Private Tutor Quotes

Don't listen to people telling you that getting up early is best. René Descartes is one of history's most important philosophers, but he rarely got out of bed before noon - and when he started getting up early for a new job as a private tutor, it caused him to catch pneumonia and die.

The main vehicle for nineteenth-century socialization was the leading textbook used in elementary school. They were so widely used that sections in them became part of the national language. Theodore Roosevelt, scion of an elite New York family, schooled by private tutors, had been raised on the same textbooks as the children of Ohio farmers, Chicago tradesman, and New England fishermen. If you want to know what constituted being a good American from the mid-nineteenth century to World War I, spend a few hours browsing through the sections in the McGuffey Readers.

You see, Monsieur, it's worth everything, isn't it, to keep one's intellectual liberty, not to enslave one's powers of appreciation, one's critical independence? It was because of that that I abandoned journalism, and took to so much duller work: tutoring and private secretaryship. There is a good deal of drudgery, of course; but one preserves one's moral freedom, what we call in French one's quant a soi. And when one hears good talk one can join in it without compromising any opinions but one's own; or one can listen, and answer it inwardly. Ah, good conversation--there's nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing. And so I have never regretted giving up either diplomacy or journalism--two different forms of the same self-abdication." He fixed his vivid eyes on Archer as he lit another cigarette. "Voyez-vous, Monsieur, to be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it? But, after all, one must earn enough to pay for the garret; and I confess that to grow old as a private tutor--or a `private' anything--is almost as chilling to the imagination as a second secretaryship at Bucharest. Sometimes I feel I must make a plunge: an immense plunge. Do you suppose, for instance, there would be any opening for me in America-- in New York?

What the hell just happened?” Jesper asked. He was leaning against the railing, his rifle beside him. His hair was mussed, his pupils dilated. He seemed almost drunk, or like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. He always had that look after a fight. Helvar was bent over the railing, vomiting. Not a sailor, apparently. At some point they’d need to shackle his legs again. “We were ambushed,” Wylan said from his perch on the forecastle deck. He had his sleeve pushed up and was running his fingers over the red spot where Nina had seen to his wound. Jesper shot Wylan a withering glare. “Private tutors from the university, and that’s what this kid comes up with? ‘We were ambushed?’” Wylan reddened. “Stop calling me kid. We’re practically the same age.” “You’re not going to like the other names I come up with for you. I know we were ambushed.

that the more children are read to, the higher their test scores are—sometimes by as much as a half a year’s schooling. This was true regardless of a family’s income. He goes on to say that reading aloud has proven to be so powerful in increasing a child’s academic success that it is more effective than expensive tutoring or even private education.

Mr. Ansell was not merely a man of some education; he had what no education can bring — the power of detecting what is important. Like many fathers, he had spared no expense over his boy, — he had borrowed money to start him at a rapacious and fashionable private school; he had sent him to tutors; he had sent him to Cambridge. But he knew that all this was not the important thing. The important thing was freedom.

Well than try giving it some thought, why don’t you? Apply that finely tutored mind of yours to all those bullshit hero-with-a-high-destiny legends you people are so fucking fond of telling one another. You really think, in a mudball slaughterhouse of a world like this, where war and privation harden whole populations to inhuman brutality and ignorance, where the ruling classes dedicate their sons to learning the science of killing men the way they consign their daughters to breeding till they crack--you really think the gods of a world like that have got no better thing to do with their time than take some random piece of lowborn trash and spend long years carving him into shape for a cat’s-paw?

I tutored myself in the art of solemnity, kept my euphoria private, and adopted a serious demeanour in keeping with everyone else and the general ambience of the house. I continued my solitary daily walks about the estate, carefully choreographing scenes and conversations yet to happen. I returned to those places of our clandestine moments together, replaying them in my head, languishing in his treasured words . . . and sometimes adding more. I stood under frosty sunsets, my warm breath mingling with the cold evening air as I watched the silent flight of birds across the sky. And even in those twilit autumnal days I felt a light shine down upon my path. For though he was no longer at Deyning, no longer in England, the fact that he lived and breathed had already altered my vision; and nothing, not even a war, could quell my faith in the inevitability of his presence in my life.

It was a curious thing, said the private tutor; one of those grotesque and whimsical incidents which occur to one as one goes through life. I lost the best situation which I am ever likely to have through it. But I am glad that I went to Thorpe Place, for I gained — well, as I tell you the story you will learn what I gained.

You had to compete against students who’d grown up in rich families, attended private schools, hired personal tutors.

The Montreux Palace Hotel was built in an age when it was thought that things would last. It is on the very shores of Switzerland's Lake Geneva, its balconies and iron railings look across the water, its yellow-ocher awnings are a touch of color in the winter light. It is like a great sanitarium or museum. There are Bechstein pianos in the public rooms, a private silver collection, a Salon de Bridge. This is the hotel where the novelist Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov and his wife, Véra, live. They have been here for 14 years. One imagines his large and brooding reflection in the polished glass of bookcases near the reception desk where there are bound volumes of the Illustrated London News from the year 1849 to 1887, copies of Great Expectations, The Chess Games of Greco and a book called Things Past, by the Duchess of Sermoneta. Though old, the hotel is marvelously kept up and, in certain portions, even modernized. Its business now is mainly conventions and, in the summer, tours, but there is still a thin migration of old clients, ancient couples and remnants of families who ask for certain rooms when they come and sometimes certain maids. For Nabokov, a man who rode as a child on the great European express trains, who had private tutors, estates, and inherited millions which disappeared in the Russian revolution, this is a return to his sources. It is a place to retire to, with Visconti's Mahler and the long-dead figures of La Belle Epoque, Edward VII, d'Annunzio, the munitions kings, where all stroll by the lake and play miniature golf, home at last.

