the stone slabs and promptly sinking with one heel into the narrow space between them. “Oops!” I say idiotically, ignoring the hand that Luca is stretching out to help me. The last thing I need right now is to touch him, for all sorts of reasons. I keep walking, pulling my heel out from between the paving stones; mercifully, it comes out without catching or ripping off. I honestly think that even if it did, I would keep going; I’d walk on a sandal without a heel all night, balance on my toes, pretend nothing had happened, and think it a fair price to pay for my flight into the comparative darkness of the chill-out area, where Luca can’t see the sweat on my face.

They say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Oh, it is not just paved but more engraved with our pinky promises and solemn vows. We give our word to be more frugal with our credit cards, to commit to those yoga classes in the morning or to finally reach the appointment for sight testing scheduled one month ago. Well, I think some black magic is going around or dementors have been knocking on our doors lately because all these promises become vanished over night. Giving up our long-term projects and ideas for that sweet flavor of immediate gratification, my friends, this is not called Alohomora but procrastination. Seriously now, why do we lose the battle against procrastination leaving the lava flow of emotions taking over our plans so frequently?

Scripture requires searching--much of it can only be learned by careful study. There is milk for babes, but also meat for strong men. The rabbis wisely say that a mountain of matter hangs upon every word, yea, upon every title of Scripture. Tertullian exclaims, "I adore the fulness of the Scriptures." No man who merely skims the book of God can profit thereby; we must dig and mine until we obtain the hid treasure. The door of the word only opens to the key of diligence. The Scriptures claim searching. They are the writings of God, bearing the divine stamp and imprimatur--who shall dare to treat them with levity? He who despises them despises the God who wrote them. God forbid that any of us should leave our Bibles to become swift witnesses against us in the great day of account. The word of God will repay searching. God does not bid us sift a mountain of chaff with here and there a grain of wheat in it, but the Bible is winnowed corn--we have but to open the granary door and find it. Scripture grows upon the student. It is full of surprises. Under the teaching of the Holy Spirit, to the searching eye it glows with splendour of revelation, like a vast temple paved with wrought gold, and roofed with rubies, emeralds, and all manner of gems. No merchandise is like the merchandise of Scripture truth. Lastly, the Scriptures reveal Jesus: "They are they which testify of me." No more powerful motive can be urged upon Bible readers than this: he who finds Jesus finds life, heaven, all things. Happy he who, searching his Bible, discovers his Saviour. __________________________________________________________________   Morning, June 10   [506]Go To Evening Reading   "We live unto the Lord."  

Sacrifices must be made,” my father kept saying, and he never got tired of showing us how it was done. This also proved to be a valuable lesson. I learned perseverance from him. I learned that the road to success is paved with failures. Most of all, as I’ve said, I learned that one should never, ever give up. Tough as things were, my father had pulled himself together. And he never got tired of reassuring us that we were going to be all right. A

You know what they say − the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  Our worth is determined by our deeds, not by our good intentions.  If you’re going to talk the talk you should be prepared to walk the walk. 

nobody is perfect. Anyone can backslide, even with the best of intentions. That be what the road to hell is paved with, they say.

Your Guide To Hiring The Best Driveway Contractor Great driveway pavers do not just appear, you have to do extensive research to find the right one. You will need to put in certain effort on your part and apply a certain amount of spadework in order to determine exactly what your aim is. You won't know if the driveway repair service provider fits your needs or what you have in mind if you're unsure about your demands. Make a checklist of qualities as quickly as you could and refer to our list of tips to help you along. When you start receiving bids, do not make the mistake of assuming that a low bid is indicative of poor work. Do some research about how much materials should cost and compare them against the low bid. You will also need to take labor costs into consideration. If the amount of the bid allows for an acceptable profit, you can consider drawing up an agreement. Always interview and take quotes from at least three contracting businesses. With an array of estimates at your disposal, carefully examine the cost breakdowns for materials and labor to guarantee that you're receiving the very best person for the project. If you're willing and in the position to invest more money in hiring a high quality driveway paving contractor, the chances are good that you will probably be very satisfied. Should you have any questions, make sure to address them before signing the legal agreement and ensure that all detailed information about the costs of the job are included. Take your time when searching for a honest driveway paving contractor. Look for the advice of your family and friend when looking for a recommendation. Find opportunities for networking in order to meet and become familiar with contractors. You will increase your odds of locating a great driveway repair contractor by conducting as many interviews as you could. You can always rely on a trustworthy driveway paving contractor to present you with a written assessment prior to him beginning the work on your project. Should you be in immediate need of the information, it should be a possibility for your driveway repair service provider to provide you with a quote over the phone. Also check their expertise and skill level as well as what other clients are saying about them in order to find out if they finish work on time and at the agreed upon fee. Don't sign a legal contract if you have any questions about anything in it; ensure your driveway repair service provider addresses every issue you have prior to you finalize your agreement.

