Pushed To The Brink Quotes

I like you. I. Like. You. I'll admit you're annoying. Sometimes you agitate me to the brink of insanity, but you can throw it back at me like no one else. When you laugh, I want to laugh. When you smile, I want to smile. Hell, I want to be the one to make you smile.

The secret is not to give up hope. It's very hard not to because if you're really doing something worthwhile I think you will be pushed to the brink of hopelessness before you come through the other side. - GEORGE LUCAS

What is a monster if not a man pushed to the brink?

You are a universe,” he reverentially whispered, and then his game began. A game of pushing me to the brink, of building the anticipation... and leaving me stranded in the midst of it.

It just goes to show that what one person considers a "bad attitude" might actually just be total frustration over being pushed beyond the brink of one's mental and physical endurance.

It's said that science will dehumanize people and turn them into numbers. That's false, tragically false. Look for yourself. This is the concentration camp and crematorium at Auschwitz. This is where people were turned into numbers. Into this pond were flushed the ashes of some four million people. And that was not done by gas. It was done by arrogance, it was done by dogma, it was done by ignorance. When people believe that they have absolute knowledge, with no test in reality, this is how they behave. This is what men do when they aspire to the knowledge of gods. Science is a very human form of knowledge. We are always at the brink of the known; we always feel forward for what is to be hoped. Every judgment in science stands on the edge of error and is personal. Science is a tribute to what we can know although we are fallible. In the end, the words were said by Oliver Cromwell: "I beseech you in the bowels of Christ: Think it possible you may be mistaken." I owe it as a scientist to my friend Leo Szilard, I owe it as a human being to the many members of my family who died here, to stand here as a survivor and a witness. We have to cure ourselves of the itch for absolute knowledge and power. We have to close the distance between the push-button order and the human act. We have to touch people.

destroy me. love me. warp my image in photoshop with filter presets push me off the brink of sanity. edit my sister sister fan fiction without my permish

And bloody hell. This journeyed far beyond “like,” rocketed straight past “fondness,” and pushed all the way to the brink of absurdity.

Men who call women crazy are always the men who have first pushed them to the brink.

On the brink of sleep I have a gloomy thought: that saving yourself is only pushing yourself even deeper into the trap rather than getting out. Dying is the only way out.

That's exactly where you're wrong! Any kind of person can murder. Purely circumstances and not a thing to do with temperament! People get so far -- and it takes just the least little thing to push them over the brink. Anybody. Even your grandmother. I know.

There was a pervasive idea that girls were all on the brink of madness. It took much less than anyone had previously believed to push a girl over the edge. A single novel could do it. A complicated idea could do it.

...Moving pictures and flying machines nth seemed like magic at one time. It's not a huge leap to believe that what seems irrational or magical now ill be commonplace in the future. I believe everyone has magical powers. However, only certain people - the ones who are open to it - can tap into the true capacity of the mind and push the current brink of human thought. Some are called geniuses, some are called prophets, others are called witches.

Certain attacks brought him so close to death that I wonder how he escaped it, what imperceptible shock—coming from whom?—pushed him back from the brink.

Push yourself to the brink of exhaustion into the crossroads of excitement and anxiety. Embrace the risks taken, and never acknowledge the shadows of doubt that stretch across your path. It is only there where you will discover a personal success that exceeds the pictures painted in your dreams

Liberty can’t be saved by those who retire into their ivory towers or take to the hills, so to speak, to bemoan its plight.2 It is the individual who is active who pushes liberty over the brink—or rescues her—depending on the nature of his actions. Inactive people are as uninfluential on this question as is any inert mass.

Because this week I’ve started in on a hundred reproductions of Rembrandt van Rijn, a hundred portraits of the old artist with the mushroom face, the face of a man pushed to the brink of eternity by art and drink, the door handle starting to turn, the final door pushed open from without by an unknown hand, and I’m beginning to have his puff-paste face, that peeling, piss-soaked wall of a face, I’m beginning to smile his half-moronic smile, to look at the world from the other side of human causes and events, and all my bales these days are framed with that portrait of Rembrandt van Rijn as an old man while I keep filling my drum with wastepaper and open books.

It isn't as if he doesn't mess up a lot anyway... And it's really easy to bait him... But. He is the number two power hitter on the team, behind only azumane. And more than that... Even when pushed to the brink... He stills has the mental toughness to keep going and not let his performance suffer. There's no denying that he has the makings of an Ace.

I refuse to push my body to the brink of exhaustion and destruction. Let the chips fall where they may. I trust myself more than capitalism. Our refusal will make space for abundance.