You’re not wearing drawers,” he murmured, his hand wandering avidly over her bare limbs. “It’s too hot today,” she said breathlessly, wiggling to evade him, pushing ineffectually at the mound of his hand beneath her dress. “I most certainly did not discard them for your benefit, and… Nick, stop that. The maid is going to come in at any moment.” “Then I’ll have to be fast.” “You’re never fast. Nick… oh…” Her body curled against his as he reached the patch of hair between her thighs, the sweet cleft already rich with moisture as her well-tutored body responded to his touch. “I’m going to do this to you next week at the Markenfields’ ball,” he said softly, running his thumb along the humid seam of her sex. “I’m going to take you to some private corner… and pull up the front of your dress, and stroke and tease you until you come.” “No,” she protested faintly, her eyes closing as she felt his long middle finger slide inside her. “Oh, yes.” Nick withdrew his wet finger and ruthlessly tickled the softly straining crest until he felt her body tensing rhythmically in his lap. “I’ll keep you quiet with my mouth,” he whispered. “And I’ll be kissing you when you climax with my fingers inside you… like this…” He thrust his two middle fingers inside the warm, pulsing channel and covered her lips with his as she moaned and shuddered violently. When he had siphoned the last few shivers of pleasure from her body, Nick lifted his mouth and smiled smugly into her flushed face. “Was that fast enough for you?” -Nick & Lottie

More fundamentally, meritocracy is impossible to achieve, because, as Young says, a meritocracy is always based on an imperfect definition of merit and often narrowly defined to favor training, connections, and education primarily available to the wealthy. Take Stanford. Because Stanford is filled with students with top high-school GPAs and SAT scores, administrators can pat themselves on the back and say, “We only admit the best students. We’re a meritocracy.” The students are encouraged to think similarly. But is it just a coincidence that the median annual family income of a Stanford student is $167,500 while the national median is roughly one-third that? Did those high-achieving students naturally get high SAT scores, or did they benefit from their parents’ paying for tutors and sending them to private schools? Privilege accumulates as you advance in life. If the college you attend is the basis of your future employment networks, then it is impossible to say that your employment success is solely based on merit.

I believe anyone can teach anyone anything. But I mean this in a specific sense. If you have two dedicated, reasonably intelligent people, one interested in teaching and the other wanting to learn, something great can happen. Think master and apprentice, mentor and protégé. For learning, small numbers win. The success of this one-on-one method is proven throughout history; many so-called prodigies were tutored by a parent or family friend (Einstein, Picasso, and Mozart all qualify). Yes, they had amazing, inherent talent, but they were still privately taught by people invested in their learning. Teaching is intimacy of the mind, and you can’t achieve that if you must work in large numbers.

You only needed one yes to be happy—medical school was like love in that regard. Some days her chances seemed promising, and other days she hated herself for clinging to this ridiculous dream. Hadn't she muddled her way through chemistry? Struggled in biology? You needed more than a good GPA to get into medical school. You had to compete against students who'd grown up in rich families, attended private schools, hired personal tutors. People who had been dreaming since kindergarten of becoming doctors. Who had family photos of themselves in tiny white coats, holding plastic stethoscopes to teddy bear bellies. Not people who grew up in nowhere towns, where there was one doctor you only saw when you were puking sick. Not people who'd stumbled into the whole idea of medical school after dissecting a sheep's heart in an anatomy class.

He had been a timid child in New York City, cut off from schoolboy society by illness, wealth, and private tutors. Inspired by a leonine father, he had labored with weights to build up his strength. Simultaneously, he had built up his courage “by sheer dint of practicing fearlessness.” With every ounce of new muscle, with every point scored over pugilistic, romantic, and political rivals, his personal impetus (likened by many observers to that of a steam train) had accelerated. Experiences had flashed by him in such number that he was obviously destined to travel a larger landscape of life than were his fellows. He had been a published author at eighteen, a husband at twenty-two, an acclaimed historian and New York State Assemblyman at twenty-three, a father and a widower at twenty-five, a ranchman at twenty-six, a candidate for Mayor of New York at twenty-seven, a husband again at twenty-eight, a Civil Service Commissioner of the United States at thirty. By then he was producing book after book, and child after child, and cultivating every scientist, politician, artist, and intellectual of repute in Washington. His career had gathered further speed: Police Commissioner of New York City at thirty-six, Assistant Secretary of the Navy at thirty-eight, Colonel of the First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry, the “Rough Riders,” at thirty-nine. At last, in Cuba, had come the consummating “crowded hour.” A rush, a roar, the sting of his own blood, a surge toward the sky, a smoking pistol in his hand, a soldier in light blue doubling up “neatly as a jackrabbit” … When the smoke cleared, he had found himself atop Kettle Hill on the Heights of San Juan, with a vanquished empire at his feet.