The International Herald Tribune reported on April 21, 2006, that the “crumbling mud-brick buildings” in the area Hussein was trying to re-build in Babylon, “look like smashed sandcastles at the beach. The newspaper observed that Babylon had been “ransacked, looted, torn up, paved over, neglected and roughly occupied…soldiers had even used soil thick with priceless artifacts to stuff sandbags”. The Mayor of a nearby village, Hilla, told the newspaper that he still had hopes that Babylon could someday have “restaurants, gift shops, long parking lots…and maybe even a Holiday Inn.” Iraqi officials are quoted as saying they would still like to turn Babylon into “a cultural center and possibly even an Iraqi theme park.” In spite of this, one Bible commentator wrote recently, that it was “enormously significant” that the U.S. had agreed to invest $700,000 (that’s thousands, not millions or billions – enough to buy a couple of nice houses) into re-building Babylon as a ‘tourist attraction.’ He wrote that ancient Babylon would become “the wealthiest and most powerful city on the face of the planet.” In arriving at this conclusion he has interpreted the Bible’s Daughter of Babylon verses as applying to the site of ancient Babylon.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
 I have good intentions, but when a match strikes, fire follows.

Step out of the box of tricks Remove the blind-folds open your eyes and listen to this No matter what they may say or do to you Through the power of love you will never break The pain will cease to remain when you only reflect on positive things Smiles drain the pain from frowns With mass numbers turn heavy weight Love defeats all hate Folding is not the way Conform to brighter days and brilliant ways Positive actions pave the streets of bliss and peace

Encouragement, Love, Hope There was a man that struggled with every step and walked each step with fear. As we all know when you walk and pave a path of fear, the steps slow down and the true light of faith dims. His family did, however, stand behind him. Though his steps were slow and not going far, his family followed covering each of those steps with encouragement and hope. As he kept walking and turned his head, the people who cared most weren't clear. His fear had taken over and there was uncertainty that slowed him down even further. The family that stands behind you is the one who gives you the push you need to keep going. The man was saddened with fear and started to sob. Mystery of the unknown was the overwhelming door he wasn't ready to open. His family followed right behind him, saying, "We are there for you, you are strong; you can make it through the toughest path with the strongest light of hope." It seemed he couldn't hear all that was said. It was as if he wasn't truly listening to the strongest words, but to the heavy negativity that kept drowning him in his fear. His steps slowed down even further. He cried some more and was shaken even more by the unknown that was ahead. It was that he didn't want to take a chance of what could come ahead, what could be the most enlightening and most life changing steps he could take to better himself in the future. His family still stood behind him with every step he took. Every time he looked back it was getting dimmer and dimmer, but they were still there. They spoke softly to him, "Everybody has risks in their lives, even obstacles they must over come. It will only make you stronger in the end, without risks in life, there is no chance." He didn't hear them speak; he heard it as if it was another language, something so far from understanding. The man found a bench and sat down. He was tired and didn't want to walk any further. His eyes filled with tears that streamed down his cheeks. His hands starting to cover his face, drowning in the fear that was overwhelming him. Again his loving family was there, but he couldn't see. They were around him with heart-filling encouragement and love, and best of all, that blessedness of hope The man lay down on the bench; his tears had soaked his cheeks and palms of his hands and fell asleep. When he awoke, his eyes slowly opened, trying to look around, finding that he was in an unfamiliar place. His vision was a bit fuzzy. He looked down and started to realize he wasn't on the bench anymore. He saw his legs and started to look up further; he was in a hospital gown. The man's eyes grew even more confused. He stood there in silence as his head slowly tilted up. He didn't understand why here was there. His eyes turn and he looks, as he notices numerous cords

The road to committed faith is paved with personal abandonment and self-denial. Life ceases to be about us, and it begins to be all about God.

No matter how full a reservoir of maxims one may possess, and no matter how good one’s sentiments may be, if one have not taken advantage of every concrete opportunity to act, one’s character may remain entirely unaffected for the better. With mere good intentions, hell is proverbially paved. And this is an obvious consequence of the principles we have laid down. A ‘character,’ as J. S. Mill says, ‘is a completely fashioned will’; and a will, in the sense in which he means it, is an aggregate of tendencies to act in a firm and prompt and definite way upon all the principal emergencies of life. A tendency to act only becomes effectively ingrained in us in proportion to the uninterrupted frequency with which the actions actually occur, and the brain ‘grows’ to their use.

My life has been a road paved with spikes and nails. I’ve plugged, patched, and replaced the tire, but the car has never ridden the same. The loss of a child isn’t a patch job. Zach’s

Trump is Caesar,” he says. “That’s what I keep saying!” I gush. “I’ve been saying that for years.” “He’s gonna lead us across the Rubicon,” he says. “I think he already crossed the Rubicon,” I say. “I think this is him getting assassinated.” There is a pause and then he looks at me. “All of these politicians,” he says slowly and evenly, “They don’t understand that they’re paving the way for somebody so much worse than Trump. This movement isn’t going to go away. I’ve already talked to people who say things crazy, things like they want to overthrow the government. People who hadn’t been saying that three years ago.

Write, say or think a note of thanks to someone who paved the way for you. Even if only a few words, even if only in your mind, your gratitude will bless the sender and the receiver.

Recently a wife whose husband struggled with masturbation and had an emotional affair said, “I want to move past this stuff, but it seems like everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of infidelity and how rampant it is!” This observation is so common. We can’t live in a cave to avoid life. And moving to a faraway country is not an option for most people. Further, we really don’t want to live in a faraway country or a cave. We want to be in our life but without these reminders, without all this pain. We don’t want to have to escape and get away; we want it to go away! I want to reframe your view of time as it pertains to this journey. Instead of looking at time as healing in itself, look at time as the context in which you find new opportunities to build trust. Lamentations 3:22–23 says that the Lord’s mercies are “new every morning.” If you are trying to rebuild trust, I encourage you to look at every morning as a new beginning, a new day to seize every opportunity to build trust. Time alone will not heal your wounds. But time filled with sincere attempts to build trust—paving the way toward the future while amending the past (which we’ll discuss later)—will heal your wounds. We must be active participants in the time we have, not just observers watching time go by.

