Pearl Davis Quotes

Secrets By Megan Moriarty Some secrets are Nice, Like shiny,wet pearls You string on a Necklace. One,two,three! Some secrets feel like Rocks That hang from your Heart. Some secrets are like Needles. They poke and poke and poke, Wanting to be told. Those are the most dangerous Of all.

Pearls. Take, like an oyster, your irritations, your pain. Use these to create your masterpiece.

In early cultures, it was thought pearls were born when a single raindrop fell from the heavens and became the heart of the oyster. For me, ye have become the pearl, the beat of me heart. The sapphires and emeralds signify me tartan and how I will always surround ye with love, Creigh.

Pain has a way of hardening us, each new heartbreak laying down a fresh layer of protection, like the nacre of a pearl, until we think ourselves impenetrable, immune to both our present and our past. What fools we are to believe it.

As they went home, that little boy began; 'Love me and, when I'm a big sailor-man, I'll bring you home more coral, silk, and gold, Than twenty-five four-funnelled ships could hold,' 'And fifty coffins carried to their grave, Will not have half the lilies you shall have: Now say at once that you will be my love - And have a pearl ten stallions could not move.

We’ll have to get over the idea that we’re the greatest people on earth in every respect, that we’re infallible and that no one else has ideas worth considering. One of the reasons we had to fight against odds on Guadalcanal was this insufferable American notion of superiority, and our carelessness in face of danger. It goes back to Pearl Harbor and far beyond.

down a fresh layer of protection, like the nacre of a pearl, until we think ourselves impenetrable, immune to both our present and our past. What fools we are to believe it.

a PhD dissertation at the University of California, Davis.11 After carefully weighing the contrasting arguments of Taggart and Bush, I determined that Bush made by far the more convincing case—specifically his central thesis that the priesthood ban resulted from socio-economic prejudices endemic in American society at large. Such anti-black attitudes as embraced by Brigham Young were incorporated as policy, which evolved into doctrine—all of which occurred following the death of Joseph Smith.12 Striking was the breadth of Bush’s historical narrative tracing the evolution of Mormon anti-black attitudes and related practices from the 1830s to the 1970s. Impressive was the array of primary documents Bush marshaled in support of his arguments. By contrast, Taggart’s relatively limited work proved wanting in its overly simplistic “Missouri Thesis” that Joseph Smith had impulsively implemented the priesthood ban in a futile effort to alleviate Mormon difficulties in that slave state. The thoroughness of Bush’s findings notwithstanding, I determined that Bush had not adequately dealt with the origins of the ban as it involved Joseph Smith. Specifically, I became convinced that Smith himself held certain racist, anti-black attitudes which, in turn, were given scriptural legitimacy through his canonical writings, specifically the Book of Mormon and the Pearl of Great Price. Bush, moreover, failed to acknowledge the crucial role played by the emergence of Mormon ethnic whiteness affirming the Saints’ self-perceived status as a divinely favored race. Conversely, Mormons viewed blacks as a marginalized race, the accursed descendants of Cain, Ham, and Caanan. Further validating African-American’s accursed status was their dark skin.

Three windows, three faces. And the first face: the moon-face of Toby Dance. The first window, the parlor window of that solid frame house and the Christmas-dreaming, bright-eye gleaming face of five year old Toby Dance who, no more than a twinkling instant before, has sent a tissue paper letter up the roaring red throat of the parlor chimney; a prayerful inventory of certain wonders he should like to find beneath the enchanted tree next morning. And now he watches from the window all the capricious white wizardry of snow and the swathed, candied hills beyond the river and the Chinese Elm in the backyard now lofty and up-thrust against the pearled sky like a black, ermined dancer, and Toby sighs and sees his breath suddenly being upon the icy window pane and that printed breath is a faith that already ancient, faery legions of the Ice King are bearing his letter high and away for the right eyes to read.

believing, Jody Hotchkiss (Onward!), David Grossman, Helen Heller, and the tireless Chandler Crawford. I am grateful and indebted to every single person at Riverhead Books. In particular, I want to thank Susan Petersen Kennedy and Geoffrey Kloske for their faith in this story. My heartfelt thanks also go to Marilyn Ducksworth, Mih-Ho Cha, Catharine Lynch, Craig D. Burke, Leslie Schwartz, Honi Werner, and Wendy Pearl. Special thanks to my sharp-eyed copy editor, Tony Davis, who misses nothing, and, lastly, to my talented editor, Sarah McGrath, for her patience, foresight, and guidance. Finally, thank you, Roya.

Millions for Defense was one of the first big Treasury Department shows of the war. It predated Pearl Harbor by six months and sounded a warning call for hard times ahead. Fred Allen was opening-night master of ceremonies. Typical of these war shows, it had all of Hollywood and New York at its beck and call, all free talent. Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy Lamour headlined the July 9 show. Bette Davis, Lily Pons, Abbott and Costello, Tyrone Power, and Claudette Colbert were on subsequent broadcasts. The show was quite popular in the waning months of summer, and when Fred Allen reclaimed his slot in the fall, Millions simply shifted networks and became The Treasury Hour.

Upon the arrival of my sweet baby sister, Gina Louise on May 7th, 1955, Dad’s four “Little Women” was complete and I believe he abandoned the wish that the Pescarmona name would live on in a son someday. I tried to fill the void by watching the “Friday Night Fights” (which were boxing matches) with my Dad. I wonder what he really thought about his most “girlie girl” expressing the slightest interest in boxing. Now Linda, who always said she wished she was born a boy, had a Davy Crockett shirt and pants replete with a coonskin cap and sported a belt with two holsters and faux pearl-handled cap guns. I liked the smell of gunpowder for some odd reason and would play guns with her occasionally. We roomed together, but two more different sisters could never be found. I loved clothes with hoop skirts that had to be negotiated very carefully while sitting down in a church pew, which we found out the first time we wore them. We sat on the hoop and our skirts went up nearly over our heads revealing our unmentionables.

Unfolding according to the contemplative logic of their lyrical orbits, Astral Weeks’s songs unhooked themselves from pop’s dependence on verse/chorus structure, coasting on idling rhythms, raging and subsiding with the ebb and flow of Morrison’s soulful scat. The soundworld – a loose-limbed acoustic tapestry of guitar, double bass, flute, vibraphone and dampened percussion – was unmistakably attributable to the calibre of the musicians convened for the session: Richard Davis, whose formidable bass talents had shadowed Eric Dolphy on the mercurial Blue Note classic Out to Lunch; guitarist Jay Berliner had previous form with Charles Mingus; Connie Kay was drummer with The Modern Jazz Quartet; percussionist/vibesman Warren Smith’s sessionography included Miles Davis, Aretha Franklin, Nat King Cole, Sam Rivers and American folk mystics Pearls Before Swine. Morrison reputedly barely exchanged a word with the personnel, retreating to a sealed sound booth to record his parts and leaving it to their seasoned expertise to fill out the space. It is a music quite literally snatched out of the air.