The leftist is always a statist. He has all sorts of grievances and animosities against personal initiative and private enterprise. The notion of the state doing everything (until, finally, it replaces all private existence) is the Great Leftist Dream. Thus it is a leftist tendency to have city or state schools—or to have a ministry of education controlling all aspects of education. For example, there is the famous story of the French Minister of Education who pulls out his watch and, glancing at its face, says to his visitor, “At this moment in 5,431 public elementary schools they are writing an essay on the joys of winter.” Church schools, parochial schools, private schools, or personal tutors are not at all in keeping with leftist sentiments. The reasons for this attitude are manifold. Here not only is the delight in statism involved, but the idea of uniformity and equality is also decisive; i.e., the notion that social differences in education should be eliminated and all pupils should be given a chance to acquire the same knowledge, the same type of information in the same fashion and to the same degree. This should help them to think in identical or at least in similar ways. It is only natural that this should be especially true of countries where “democratism” as an ism is being pushed. There efforts will be made to ignore the differences in IQs and in personal efforts. Sometimes marks and report cards will be eliminated and promotion from one grade to the next be made automatic. It is obvious that from a scholastic viewpoint this has disastrous results, but to a true ideologist this hardly matters. When informed that the facts did not tally with his ideas, Hegel once severely replied, “Um so schlimmer für die Tatsachen”—all the worse for the facts. Leftism does not like religion for a variety of causes. Its ideologies, its omnipotent, all-permeating state wants undivided allegiance. With religion at least one other allegiance (to God), if not also allegiance to a Church, is interposed. In dealing with organized religion, leftism knows of two widely divergent procedures. One is a form of separation of Church and State which eliminates religion from the marketplace and tries to atrophy it by not permitting it to exist anywhere outside the sacred precincts. The other is the transformation of the Church into a fully state-controlled establishment. Under these circumstances the Church is asphyxiated, not starved to death. The Nazis and the Soviets used the former method; Czechoslovakia still employs the latter.

What was it like then to witness the transformation wrought by this construction? A geometric idea of precision suddenly imposed on a landscape, lived on and in for centuries. The land itself like a body submitted to military discipline. Or like a mind, tutored along certain acceptable pathways, so that finally all that lies outside certain avenues of thought begins to assume an air of unreality. The land of course is still there. Only now it has receded into the background. It is what you see in your peripheral vision as you speed down the highway. The complexity of it, the intricate presence of it, has been reduced now to a single word, jungle. If once you breathed its breath or slept surrounded by its dark or wakened with its light, you no longer remember. You tell yourself life has improved. The jungle is in the past. To enter it is to stray from the path, or to be pulled down into some unknown depth. It is an exotic place, intriguing but also unpredictable, uncontrolled, threatening the well-paved order of existence.

The Times Exclusive Reveal of Windermere Six Thanks to an anonymous source, the Times is pleased to share an exclusive list of the six children who were transported yesterday evening to Hollingsworth Hall, the magnificent and secluded home of Camilla Lenore DeMoss, the Countess of Windermere. They are, in no particular order: Oliver Appleby: Heir to the Appleby Jewelry fortune. This young chap is known to be an excellent student who also excels at rowing and cricket. Viola Dale: The Dales are well known throughout London for their dedication to social reform and relief for those in distress. Young Viola has been a presence on the charitable event circuit since the age of two. Frances Wellington: Miss Wellington's parents are internationally known art collectors who have an impeccable eye for up-and-coming talent in sculpture and painting. They also delve into gems of historical value. Frances is privately tutored, and her deliciously expensive introduction to London society is already being buzzed about. Barnaby Trundle: Young Barnaby attends school in South London. His father works in the textile industry. One of his teachers says Barnaby is "occasionally quick-tempered with other boys in his form." Edward Herringbone: The Herringbones are close acquaintances with the aforementioned Dales, their own admirable interests lying mainly in reducing poverty by increasing educational opportunities. Edward has been called "an indubitable library of a boy" by one of his teaching masters at St. Stephen's. Tabitha Crum: Miss Crum's father is employed by the Wilting Bank of South London. A neighbor of the family says that the lucky child "talks to herself" and calls the Crums "socially famished.

After all,” she said, her eyes meeting his, “it’s not as though you lack sufficient charm to woo ladies. And you’re certainly handsome enough, in your own way.” She bent her head again. “Oh, stop looking s smug. I’m not flattering you, I’m merely stating facts. Privateering was not your only profitable course of action. You might have married, if you’d wished to.” “Ah, but there’s the snag, you see. I didn’t wish to.” She picked up a brush and tapped it against her palette. “No, you didn’t. You wished to be at sea. You wished to go adventuring, to seize sixty ships in the name of the Crown and pursue countless women on four continents. That’s why you sold your land, Mr. Grayson. Because it’s what you wanted to do. The profit was incidental.” Gray tugged at the cuff of his coat sleeve. It unnerved him, how easily she stared down these truths he’d avoided looking in the eye for years. So now he was worse than a thief. He was a selfish, lying thief. And still she sat with him, flirted with him, called him “charming” and “handsome enough.” How much darkness did the girl need to uncover before she finally turned away? “And what about you, Miss Turner?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Why are you here, bound for the West Indies to work as a governess? You, too, might have married. You come from quality; so much is clear. And even if you’d no dowry, sweetheart…” He waited for her to look up. “Yours is the kind of beauty that brings men to their knees.” She gave a dismissive wave of her paintbrush. Still, her cheeks darkened, and she dabbed her brow with the back of her wrist. “Now, don’t act missish. I’m not flattering you, I’m merely stating facts.” He leaned back in his chair. “So why haven’t you married?” “I explained to you yesterday why marriage was no longer an option for me. I was compromised.” Gray folded his hands on his chest. “Ah, yes. The French painting master. What was his name? Germaine?” “Gervais.” She sighed dramatically. “Ah, but the pleasure he showed me was worth any cost. I’d never felt so alive as I did in his arms. Every moment we shared was a minute stolen from paradise.” Gray huffed and kicked the table leg. The girl was trying to make him jealous. And damn, if it wasn’t working. Why should some oily schoolgirl’s tutor enjoy the pleasures Gray was denied? He hadn’t aided the war effort just so England’s most beautiful miss could lift her skirts for a bloody Frenchman. She began mixing pigment with oil on her palette. “Once, he pulled me into the larder, and we had a feverish tryst among the bins of potatoes and turnips. He held me up against the shelves and we-“ “May I read my book now?” Lord, he couldn’t take much more of this. She smiled and reached for another brush. “If you wish.” Gray opened his book and stared at it, unable to muster the concentration to read. Every so often, he turned a page. Vivid, erotic images filled his mind, but all the blood drained to his groin.