Each prospect who was interested enough to want to see the car was given an appointment time—the same appointment time. So, if six people were scheduled, they were all scheduled for, say, 2:00 that afternoon. This little device of simultaneous scheduling paved the way for later compliance because it created an atmosphere of competition for a limited resource.

Father, we ask for clarity, but we understand that’s not your highest priority. Draw us close in our confusion, our doubt, and our questions. May we not work so hard to get rid of those things. Rather, may we let the questions and uncertainties pave the way to you. Help us to know when to say yes and when to say no. Give us the courage to quit when it’s time. We declare you are always enough. We believe it. Help us in our unbelief.

Living taught me selfishness, it has taken so much from me, in spite of having nothing afterward, it sustained the habit of taking, going so far as to steal what I had left of myself.” “I don’t understand, are you saying that life stole your will to live? Doesn't that contradict the meanings?” “Living and life are not the same. Living is breathing, something you pave, dragging around a body absent of life until we run out of ways to cope with the exhaustion. Life kills the living, and death cleans the remains.” —Theatre

One of the first scientific papers to write about exercise-induced myokines labeled them “hope molecules.” Ultra-endurance athletes talk about the metaphor of putting one foot in front of the other—how learning that you can take one more step, even when it feels like you can’t possibly keep going, builds confidence and courage. The existence of hope molecules reveals that this is not merely a metaphor. Hope can begin in your muscles. Every time you take a single step, you contract over two hundred myokine-releasing muscles. The very same muscles that propel your body forward also send proteins to your brain that stimulate the neurochemistry of resilience. Importantly, you don’t need to run an ultramarathon across the Arctic to infuse your bloodstream with these chemicals. Any movement that involves muscular contraction—which is to say, all movement—releases beneficial myokines. It seems likely that some ultra-endurance athletes are drawn to the sport precisely because they have a natural capacity to endure. The extreme circumstances of these events allow them to both challenge and enjoy that part of their personality. Yet it’s also possible that the intense physical training contributes to the mental toughness that ultra-endurance athletes demonstrate. Endurance activities like walking, hiking, jogging, running, cycling, and swimming, as well as high-intensity exercise such as interval training, are especially likely to produce a myokinome that supports mental health. Among those who are already active, increasing training intensity or volume—going harder, faster, further, or longer—can jolt muscles to stimulate an even greater myokine release. In one study, running to exhaustion increased irisin levels for the duration of the run and well into a recovery period—an effect that could be viewed as an intravenous dose of hope. Many of the world’s top ultra-endurance athletes have a history of depression, anxiety, trauma, or addiction. Some, like ultrarunner Shawn Bearden, credit the sport with helping to save their lives. This, too, is part of what draws people to the ultra-endurance world. You can start off with seemingly superhuman abilities to endure, or you can build your capacity for resilience one step at a time. Months after I spoke with Bearden, an image from his Instagram account appeared in my feed. It was taken from the middle of a paved road that stretches toward a mountain range, with grassy fields on either side. The sky is blue, except for a huge dark cloud that appears to be hovering directly over the person taking the photo. I remembered how Bearden had described his depression as a black thundercloud rolling in. Under the Instagram photo, Bearden had written, “Tons of wind today, making an easy run far more challenging. So happy to be able to do this. Every day above ground is a good day.” Below, a single comment cheered him on, like a fellow runner on the trail: “Amen to this! Keep striving.

Scipio Africanus, the general who defeated Hannibal, would say that an army should not only leave a road for their enemy to retreat by, they should pave it.

Of course, it wouldn't have been a 9 to 5 event without a survey, and this one was no exception. Among the questions posed were these: What do you have to say to today's activists and organizers? What do women need to do today to win rights and respect? Here's a sample of what we answered: Have fun. Be creative. Approach the problem as systemic, not individual. Collective action and solutions are key. Remember that the goal is power-building. Talk to your coworkers, be ready with workable solutions, then collectively bring issues to decision makers. Most importantly, don't accept no for an answer! Focus on lifting the floor, not just the ceiling. Decelerate. Do everything in the time it takes, not necessarily at the speed of light. Take care of each other. Never give up. Even your losses will help you win in the future. Remember the heroes who paved the way in the struggles that came before. Always remember sisterhood and solidarity, especially in the face of sexism, racism, and other forms of hatred. We are what we are. We all carry the ideas and experiences of those who came before. We will not have a just and sustainable economy until we eradicate the long-standing inequalities deeply woven into the fibers of our economy, in which some jobs are still undervalued based on the color of our skin or our gender. Remember there is strength in numbers. Find common ground. Challenge the bosses for a say over your job, your community, your country, your democracy. Reach out to another woman outside of your comfort zone - she's been waiting for you! Keep telling the 9 to 5 story.