But what feels better, after a taxing day that pushes you to the brink of the strong person seen by everyone but yourself, a day that reinforces your belief that you are, in fact, weak and incapable? What feels better in that moment than to be held, to be loved, to bare yourself to someone else and know you're accepted? This is what I saw in Dominic's gaze as he stood before me, then – a single-minded, stalwart power behind his ever-deep eyes that said he needed more than words and perfunctory touches the likes of which most family members could just as easily provide.

I forced my way to the brink, stepped into the boat, pushed it, with the help of the tree-branches, out into the stream, lay down in the bottom, and let my boat and me float whither the stream would carry us.

over the ages the two great factions of mages had refined their philosophical differences into the purest contrarianism. Solamancers and noctomancers went to great lengths to be on the opposite sides of every debate, be it political, social, religious, or inane. Even amid such cultivated animosity, however, there were still forces that could push the two orders of mages to the brink of cooperation. One common example was real estate prices.

If you walk out now, I’m done. I will never forgive you. For any of it.” My voice is hard, enraged, pushed past the brink. He hesitates a moment and then says, “I love you, but I don’t need your forgiveness, Precious. I just need your power.

When I was pushed to the brink of loneliness and gender agony as a third grader, when I didn’t know how to communicate with the adults in my life about what was going on, I channeled my anger at my own body, my own existence. When the world made who I was feel impossible, I began to see my own body as an impossibility. For years of my life, I told myself this was normal. That kids just thought about killing themselves sometimes. That every third grader had experienced that. In order to move on with my life, I had to normalize it.

Nothing in the record of human history argues for divine morality, and a great deal argues against it. What we know is that good people very often suffer terribly, while the perpetrators of horrific evil backstroke through all the pleasures of the world. There is no evidence that the score is ever evened in this life or any after. The barbarian Andrew Jackson rejoiced in mass murder, regaled in enslavement, and died a national hero. For three decades, J. Edgar Hoover incited murder and perfected blackmail against citizens who only sought some equal pursuit of liberty and happiness. Today his name is affixed to a building that we are told was erected in the pursuit of justice. Hitler pushed an entire people to the brink of extinction, escaped human censure, and now finds acolytes among some of the very states he conquered. The warlords of history are still kicking our heads in, and no one, not our fathers, not our Gods, is coming to save us.

The aged Summerlea nurse pushed past Valik and Laci and stalked over to his sickbed. “You are supposed to be sleeping.” Her face scrunched up in an expression of severe disapproval. She didn’t care that he was king. She chided him like she might any misbehaving schoolboy. He almost smiled. It was clear Tildavera Greenleaf was accustomed to being in charge, and equally accustomed to speaking her mind and having her orders obeyed. But this was one order he had no intention of heeding. “I’ve slept long enough. Khamsin told me you were the best healer in all of Mystral, and it’s clear she wasn’t exaggerating. You did a fine job bringing me back from the brink of death. I’m sure you can keep me clinging to life a while longer.” The old woman’s lips pursed. “My patients do not ‘cling to life,’ ” she snapped. “I pride myself on their making a full and miraculous recovery. But carting them all about the countryside with their insides hanging out is not at all conducive to that outcome!

The only chance of a rupture is if Mubarak decides to push Gamal toward the presidency despite objections put forward by the military. The reason the military may object is that Gamal, unlike Nasser, Al-Sadat, and Mubarak himself, is not from within their own military ranks. Some point to the possibility of a military coup in such circumstances.

In an age of nothing, at time when we stand at the brink of our own destruction. Strengthen your belief in yourself, in the future of humanity, in the things of this world which cannot easily be percieved, awaken that which lies dormant now within your soul. Re-ignite the flame of your consciousness, and measure the strength of your conviction. Reveal the lie, renounce your hatred. Seek, find and embrace the truths you are fortunate enough to discover. Cherish them, use them to anchor you in the sea of chaos that is the world we live in. When twilight drwas near, when you are pushed to the very limits of your soul, when it seems that all you have left are the dead remnants of the fabric of your life... Believe.