Reader's Digest (Reader's Digest USA) - Clip This Article on Location 56 | Added on Friday, May 16, 2014 12:06:55 AM Words of Lasting Interest Looking Out for The Lonely One teacher’s strategy to stop violence at its root BY GLENNON DOYLE MELTON  FROM MOMASTERY.COM PHOTOGRAPH BY DAN WINTERS A few weeks ago, I went into my son Chase’s class for tutoring. I’d e-mailed Chase’s teacher one evening and said, “Chase keeps telling me that this stuff you’re sending home is math—but I’m not sure I believe him. Help, please.” She e-mailed right back and said, “No problem! I can tutor Chase after school anytime.” And I said, “No, not him. Me. He gets it. Help me.” And that’s how I ended up standing at a chalkboard in an empty fifth-grade classroom while Chase’s teacher sat behind me, using a soothing voice to try to help me understand the “new way we teach long division.” Luckily for me, I didn’t have to unlearn much because I’d never really understood the “old way we taught long division.” It took me a solid hour to complete one problem, but I could tell that Chase’s teacher liked me anyway. She used to work with NASA, so obviously we have a whole lot in common. Afterward, we sat for a few minutes and talked about teaching children and what a sacred trust and responsibility it is. We agreed that subjects like math and reading are not the most important things that are learned in a classroom. We talked about shaping little hearts to become contributors to a larger community—and we discussed our mutual dream that those communities might be made up of individuals who are kind and brave above all. And then she told me this. Every Friday afternoon, she asks her students to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of four children with whom they’d like to sit the following week. The children know that these requests may or may not be honored. She also asks the students to nominate one student who they believe has been an exceptional classroom citizen that week. All ballots are privately submitted to her. And every single Friday afternoon, after the students go home, she takes out those slips of paper, places them in front of her, and studies them. She looks for patterns. Who is not getting requested by anyone else? Who can’t think of anyone to request? Who never gets noticed enough to be nominated? Who had a million friends last week and none this week? You see, Chase’s teacher is not looking for a new seating chart or “exceptional citizens.” Chase’s teacher is looking for lonely children. She’s looking for children who are struggling to connect with other children. She’s identifying the little ones who are falling through the cracks of the class’s social life. She is discovering whose gifts are going unnoticed by their peers. And she’s pinning down—right away—who’s being bullied and who is doing the bullying. As a teacher, parent, and lover of all children, I think this is the most brilliant Love Ninja strategy I have ever encountered. It’s like taking an X-ray of a classroom to see beneath the surface of things and into the hearts of students. It is like mining for gold—the gold being those children who need a little help, who need adults to step in and teach them how to make friends, how to ask others to play, how to join a group, or how to share their gifts. And it’s a bully deterrent because every teacher knows that bullying usually happens outside her eyeshot and that often kids being bullied are too intimidated to share. But, as she said, the truth comes out on those safe, private, little sheets of paper. As Chase’s teacher explained this simple, ingenious idea, I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. “How long have you been using this system?” I said. Ever since Columbine, she said. Every single Friday afternoon since Columbine. Good Lord. This brilliant woman watched Columbine knowing that all violence begins with disconnection. All

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Families are finding that they are getting funding from a variety of sources. One typical family has counseling covered through their insurance for family counseling, and counseling funded by a federally funded adoption support program for their child. They receive respite care funded through the Division of Developmental Disabilities. They pay privately for Sibshop, a well-loved program for the siblings of their special needs children. Since the Sibshop is through a non-profit organization, it is particularly affordable. Their school district pays for tutoring. After they specifically requested a review, they received an adoption subsidy available to older children through their state. The cost of braces was partially reimbursed by the adoption support system, as well. The combination of resources and financial relief allowed the parents to enjoy some outings, plan a simple family vacation, and get some household help. They said, “Without this help, we would not have made it as an emotionally intact family. We would not have disrupted, but we would not have been the unit that we are today.