With such draconian measures in academic settings, we must ask some serious questions. First, how can an educator give students the right tools of critical thinking, and encourage them to work hard if most students expect to receive high grades simply because they are paying customers? Second, can we say in good faith that academics living under such precarious conditions and contingent employment are free to teach, write, and think? More importantly, can we trust the competency and the critical thinking abilities of students graduating from elite private universities knowing that many of them expect to and do get inflated grades because they are paying customers? It is perhaps no wonder why we have so many disqualified, incompetent, and corrupt people at the top of every American institution. Some students no longer see the professor or the instructor with high respect. They see them as service providers whose role is to help pave their way into their next step, be it getting into a graduate school, getting a highly paid job, and so on. Likewise, many educators start acting almost like celebrities who are more concerned about their ratings, reviews, and student evaluations (their public image) than they are in delivering knowledge and critical tools for students take home. After all, what should we expect from a customer-service provider relationship that is primarily for profit?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Ever heard that saying?” “Of course. But it’s bullshit. The road to hell is actually paved with the prayers of cowards who think sitting on a church bench once a week is sufficient. If there is a god, he doesn’t give a shit about prayers. He wants to see if you’re willing to put skin in the game, not just give Him lip service with a few pretty hymns on Sunday, then go home and hide while evil runs rampant through the streets.

One of the keys to Tobi’s success: He turned Shopify into a platform that not only allowed merchants to easily set up online stores but also enabled app developers to build specialty stores for merchants. By opening up Shopify in this way, Tobi made a conscious decision to let developers make money off his platform, rather than trying to keep it closed so he could capture all of that app revenue himself. “What we did to get the platform off the ground is to basically leave all the economics for Shopify on the table and give it to the third-party app developers,” Tobi says. This helped him to rapidly attract more and more users to Shopify. And in retrospect, these decisions paved the way for their widespread success. But they were tough calls at the time. “It’s hard to do, because you are leaving a lot of economics that you could easily take for yourself on the table—or actually, you are investing it into your own future by giving it to other people,” Tobi explains. “And that’s very hard to do for most businesses.” The combination of a strong platform, a well-populated app store, and a community of developers helped protect Shopify against competition and built a positive feedback loop that ratcheted up innovation, attracting more users and more developers.

Look here, he says, what's the matter with you fellows? let's get cracking with this dump. Your road is bad; pave it. Better yet, build a paved road to every corner of the park; better yet, pave the whole damned place so any damn fool can drive anything anywhere is this a democracy or ain't it? Next, charge a good stiff admission fee; you can't let people in free; that leads socialism and regimentation. Next, get rid of all these homely rangers in their Smokey the Bear suits. Hire a crew of pretty girls, call them rangerettes, let them sell the tickets and give the campfire talks. And advertise, for godsake, advertise! How do you expect to get people in here if you don't advertise? Next, these here Arches light them up. Floodlight them, turn on colored, revolving lights -jazz it up, man, it's dead. Light up the whole place, all night long, get on a 24-hour shift, keep them coming, keep them moving, you got two hundred million people out there waiting to see your product-is this a free country or what the hell is it? Next your campgrounds, you gotta do something about your camp grounds, they're a mess. People can't tell where to park their cars or which spot is whose-you gotta paint lines, numbers, mark out the campsites nice and neat. And they're still building fires on the ground, with wood! Very messy, filthy, wasteful. Set up little grills on stilts, sell charcoal briquettes, better yet hook up with the gas line, install jets and burners. Better yet do away with the camp. grounds altogether, they only cause delay and congestion and administrative problems-these people want to see America, they're not going to see it sitting around a goddamned campfire; take their money, give them the show, send them on their way-that's the way to run a business....

Sapionova, Sonnet 1195 They say, nobody is above the law, I say, I am. They say, nobody is above grammar, I say, I am. All are barred to break status quo, Yet I do on a daily basis. All are tamed to be rats without roar, Yet I write my own moralities. In a world run by do's and don'ts, Wield your backbone and find your way. Animals may need the crutch of custom, By the feet of humans new roads are paved. Question of should comes from principles, It must never be a matter of convenience. Sapient principles are living principles, Not those inherited through dead lineage. Sapiens is the question, sapiens is the answer. When all live as neanderthal, be the sapionova.

A PRAYER Father, we ask for clarity, but we understand that’s not your highest priority. Draw us close in our confusion, our doubt, and our questions. May we not work so hard to get rid of those things. Rather, may we let the questions and uncertainties pave the way to you. Help us to know when to say yes and when to say no. Give us the courage to quit when it’s time. We declare you are always enough. We believe it. Help us in our unbelief.

Lies don’t pave the way to joy,” he says

here are some things that help build trust and pave the way for effective and intimate communication between spouses: Consistently saying and doing the right things Keeping promises Being faithful and sexually pure Taking responsibility for your behavior and not transferring blame Being sensitive to your spouse and meeting their needs Validating your spouse’s feelings even when you don’t understand or agree Treating your spouse as an equal and valuing their input Protecting your spouse from children, in-laws, or others who are saying or doing things that are negative or harmful Being truthful in a loving manner Keeping confidences and not divulging private matters to others Saying you are sorry and asking for forgiveness Being forgiving and gracious Being positive and faith-filled

The moment I exit our front door and enter the paved streets, my deep voice loses its volume and its strength. When I speak English, I become like a leaf in the wind. I cannot control the direction my words will fly in the ear of the other person. I try to soften my landing in the language by leaving pauses between each word. I wrestle with my accent until it is a line of breath in the tightness of my throat. I greet people. I ask for directions. I say thank you. I say goodbye. I only speak English at work when it is necessary. I don’t like the weakness of my voice in English, but what I struggle with most is the weakness of my words.