There is nothing scarier than living every moment with the fear of your very existence being snatched away. To save my existence, I must kill.”- The Psychopath “You know why I love to hunt? My mind interprets a human’s final breath as his apology: an apology of existence.”- The Cannibal “Can love and friendship push you to the brink of a murderous crisis? ”- The Lover

It is often said that the First World War killed Romanticism and faith in progress, but if science facilitated industrial-scale slaughter in the form of the war, it also failed to prevent it in the form of the Spanish flu. The flu resculpted human populations more radically than anything since the Black Death. It influenced the course of the First World War and, arguably, contributed to the Second. It pushed India closer to independence, South Africa closer to apartheid, and Switzerland to the brink of civil war. It ushered in universal healthcare and alternative medicine, our love of fresh air and our passion for sport, and it was probably responsible, at least in part, for the obsession of twentieth-century artists with all the myriad ways in which the human body can fail. ‘Arguably

Dire?” the girl asks. And learns from the ranger that the Joshua trees may be on the brink of extinction. Botanists believe they are witnessing a coordinated response to crisis. Perhaps a drought, legible in the plants’ purplish leaves, has resulted in this push. Seeds in abundance. The ancient species’ Hail Mary pass. Yucca moths, attracted by the flowers’ penetrating odor, are their heroic spouses, equally dependent, equally endangered; their larval children feast on yucca seeds.

Men are taught to view women as “less than.” Far too many aspects of manhood and masculinity are defined by devaluing women. Men are taught to have higher expectations of our sons and lower expectations of our daughters. That’s because the men before us taught us to minimize and trivialize the experience of women and girls—even the women and girls in our own lives. We pass that teaching on to our sons and other boys. I’m not saying this is true for every man, but I am saying that it happens far too often, with far too many of us.

As the scandal spread and gained momentum, Cardinal Law found himself on the cover of Newsweek, and the Church in crisis became grist for the echo chamber of talk radio and all-news cable stations. The image of TV reporters doing live shots from outside klieg-lit churches and rectories became a staple of the eleven o’clock news. Confidentiality deals, designed to contain the Church’s scandal and maintain privacy for embarrassed victims, began to evaporate as those who had been attacked learned that the priests who had assaulted them had been put in positions where they could attack others too. There were stories about clergy sex abuse in virtually every state in the Union. The scandal reached Ireland, Mexico, Austria, France, Chile, Australia, and Poland, the homeland of the Pope. A poll done for the Washington Post, ABC News, and Beliefnet.com showed that a growing majority of Catholics were critical of the way their Church was handling the crisis. Seven in ten called it a major problem that demanded immediate attention. Hidden for so long, the financial price of the Church’s negligence was astonishing. At least two dioceses said they had been pushed to the brink of bankruptcy after being abandoned by their insurance companies. In the past twenty years, according to some estimates, the cost to pay legal settlements to those victimized by the clergy was as much as $1.3 billion. Now the meter was running faster. Hundreds of people with fresh charges of abuse began to contact lawyers. By April 2002, Cardinal Law was under siege and in seclusion in his mansion in Boston, where he was heckled by protesters, satirized by cartoonists, lampooned by late-night comics, and marginalized by a wide majority of his congregation that simply wanted him out. In mid-April, Law secretly flew to Rome, where he discussed resigning with the Pope.

Lots of people have been taught to see homeless folks as the epitome of laziness, and to believe that laziness is the root cause of homeless people's suffering. This tendency to blame people for their own pain is comforting, in a twisted way; it allows us to close up our hearts and ignore the suffering of others. This same tendency also keeps us running endlessly on the hamster wheel of hyperproductivity. When we view homeless, unemployed, or impoverished people as victims of their own "laziness," our motivations to work backbreakingly hard gets stronger than ever. The fear of ending up homeless morphs into the fear of not working hard enough, which in turn makes life an endless slog of pushing ourselves past the brink and judging anyone who doesn't do the same. Lacking compassion for a struggling group of people actually makes it harder for us to be gentle with ourselves. Fighting the Laziness Lie can't stop at just encouraging people with full-time jobs to relax a bit and take more breaks.

When a person gives attention to unresolved issues of the past, she often must work through resistance and apprehensions. To dismantle rigid defenses, interpret unconscious motives, or reflect on unexplored feelings we must sometimes push the client to the brink of her patience and endurance. She must confront parts of herself that have been deeply buried, and she must risk the consequences of relinquishing coping strategies that have worked fairly well until this point, even with their side effects and collateral damage. There is a risk (or perhaps even a certainty) that some destabilization will occur. In order to attain real growth, the client must often be willing to experience intense confusion, disorientation, and discomfort. She leaves behind an obsolete image of herself, one that was once comfortable and familiar, and she risks not liking the person she will become. She will lose a part of herself that can never be recovered. She risks all this for the possibility of a better existence, and all she has to go on is the therapist’s word.