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

The Four Global Options Now that you grasp the BIG picture, which includes your life values, your career values, your T-Bar, and current market conditions, it’s time to consider the four global options. I call these global options because, in reality, these are the only four job or career options you have. Option #1: Same job–same industry. Choosing Option #1 means you enjoy both and, most likely, need only conduct a job transition campaign to seek out a new company or organization. For example, a fifth grade teacher who is teaching in a public school may seek the same job (teacher) in the same industry (public school system); this teacher only needs to look at a new school in the same school district or to apply for a teacher’s position in a new school district. Option #2: New job–same industry. Option #2 means you enjoy the industry but need to identify a new job within that industry. Using the fifth grade teacher as an example again, she might seek a new job as an assistant principal or librarian. Or maybe she wants to earn more money than she would make as a teacher, so she becomes a sales professional and sells textbooks to educational institutions. The job transition campaign will take place within education, but she will identify and pursue a new, more inspiring, and more rewarding job within that industry. Option #3: Same job–new industry. If you select Option #3, it means you enjoy your job or vocation, but you need to identify a new industry or environment to perform that job in. The fifth grade teacher might get a job teaching for a private school (new industry or venue) or a private learning center, or she might even start her own tutoring business. In this case, the job transition campaign will focus on teaching but in a new, more appealing industry or venue. Option #4: New job–new industry. This option means you are ready for a wholesale change. Oftentimes this option is the option of choice if there’s a career or job you’ve always dreamt about. Or possibly you have a nice severance package or the financial means to return to school and prepare for an entirely new career. Possibly the fifth grade teacher always had a passion for antiques. In this case, she might pursue a job as a manager or even an owner of an antique store. Perhaps she’ll make the decision to stay home and be a full-time mom. The job transition campaign will focus on an entirely new job or activity in an entirely new industry or venue.

The students from the literary section had three written tests: Romanian, French and Latin; the scientific section needed math instead of Latin. Most of us had private tutoring in French and Latin for a few months before the matura. About a third of the candidates failed the written exam. The ones who succeeded took the orals. They were held in a large auditorium, at a high school and were open to the public. Five candidates faced a committee of eight teachers; the head of the committee was a university professor. None of the teachers were from our town. The orals took four to five hours, one group in the morning, another in the afternoon. The results were announced daily, late in the evening.

The Kronenfelds did not mind me sleeping in their crowded apartment, one more did not matter. They started looking for accommodation for me somewhere near them. A Romanian woman, who owned a beautiful private home, rented me a corridor, between one part of the house and the other. There was just a bed, a tiny table, a chair and an entrance door, no window. She warned me right then that no guests were permitted into my "room". If anybody would want to get in touch with me, the person would have to wait in the street, but not call my name either. Even if I could find students to tutor, nobody was allowed inside. Since I had no alternative, I took that "room".

What little private tutoring I’d done, to raise my standard of living, soon convinced me that the transmission of knowledge was generally impossible, the variance of intelligence extreme, and that nothing could undo or even mitigate this basic inequality.

We might all agree that everyone would be better off if there were less positional competition. It’s stressful, it’s wasteful, and it distorts people’s lives. Parents wanting only the best for their child encourage her to study hard so she can get into a good college. But everyone is doing that. So the parents push harder. But so does everybody else. So they send their child to after-school enrichment programs and educational summer camps. And so does everyone else. So now they borrow money to switch to private school. Again, others follow. So they nag at their youngster to become a great musician or athlete or something that will make her distinctive. They hire tutors and trainers. But, of course, so does everyone else, or at least everyone who has not gone broke trying to keep up. The poor child, meanwhile, has been so tortured by parental aspirations for her that she loses interest in all the things they have forced her to do for the sake of her future.

you’re the only one who’s asked after my health! Not one of my students has! The worst of them has even attempted to force a...a bride on me!

several first-years had approached me to say things like, “Will you be teaching here again?” “Please tell me when your next lecture is going to be,

I’ve received a request for assistance from the professor,” I said, inclining my head toward the headmaster. “He says, ‘I-I don’t need any more potential brides. I-I’ll collaborate on the decryption. H-Help!

The solution is simple,” she replied. “Stop reading at night.

The solution is simple,” she replied. “Stop reading at night.” “You might as well tell me to stop breathing.

Seeing her in glasses—too much time spent reading in bed had ruined her eyesight—was enough to pain a father’s heart.

The pair had forced an allowance on me ever since my return to the royal capital, and they would lecture me whenever I failed to spend it all. I hardly considered that reasonable.

Do you like scarlet?” It took me a moment to respond. “I am a man, you know.

you don’t need to compare yourself to other people.

I’m exercising my natural right as your little sister.

You’re my comrade, Wolf Pup,” she said. “So, what’s yours is mine. And what’s mine is mine.

I know that in some inarticulable way I have over the past week witnessed again her birth; the the sound of her agony, her despair, was the sound of a terrible, private process of creation. I see that she has become somebody. I realise, too, that the crying has stopped, that she has survived the first pain of existence and out of it wrought herself. And she has wrought me, too, because although i have not helped or understood, I have been there all along and this, I suddenly and certainly know, is motherhood; this mere sufficiency, this presence. With every cry she has tutored me, in what is plain and hard: that my affection, my silly entertainments, my doting hours, the particular self I tried to bring to my care of her, have been as superfluous as my fury and despair. All that is required is for me to be there: an 'all' that is of course everything, because being there involves not being anywhere else, being ready to drop everything.

She explained how, during her years of exile in France, she and her cousin Claudette had shared a private tutor. He was a man in his fifties, a bit of a tippler, who affected literary airs and boasted of being able to recite Virgil’s Aeneid in Latin without an accent. The girls had nicknamed him “Monsieur Roquefort

Strabo was an Asiatic Greek of Amasia in Pontus and an educated citizen of the Roman empire, who visited Rome in 44 BC at age 19 or 20, apparently for purposes of education. He studied under various teachers, including Tyrannion, a captive educated Greek and private tutor, who also instructed Cicero’s two sons. Strabo’s sole surviving work is Γεωγραφικά (Geography), an encyclopaedia of geographical knowledge, consisting of seventeen books written in Greek.

I have a handpicked company of knights ready to go—forty-seven in all,” Richard said. “No eldest children, no one with a spouse, child, or fiancée, and no one injured.” Without changing his expression, he added, “Oh, and needless to say, I’ll be joining you.” “I seem to recall you being an eldest child and having a fiancée,” I responded with forced levity.