Diem and Nhu are dead,” says that voice. “Now do slip the dogs of war, the tale of woe begins; from here the way to Jericho Hill is paved with blood and sin. Ah, Discordia! Charyou tree! Come, reap!

Now realize that this supremacist side, which refuses to participate in humanity—they are habitually framed as one of the two and only two sides that is meant when we say both sides. Really? The people who don’t want to participate in our shared humanity represent half of the entire ideological equation here? If they get their way, and pass all their laws designed to preserve their own blameless supremacy, and pave over the global swimming pool, is it really only one side that loses? Think how much more stagnant “both sides” framing makes us. It takes the gorgeous multifaceted gem of society and smashes it flat. Think of how much we’ll miss. Think of what we’ll fail to learn. Think of how simplistic supremacist arguments are, no matter how complex they make the rationale. Think of the improvement that won’t happen. Think how far behind we’ll fall. Think of the voices we’ll never hear, the accomplishments we’ll never see. Think who will be harmed. Think who will be killed. Think who already has been harmed and killed.

A Traveler’s Delight: The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is a Game-Changer As someone who enjoys exploring new roads and landscapes, I recently had the pleasure of traveling through the Agra Etawah Toll Road Project, and I must say—it’s one of the finest highways I’ve been on. This road is a perfect blend of modern engineering, scenic beauty, and traveler-friendly amenities, making long drives a pleasure rather than a hassle. A Refreshing Driving Experience From the moment I hit the highway, I could feel the difference. The road is well-paved, with clear lane markings and proper lighting, ensuring a stress-free drive. Whether you're in a car, bike, or bus, the smooth surface makes the ride enjoyable. No unnecessary honking, no sudden traffic jams—just a seamless travel experience. #modernroad A Road Built for Convenience This highway is not just about great road quality; it’s designed for comfort. The well-placed fuel stations, food courts, and rest areas provide everything a traveler needs. I took a quick break at one of the stops, and it was refreshing to find clean restrooms and quality food options—something that's still rare on many Indian highways. Enhancing Connectivity and Economic Growth Beyond its impact on travelers, this toll road plays a crucial role in improving connectivity between major cities. The reduced travel time helps businesses, transport services, and daily commuters immensely. With a growing focus on modern infrastructure, highways like these are setting a new standard for road travel in India. The Agra Etawah Toll Road Project is not just a highway—it’s a vision of India’s future road network. Whether you're passing through for a long drive or using it for daily commutes, this road guarantees a smooth, safe, and enjoyable journey. If you haven't traveled on this route yet, it's time to experience what a modern Indian highway feels like! #modernroadmakers #indiabesthighway

God, I love her. I love her in a way that a sane person would say is unhealthy. I love her in a way that’s almost painful. I walk around knowing that I wouldn’t survive if something happened to her. It’s a scary kind of love, but it’s the only way I know how to love her. She consumes me. There’s no half-assing that. It’s all or nothing, and she has it all, every single part of me.

I never liked the ocean,” said Cutangle. “It ought to be paved over. There’s dreadful things in it, down in the deep bits. Ghastly sea monsters. Or so they say.

Force and fierceness are never the way. It is wisdom that paves the right way to life - to existence.

Strict formalism and abstraction from reality are undoubtedly the most important, but by no means the only characteristics of the Romanesque style. For just as a mystic tendency is at work alongside the scholastic trend in the philosophy of the age, and a wild, unrestrained ecstatic religiosity finds expression in the monastic reform movement alongside a strict dogmatism, so also in art emotional and expressionistic tendencies make themselves felt alongside the dominant formalism and stereotyped abstractionism. This less restrained conception of art is not perceptible, however, until the second half of the Romanesque period, that is to say, it coincides with the revival of trade and urban life in the eleventh century. However modest these beginnings are in themselves, they represent the first signs of a change which paves the way for the individualism and liberalism of the modern age. Externally nothing much is altered for the present; the basic tendency of Romanesque art remains anti-naturalistic and hieratic. And yet, if a first step towards the dissolution of the ties which restrict medieval life is to be discerned anywhere, then it is here, in this astonishingly prolific eleventh century, with its new towns and markets, its new orders and schools, the first crusade and the founding of the first Norman states, the beginnings of monumental Christian sculpture and the proto-forms of Gothic architecture. It cannot be a coincidence that all this new life and movement occurs at the same time as the early medieval self-supporting economy is beginning to yield to a mercantile economy after centuries of uninterrupted stagnation.

[B]ad conscience also appears as a result of incipient priestly influence, beginning in the era when priests are considered, or at least associated with, aristocracy. According to Nietzsche, the priestly valuation ‘branch[es] off from the knightly-aristocratic [manner of valuation] and then develop[s] into its opposite’. Knights (and warriors) prize ‘a powerful physicality, a blossoming, rich, even overflowing health, along with whatever is required for their preservation: war, adventure, hunting, dancing, war games, and in general everything that involves strong, free and cheerful activity’. Priests value other things. They are impotent and thus afraid to act openly for fear of reprisals. Their desire for expression remains undiminished, however, and so gives rise to hatred. This hatred is directed toward those in power, whether primeval barbarian-masters or present-day noble-masters. It results in a posture contrary to everything represented by the masters (aforementioned as knights). For Nietzsche, masters are the picture of Life. They say yes to everything in the world, whether good or bad. The impotent, by contrast, say no to everything in the world, imagining another domain to which to flee for refuge from the perceived suffering of this one. The impotent, for Nietzsche, represent something even more dangerous and profound than death. Theirs is the way (paved by the priest) to nothingness.