Anna had finally succeeded in luring my dear sister out of her room using the aroma of my dear brother’s homemade pancakes,

I have my reasons,” I trepidatiously replied. “I wish you would get off of me.

My chest twists as I slip a joint from behind my ear and place it in my mouth, my tongue flicking the edge as it rolls across my lips. My private tutors called it an oral fixation, right before they’d try to lash it out of me, saying it was uncouth for a prince to be seen with things in his mouth. I tried to explain it kept me calm; kept away the obsessive thoughts and the anxiety churning like a stew in my gut. But they didn’t care how it made me feel, only what it made me look like.

Oh, that reminds me,” the professor continued, ignoring my misgivings. “Lydia is apparently in a foul mood. I’m told that she’s been all smiles at the palace.” All smiles? That meant danger—extreme danger. I ought to lock my doors and windows with care.

later learned that Hugo’s massive wealth also paid for two live-in nannies, a family driver, several household staff and a team of private tutors for his kids. Sylvia was well-off, but she was nowhere near Hugo’s level of affluence. Which meant, really, just the private tutors, a cleaner and a part-time housekeeper.

But the school day still wasn’t over. At that point, most kids went to private tutoring academies known as hagwons. That’s where they did most of their real learning, the boy said. They took more classes there until eleven, the city’s hagwon curfew. Then—finally—they went home to sleep for a few hours before reporting back to school at eight the next morning.

Gil? B-But why? Why?!” “How should I know?! I just felt like it!” he snapped.

John, someone from the royal family must fight. I’ll join the eastward march!

We go now not to save the royal capital,” the former duchess continued quietly. “Nor the eastern capital. We go to the aid of a single private tutor

Walter, I took the same stance four years ago, and I’ve been losing ground ever since. Give up.” “Never!” Walter took a moment to calm himself.

Darius's playful expression fell away. “If the Vegas are revealing their strength, we're all gonna have to remind everyone that we're stronger.” “But we're not stronger. Not once they're trained,” Caleb said. Max leaned back in his seat with a dark smile. “But we are trained. We've got four years on them. No strength beats that and you all know it.” Even though we were only sophomores at Zodiac, we'd had private tutors since our early Awakening at fifteen years old. There was no way they could catch up on us. “So what are you suggesting?” I asked. “We remind this school who the real monarchs are,” Max said keenly. “It's time we put the Vegas back in their box.” I shared a brief look with Caleb, our secrets radiating between us. How am I going to put Darcy in her place when my body is telling me to protect her? And how is Caleb going to beat down Tory when he's clearly catching feelings for her? I sighed, knowing I had to say it as I looked to Max. “Sorry bro, I can’t do shit right now. Darcy’s my Omega.” “What?” Max snapped and a low growl sounded from Darius. I raised my hands in innocence. “It was an accident.” “Well fix it,” Darius demanded. “I’m working on it,” I sighed, but was I really? “I’m enjoying my fun with Tory,” Caleb said with a casual shrug and Darius shot him a death glare. “I say we just hope for them to fail The Reckoning.” “And if they don’t?” Max snarled. “We’ll deal with it then,” I said and Caleb nodded in agreement. “It’s only a week.” “Fine,” Max huffed, sitting back in his seat. “But if they pass, we’ve gotta come up with a better plan than the last one.” “Sure,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t like to admit it even to myself but I knew I was holding off on forcing Darcy from my pack on purpose. Heat radiated from Darius and I could tell something was still bothering him. “What is it?” I nudged him and his scowl grew. “If they are Dragons, Father is going to have his own thoughts on the best way to deal with them.” “Do you think you might really end up married to one of them?” Caleb asked with a worried look. “No...that's the thing.” Darius shook his head, his brow heavily furrowed. “If he believes they’re about to emerge as Dragons, I don't think he'll take that lying down. In fact, I think he'd rather kill them before that ever happens.” (Seth)

I’d never felt the slightest vocation for teaching—and my fifteen years as a teacher had only confirmed that initial lack of vocation. What little private tutoring I’d done, to raise my standard of living, soon convinced me that the transmission of knowledge was generally impossible, the variance of intelligence extreme, and that nothing could undo or even mitigate this basic inequality. Worse, maybe, I didn’t like young people and never had, even when I might have been numbered among them. Being young implied, it seemed to me, a certain enthusiasm for life, or else a certain defiance, accompanied in either case by a vague sense of superiority toward the generation that one had been called on to replace. I’d never had those sorts of feelings.

History is my strong suit." She had long ago taken it upon herself to read every book in the palace library, after discovering just how flimsy her education was. While the sons and daughters of palace courtiers came home from school each day brimming with new knowledge, Jasmine was kept at home with a tutor--- and her private lessons in etiquette and art weren't exactly the foundation that kings were built on. Sometimes Jasmine had the sneaking suspicion that Taminah never expected her to end up on the throne at all, that she was preparing the princess to be a royal wife instead. After all, she had mentioned more than once the possibility of Jasmine having a son in the future who could rule in her stead. But one other thing the older woman had done right was introduce Jasmine to books, especially Agrabah's myths and fables, in which terrors jumped from every page. Stories with heroes and demons so vivid, they could have been real. After she had read all the stories she could get her hands on, Jasmine moved on to history texts and illustrated maps. Hers might have been an incomplete education, but those books allowed a sheltered princess to see some of the world, both real and imagined. And they gave her a window into the past.

At the age of seven Jane Austen was sent away to Oxford with her sister Cassandra and her cousin Jane Cooper to be taught by a private tutor. 59 In the summer of 1783, after the tutor and her pupils moved to Southampton, all three girls fell ill with typhus, and Jane Austen nearly died. She and her sister recuperated at home and then joined their cousin in 1785 at the Reading Ladies’ Boarding School, but were removed at the end of the following year, putting a stop to their tuition. By the time Jane Austen was eleven years old, her formal education was over.

A few years later, when she was fourteen, Holland elaborated: ‘She has a thirst after knowledge of every kind to the greatest degree. She has made great proficiency in Latin and Greek and is making the same advance in French and Italian…It is a pity she was not a boy for then such studies would turn to better account…I know not where this will end but is not a likely mode to get her well married.’ 56 Holland’s own daughter Margaret was given a basic education at home, with private tutors for music and French, but she never married. In spite of her education, Elizabeth did marry in 1825, at the age of twenty-eight, becoming the wife of John Sandford, Archdeacon at Wells in Somerset.

Everyone in the Hierarchy knows about the Academy. The children of senators and knights are usually privately tutored, but some very few get to spend the last eighteen months of their childhood at Caten’s most prestigious institute. Being groomed for leadership, politics, the Senate. Catenan dignity and glory.

Privately, I have reached my own conclusion: there is no slower measurement of time than the week between my tutoring sessions with Lane Rhodes.

I know that you were pulled out of school and that your parents hired a private tutor.” “Yeah, Stephen Graham Jones. Funny that I remember his full name like that, but that’s how he was introduced to me. He wouldn’t let me call him mister like my regular teachers, and I liked saying his whole name out loud, whenever I could. It became a little OCD tic of mine. I’d say, ‘Good-bye, Stephen Graham Jones,’ or, ‘I don’t know what an obtuse triangle is, Stephen Graham Jones.

In this regard I saw a sudden surge of private outreach surrounding each family and each child in need. Waves of individuals began to form personal relationships, beginning with those who saw the family every day—merchants, teachers, police officers on the beat, ministers. This contact was then expanded by other volunteers working as “big brothers,” “big sisters,” and tutors—all guided by their inner intuitions to help, remembering their intention to make a difference with one family, one child. And all carrying the contagion of the Insights and the crucial message that no matter how tough the situation, or how entrenched the self-defeating habits, each of us can wake up to a memory of mission and purpose. As this contagion continued, incidents of violent crime began mysteriously to decrease across human culture; for, as we saw clearly, the roots of violence are always frustration and passion and fear scripts that dehumanize the victim, and a growing interaction with those carrying a higher awareness was now beginning to disrupt this mind-set. We saw a new consensus emerging toward crime that drew from both traditional and human-potential ideas. In the short run, there would be a need for new prisons and detention facilities, as the traditional truth was recognized that returning offenders to the community too soon, or leniently letting perpetrators go in order to give them another chance, reinforced the behavior. Yet, at the same time, we saw an integration of the Insights into the actual operation of these facilities, introducing a wave of private involvement with those incarcerated, shifting the crime culture and initiating the only rehabilitation that works: the contagion of remembering. Simultaneously, as increasingly more people awakened, I saw millions of individuals taking the time to intervene in conflict at every level of human culture—for we all were reaching a new understanding of what was at stake. In every situation where a husband or wife grew angry and lashed out at the other, or where addictive compulsions or a desperate need for approval led a youthful gang member to kill, or where people felt so restricted in their lives that they embezzled or defrauded or manipulated others for gain; in all these situations, there was someone perfectly placed to have prevented the violence but who had failed to act. Surrounding this potential hero were perhaps dozens of other friends and acquaintances who had likewise failed, because they didn’t convey the information and ideas that would have created the wider support system for the intervention to have taken place: In the past perhaps, this failure could have been rationalized, but no longer. Now the Tenth Insight was emerging and we knew that the people in our lives were probably souls with whom we had had long relationships over many lifetimes, and who were now counting on our help. So we are compelled to act, compelled to be courageous. None of us wants to have failure on our conscience, or have to bear a torturous Life Review in which we must watch the tragic consequences of our timidity.

Every culture seems to have customs to ward off evil. Italians use the curved horn, and Eastern European Jews used to say insulting things to babies, such as “Oy, such an ugly girl!” to avoid tempting the devil. America’s magic charms are private education, science camp, and SAT tutors to ward off our evil: personal failure. Mothers

Post-script: When my tutor got a famous scholarship and went to Oxford, he broke my heart, of course. I sobbed in cafés and hotel bars, bored my friends half to death, and thought myself tragically bereft. I cannot in all honesty claim to have been liberated from anything in particular by my relationship with this man. I hated his subject and was bad at it, failed it twice and did not care. He made me laugh, that's the main thing I remember. I often felt he was privately laughing at me, from the eminence of his twenty-four years. This made me watchful and defensive....it had never occurred to me to call what happened between me and my tutor 'sexual harassment' or 'abuse of power'.

For a period of twenty years, from the 1925 Gong Lum decision until the end of World War II, the majority of Delta Chinese received little formal schooling of any kind. Those families with younger children who could not travel hired private tutors. Such was the case with the Dongs, the Jees, and the Gees of Ruleville, the Gongs and Lings in Duncan, and the Jues in Indianola. For the older children, there was the option of moving out of state or to towns on the fringes of the Delta, such as Marks, Crenshaw, and Senatobia, which continued to allow Chinese students to attend white schools.