The will to power and deception; deception is a redistribution of meaning intended to optimize an outcome. This is a corruption of perfect law. Can we ever really say that the ends justify the means? The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Intentionality is the measuring of state space and the application of expression. Without infinite wisdom, no creature can justify deception. Without perfect innocence, no creature can avoid deception.

We armed ourselves with pistols, shotguns, and assault rifles. We knew that the government had us impossibly outgunned but nevertheless felt obliged to not only prepare ourselves for the upcoming collapse of society as we had known it, but also to do whatever it took to speed the day when that collapse occurred. The government was illegitimate; a puppet regime manipulated by a shadowy and sinister force that was hellbent on our destruction. The supposed democracy that seated traitorous politicians had been tainted by mass media that poisoned the minds and souls of our people to not only blind them against what was happening, but also to con them into complicity in their own downfall. Our guns served many purposes. In addition to the simple purpose they were designed for-to kill people-our firearms endowed with us a sense of destiny befitting an epic struggle against fearsome odds. The deadly seriousness of the situation was underlined, italicized, and emboldened by the smell of gun oil and the clack of magazines sliding into position as we recruited new soldiers into our movement. According to the founding Fathers, it was not only our right, but our duty to bear arms against the tyrants who had usurped our beloved nation. I spent 7 years immersed in that world. A reality where I was constantly looking over my shoulder to reveal the handiwork of the enemy. Every aspect of our culture faced a relentless assault. Everything that was good about America-Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit of Happiness-had been denigrated and disparaged by those that sought to impose Marxist equality. I hated them for that. I hated them with the passion of a patriot. That hate was fueled by what I truly believed was a love for my race. Oops! Did I say "race?" I meant a love for my country, Or was it a love of Christ? Or Allah? It could have been any of a number of allegiances-any number of ways to identify myself-that I built walls around and bristled at those outside, and it was all in the name of love. Roads to a lot of really bad places are paved with that kind of bizarro love. A vampiric, soul-depleting love-substitute that beckons to those who never know the real thing. I was very lucky to realize the true love of a little girl-my daughter-otherwise I'd likely be dead or in prison like so many of my former comrades. Simply by playing with other children, she taught me that the walls and guns and hate that had seemed to give me purpose were in fact unnecessary constructs that threatened to separate us. The children she shared toys, laughs, and smiles with also shared the same need for love and compassion that we all do-regardless of the color of our skin, our family's choice of spirituality, or the part of the world we come from. I made a decision to cast aside the fear that masqueraded as love, and to live my life in wonderful affection for diversity instead of scorn for it.

I am prone to prefer people who are like me-- in color, culture, heritage and history..the creation of man and woman in the image of God with equal dignity before God..this means that no human being is more or less human that another..for in the process of discussing our diversity in terms of different "races," we are undercutting our unity in the human race..instead of being strictly tied to biology, ethnicity is much more fluid, factoring in social, cultural, lingual, historical, and even religious characteristics..The pages of the Bible and human history are thus filled with an evil affinity for ethnic animosity..God promises to bless these ethnic Israelites, but the purpose of his blessing extends far beyond them..[it is] his desire for all nations to behold his greatness and experience his grace..When Jesus comes to the earth in the New Testament, we are quickly introduced to him as an immigrant..he nevertheless reaches beyond national boundaries at critical moments to love, serve, teach, heal, and save Canaanites and Samaritans, Greeks and Romans..he came as Savior and Lord over all..Though Gentiles were finally accepted into the church, they felt at best like second-class Christians..the Bible doesn't deny the obvious ethnic, cultural, and historical differences that distinguish us from one another..diversifies humanity according to clans and lands as a creative reflection of his grace and glory in distinct groups of people. In highlighting the beauty of such diversity, the gospel thus counters the mistaken cultural illusion that the path to unity is paved by minimizing what makes us unique. Instead, the gospel compels us to celebrate our ethnic distinctions, value our cultural differences, and acknowledge our historical diversity..(In reference to Galations 3:28) some people might misconstrue this verse..to say that our differences don't matter. But they do..It is not my aim here to stereotype migrant workers..It is also not my aim to oversimplify either the plight of immigrants in our country or the predicament of how to provide for them..Consequently, followers of Christ must see immigrants not as problems to be solved but as people to be loved. The gospel compels us in our culture to decry any and all forms of oppression, exploitation, bigotry, or harassment of immigrants..[we] will stand as one redeemed race to give glory to the Father who calls us not sojourners or exiles, but sons and daughters.