It's an established fact that the very few naturally gifted "born teachers" are enormously more effective than the great mass of those in the teaching profession who teach with care and attention and even with good new ideas, but without the charisma and the flair that distinguish the best teachers as well as the best actors. In my ideal school of the future, children would assemble each afternoon for sports, music, and club activities that require group interaction. The mornings would be reserved for individual study, probably at home. The child would be in a private room in one-on-one interaction with a "tutor," the realistic, holographic presentation of an actual human being, one of the rare, inspiring, one-in-a-thousand superbly gifted teachers. Brief lectures, personally directed to the student, with lots of eye contact, would be aided by all possible tricks of costuming and special effects, but those lectures would have been staged as carefully as a dramatic movie

the disciplinary functions of culture have in fact not been dissolved so much as privatized. They are located less in a shared order of meaning such as Protestant thrift, parental authority, or injunctions against gluttony, and more in the professional nagging services provided by financial planners, tutors, and personal trainers.

LARGE FUNERAL HOMES Same with real estate: most people, I am convinced, are happier in close quarters, in a real barrio-style neighborhood, where they can feel human warmth and company. But when they have big bucks they end up pressured to move into outsized, impersonal, and silent mansions, far away from neighbors. On late afternoons, the silence of these large galleries has a funereal feel to it, but without the soothing music. This is something historically rare: in the past, large mansions were teeming with servants, head-servants, butlers, cooks, assistants, maids, private tutors, impoverished cousins, horse grooms, even personal musicians. And nobody today will come to console you for having a mansion—few will realize that it is quite sad to be there on Sunday evening.

If you die, I’ll kill you, and don’t you forget it.

Lydia was quite tall, and she had kept growing after we started school together, so it had taken me a while to overtake her. It was one of the few areas in which I clearly surpassed her...the others being cooking, doing laundry, sewing, and putting people to bed.

I decided to at least keep the real reason I had failed the court sorcerer exam to myself. If Lydia found out that I’d lost my temper and beaten the second prince to a pulp because he’d mocked her and insulted my family,

That’s all for today’s lesson. I’ll be teaching you another three or four times, and beginning with our next lesson, I’ll be asking you to show me what you’re capable of. I wish you all good fortune in the battle to claim seats for lunch.

A pair of dark figures met me outside the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Walker.” “Mr. Allen,” they answered in unison, “if you want to lay your hands on Ellie, you’ll have to defeat us first!” Their love was a little overbearing. But as you can see, one of my hands is occupied with books, and— What? You’re still going to do this? I see. Very well. Good grief... As it turned out, they were both masters of close-quarters combat at a level that was rare even in the capital. ✽ “Allen, sir. Good mor— Wh-What happened to you?! You’ve hurt your face!

They did indeed!” he affirmed. “The rookies on the ground there were calling you a—” “Repeat it and you won’t even live to see the moon rise tonight,” Lydia said,

So, it was finally time. All those who knew of the headmaster’s address feared it as the most powerful sleeping spell in existence, said to have lulled even a raging demonic beast to slumber.

I shoved Richard ahead of me as a shield. Don’t bother resisting; it’s my belief that hardships should be shared. Now stop struggling and let’s go die—ahem, try to sort this out. “S-Stop it, Allen! Th-Think of my lovely, lovely fiancée!” Richard begged.

when I saw drafts of the illustrations for the new characters, a devil whispered in my ear, “They sure are cute. Give them more appearances. Come on! Cut out the headmaster!” “No,” an angel pleaded to restrain me. “You’ll have to rewrite another chapter if you do that! At least make it the professor!” While the angel and devil met in single combat,

uncomfortably...persistent in their questions about my relationship with Tina and Ellie. They had lost their tempers when I said that I wouldn’t marry either girl, and then they had lost their tempers again when I had joked that I would.

G-Grandma told me that ‘if you can win over a gentleman’s stomach, you’ll most likely crush the competition

You’re just like Lisa, you— Ow!” “You have some nerve, bringing up another woman,” she said after a tense pause. “Do you want to be incinerated?” “She’s your mother!” I protested.

I had already forked over $1,000 for a preparatory course, feeding the U.S. test-prep and private tutoring industry that would grow to $12 billion in 2014 and is projected to reach $17.5 billion in 2020.

Miss Mile, you know that this is a home tutoring request, right? You won’t be the student, but the teacher.” “Of course!” Mile was indignant. “B-but, this is for a scholarship exam for the August Academy… um, the August Academy is a private school here in the capital, for wealthy commoners and poor—um, nobles who don’t have very much room in their budgets. It’s an all-girls school. The entrance exam is a written test and a magic practicum. The physical and combat exams are just a practical assessment, so…” “Wh-what are you implying?! I was an outstanding pupil at the academy in my home country!” “Huh?” “Whaaaaaaaaat????” Upon overhearing that Mile was trying to take yet another strange job, the other hunters all butted in at once. “And just what barbaric country was that?!?!?!?!” “What on earth do you think is wrong with me?!?!

Maybe he would have to recite poetry to her to kindle her interest. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten most of the stuff he’d memorized for his tutors in his youth. All he recalled were a few limericks that had been popular with the soldiers during the war. The fewer retellings of the one featuring a plucky private named Doracio, the better.

Blanket permission for Harry to use his wand against Snape. Acknowledgment of one of Harry’s strengths, in a manner that is useful for the lesson. This is what it looks like when Snape actually teaches Harry magic. It’s a private lesson tailored to him because he needs the protection, delivered as sincerely as Lupin’s Patronus tutoring.

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

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