I work almost all of my non-sleeping hours, but never do I feel busy, because my work is the fulfillment of my lifeforce. Here, some may say that I am lucky to do what I love, but not everybody finds a livelihood of their choice. To them I say, luck had very little to do with me doing what I love. I am able do what I love, because since my childhood I had only one mission, that is to unite my humankind and that very unshakable mission paved the path for my work. I made my mission my life. I dreamt my mission - I breathed my mission - I lived my mission. Having fun like a teenager does, was not in my dictionary. Getting high and getting laid like an adolescent does, was not in my vocabulary. Going on dates like a teenager does, was not in my book. I had only one vision in front of my eyes, and that was the vision of a united humanity. And today you know me as a humanitarian thinker, because of all those so called "fun times" I sacrificed for a greater goal. And till this day my mission flows through my veins like blood. Now, here I am not saying that an adolescent is not supposed to have fun - in fact, part of the purpose of my work is to build a world where every child from everywhere has the basic right to cherish their childhood without worry, fear and insecurities. So the point is, if you truly can dedicate your life to one single mission, no matter the nature of the mission, then sooner or later the mission itself will pave its own way for you to keep on walking - so, close your eyes, visualize your mission and take the leap of faith.

In these crises a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously created productive forces, is periodically destroyed. In these crises there breaks out an epidemic that, in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity—the epidemic of overproduction. Society suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed; and why? because there is too much civilization, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. The productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters, they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property. The conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. And how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? On the one hand by enforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. That is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented. The weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself.

The wound that was made when white people came and took all that they took has never healed. An unattended wound gets infected. Becomes a new kind of wound like the history of what actually happened became a new kind of history. All these stories that we haven't been telling all this time, that we haven't been listening to, are just part of what we need to heal. Not that we're broken. And don't make the mistake of calling us resilient. To not have been destroyed, to not have given up, to have survived is not a badge of honor. Would you call an attempted murder victim resilient? When we go to tell our stories, people think we want it to have gone differently. People want to say things like "sore losers" and "move on already, quit playing the blame game." But is it a game? Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they're winning when they say "Get over it." This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

The story says we can only fare well if we proceed with an awareness of the way things are, including a willingness to admit not knowing where we are going. The youngest brother has a long road to travel in the story before it can be said that he fully understands the way things are (with his brothers, for instance). He endures painful lessons in treachery and betrayal, and he pays a high price for his naivete before finally owning the full range of his energy and wisdom. These are symbolized by his ultimately riding straight down the middle of a road paved in gold and marrying the princess (I haven’t told you about her) and becoming King—a fully developed man, not of his father’s kingdom but of his own.

I picture this scene—forgive me, this is a little bit irreverent—like one of those late-night infomercials about buying real estate with no money down. In effect, Washington said, “Look, here’s the plan. All of you are going to deed over the rural land you own to a neutral trustee. And the neutral trustee is going to divide it up into building lots and city streets. And you’re going to get back two-thirds of the land that you gave us in city lots. That means you are going to give away a third of your land to us, some of which is going to be used for city streets, and some as lots for public buildings. The government won’t pay you for your land, but your city lots will be worth a lot more than your rural real estate. The federal government is going to sell off most of its lots and with the proceeds we will pave all the streets, which is going raise the value of your real estate. What do you say?” And, of course, this is George Washington making the pitch, and everybody signs on.

Ries points out that at most companies “the resources flow to the person with the most confident, best plan. Or the person with no failures on their record.” The solution, Ries says, is that companies must direct more budgetary resources to those who are exploring unanswered questions, conducting promising experiments, and taking intelligent risks. It’s a radical notion for most businesses, but “failed experiments” (which often pave the way for subsequent innovations) should be rewarded alongside proven successes, particularly if the experiment or the questioning provides valuable learning.

I Start My Day in a Positive Way The morning whispers, "Wakey wakey, rise and shine, open your door and let the sunshine in". With love and gratitude, I open my eyes. Each breath I take is pure and blessed. I feel the essence of my soul. My mind is clear, my heart’s aligned, This day is a gift, a treasure to explore. I start my day in a positive way, With empowering affirmations paving my way. "Today, I am aligned with my highest good; I am a magnet for joy and abundance." Each day’s a time for my life to get better and better. in love and peace, intention and purpose, my positive evolution. I welcome each day with open arms, I choose to live in divine source energy. Intentions are set, my actions are true, Success and serenity in all that I do. I walk with momentum; my vision is clear. Aligned with my purpose, I step into my day. I start my day in a positive way, With empowering affirmations paving my way. "Today, I am aligned with my highest self; I am a magnet for joy and abundance." Each day my life gets better and better in love, and peace, and intention and purpose, my positive engagement. In every moment, my journey unfolds, I write my story in hues of gold. Every thought I choose, every word I say, Shapes the path I walk today. With clarity and wisdom, love in my heart, I’m moving forward, creating my art. Today’s a fresh chapter, a perfect start. I welcome this day with open arms. I wake up with gratitude in my heart and clear thoughts in my mind. I choose thoughts nourishing my soul." I am the creator of my reality. Positivity flows, lighting my way, I embrace my evolution; it gets better every day. I am smart, capable, and ready to grow. The seeds of success are growing and showing. I set my intentions and align my actions I am committed, inspired, and ready for the day ahead. Each action is a step toward my dreams. I trust in my journey and celebrate my progress. I'm creating my paradise. I start my day in a positive way, With empowering affirmations paving my way. "Today, I am aligned with my highest self; I am a magnet for joy and abundance." Each day’s a time for my life to get better, in love, and peace, and intention and purpose, my positive transformation. Today is my canvas, painted with grace, I carry my dreams; I own my space. With optimism, focus, and inner peace, I rise with strength; my growth is beautiful. This life is mine; I’m choosing today. Aligned with good in every way. I trust in my journey and celebrate my progress. I Start My Day in a Positive Way I always Start My Day in a Positive Way with a positive affirmation

Now realize that this supremacist side, which refuses to participate in humanity—they are habitually framed as one of the two and only two sides that is meant when we say both sides. Really? The people who don’t want to participate in our shared humanity represent half of the entire ideological equation here? If they get their way, and pass all their laws designed to preserve their own blameless supremacy, and pave over the global swimming pool, is it really only one side that loses?

Richard Feynman had to say this about energy in his 1961 lecture: “There is a fact, or if you wish, a law, governing all natural phenomena that are known to date. There is no known exception to this law – it is exact so far as we know. The law is called the conservation of energy. It states that there is a certain quantity, which we call energy that does not change in manifold changes which nature undergoes. That is a most abstract idea, because it is a mathematical principle; it says that there is a numerical quantity which does not change when something happens. It is not a description of a mechanism, or anything concrete; it is just a strange fact that we can calculate some number and when we finish watching nature go through her tricks and calculate the number again, it is the same.” All significant philosophers and scientists throughout history were in their own right, right if we consider the context, time, and place, the point from which they observed the world by the means available to them. If we understand this context, we know how much harder it was for them to decipher the world previously unknown, except as an experience without fundamental and deeper understanding. In this sense, all these philosophers and scientists were, in a way, “right,” even when they were “not” right. Correctness or wrongness of their ideas and opinions shall be measured more by how they helped our understanding and ideas developed directly from their thoughts. Even if they were in some way wrong, great ideas helped our ideas develop and allowed the formation and formulations of great ideas that will follow. Quality and potential of insights and ideas are more important than strict correctness without any potential. Progress in human history would not be possible without following the traces of long-bygone giants (as Newton understood them). We can hardly produce any new important question that ancient Greek philosophers did not pose. The whole idea of Western philosophy, as it is, would not be possible without the ancient Greeks. This statement holds even when we talk about the modern era’s greatest philosophers, starting with Descartes and culminating in the works of the great German philosophers Leibnitz, Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, the Dutch Spinoza, and others. Almost all central questions or problems treated by these philosophers were already postulated, discussed, or touched, directly or indirectly, by the great ancient philosophers who paved the way for the others.

If God says 'This is the way you should live your life' then this is the way we should live our lives. The only road that leads to lasting joy and genuine happiness is the road that God has paved. It is a straight and narrow path. Have faith enough to stay the course.

I’ve never done the normal relationship thing. Hell, I’ve never even taken anyone out on a date. Despite my past, I’ve never done so many things, and I want to do them all with her. Having her on the back of my bike feels like the most natural thing in the world, and I realize how right Vitaly is. I’m not going to be able to let her go. Ever. His words should scare the hell out of me, and the fact that they not only didn’t scare me but left me smiling like an idiot instead says everything... Jesus Christ, I think I just officially and permanently took myself off the market.

I mean every word of what I’m saying. If I couldn’t have pulled him out of that apartment, then I would’ve died with him that night. Leaving him to die alone was never an option. Not then and not now. My life was never worth anything, and I would’ve gladly given it up for him.

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. The fact that there’s been so little love in her life that she finds the idea sweet that someone would actually mourn the death of someone else bothers me way more than it should.

Scipio Africanus, the general who defeated Hannibal, would say that an army should not only leave a road for their enemy to retreat by, they should pave it. The Romans had a name for this road, the Gallic Way.

India’s Best Highway Infrastructure: A Road Trip on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road As someone who’s always looking for scenic yet smooth drives, I took a chance on the Agra-Etawah Toll Road during my recent road trip across Uttar Pradesh. What I thought would be a regular drive turned out to be one of the most comfortable and well-managed highways I’ve ever experienced. It's no exaggeration to say that this stretch is part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure. From the moment I left Agra, the road welcomed me with wide, freshly paved lanes and flawless signages. I didn’t have to second-guess a single turn — everything was crystal clear. It’s the kind of road that lets you relax behind the wheel and enjoy the view. #indiasbesthighwayinfrastructure One of the best things? The traffic discipline. Thanks to the smart design — proper dividers, speed monitoring, and visible highway patrols — even during peak hours, the flow was smooth. I barely had to hit the brakes the entire way! #besthighwayinfrastructure I made a quick stop at one of the rest zones — and wow, what a change from the dusty, cramped roadside stalls we’re used to. Clean facilities, organized food courts, and even EV charging points. You can see that this isn’t just a road; it’s a well-thought-out system. #modernroadmakers The scenery along the way was a bonus. Rolling green fields, distant temple silhouettes, and the warm sunlight bouncing off the asphalt — it felt more like a drive through a well-shot film than a real-life highway. In a country as vast and diverse as India, finding highways that truly deliver on comfort, safety, and efficiency is rare. But the Agra-Etawah Toll Road gets it all right. It’s not just a path between two cities — it’s a reflection of how far our infrastructure has come. No wonder it’s being recognized as part of India’s Best Highway Infrastructure.

Don’t you know what they say about good intentions?” Ash pulled a syringe from his pocket. “They pave the highway to hell.

They say the path to hell is paved with good intentions. I wasn’t sure about that, or hell, since the pathway I walked was paved with death and flowers.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions,

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