The American share of the crisis began with grossly improper mortgages provided to wholly unqualified borrowers, all directly caused and encouraged by government distortion of and interference in the market. The government’s market deformation and market intervention was in turn the result of two factors: political favouritism and Leftist ideology, on the one hand; and upon the other, corruption: the blatant cooption of such Friends of Angelo as Mr Dodd and of such bien-pensant Lefties as Mr Frank. The stability and efficiency of any market is directly proportional to the amount and trustworthiness of market information. The Yank Congress, for blatantly partisan and ideological reasons, gave out false information to the market, pushing lenders into making bad loans and giving out, with the appropriate winks and nudges, that Fannie (will Americans ever realise how that sounds) and Freddie, imperfectly quangoised, were ‘really just as good as the Treasury’ and were in any case ‘too big to [be let] fail’: which, as it happens, was untrue. Similarly, this moronic mantra of ‘too big to fail’ was chanted desperately and loudly to drown out the warning sounds of various financial institutions on the brink and of the automobile industry. Incomprehensible sums of public money were thrown at these corporations so that they could avoid bankruptcy, and have succeeded only in privatising profit whilst socialising risk.

Hungrily, Nick pulled her with him into the hot rain of the shower-bath. Turning her face out of the stream of water, Lottie rested her head on his shoulder, standing passively as his hands slid over her body. Her breasts were small but plump in his hands, the nipples turning hard in the clasp of his fingers. He shaped his hands over her unrestricted waist, the swell of her hips, her round backside... caressing her everywhere, moving her against the engorged length of his sex. Moaning, she parted her thighs in compliance with his exploring hand, pushing her delicate flesh against his stroking thumb. As he entered her with his fingers, she gasped and instinctively relaxed at the gentle penetration. He caressed her, stroking in deep, secret places that brought her to the brink of climax. When she was ready to come, he lifted her against the tiled wall, one arm beneath her hips, the other behind her back. She made a sound of surprise and clung to him, her eyes widening as he pushed his cock inside her. Her flesh closed tightly around him, swallowing every inch of his shaft as he let her settle against him. "I've got you," he murmured, her slippery body locked securely in his arms. "Don't be afraid." Breathing fast, she rested her head back against his arm. With the hot water falling against his back, and the lush female body impaled on his, every lucid thought promptly evaporated. He filled her in heavy upward surges, again and again, until she cried out and clamped around him in luxurious contractions. Nick held still, feeling her quiver around him, the depths of her body becoming almost unbearably snug. Her spasms seemed to pull him deeper, drawing waves of pleasure from his groin, and he shuddered as he spent inside her.

THE SK8 MAKER VS. GLOBAL INDUSTRIALIZATION This new era of global industrialization is where my personal analogy with the history of the skateboard maker diverges. It’s no longer cost-effective to run a small skateboard company in the U.S., and the handful of startups that pull it off are few and far between. The mega manufacturers who can churn out millions of decks at low cost and record speed each year in Chinese factories employ proprietary equipment and techniques that you and I can barely imagine. Drills that can cut all eight truck holes in a stack of skateboard decks in a single pull. CNC machinery to create CAD-perfect molds used by giant two-sided hydraulic presses that can press dozens of boards in a few hours. Computer-operated cutting bits that can stamp out a deck to within 1⁄64 in. of its specified shape. And industrial grade machines that apply multicolored heat-transfer graphics in minutes. In a way, this factory automation has propelled skateboarding to become a multinational, multi-billion dollar industry. The best skateboarders require this level of precision in each deck. Otherwise, they could end up on their tails after a failed trick. Or much worse. As the commercial deck relies more and more on a process that is out of reach for mere mortals, there is great value in the handmade and one of a kind. Making things from scratch is a dying art on the brink of extinction. It was pushed to the edge when public schools dismissed woodworking classes and turned the school woodshop into a computer lab. And when you separate society from how things are made—even a skateboard—you lose touch with the labor and the materials and processes that contributed to its existence in the first place. It’s not long before you take for granted the value of an object. The result is a world where cheap labor produces cheap goods consumed by careless customers who don’t even value the things they own.

Demonstrating for peace to promote war was nothing new. Totalitarianism always requires a tangible enemy. To the ancient Greeks, a holocaust was simply a burnt sacrifice. Khrushchev wanted to go down in history as the Soviet leader who exported communism to the American continent. In 1959 he was able to install the Castro brothers in Havana and soon my foreign intelligence service became involved in helping Cuba's new communist rulers to export revolution throughout South America. At that point it did not work. In the 1950s and 1960s most Latin Americans were poor, religious peasants who had accepted the status quo. A black version of liberation theology began growing in a few radical-leftist black churches in the US where Marxist thought is predicated on a system pf oppressor class ( white ) versus victim class ( black ) and it sees just one solution: the destruction of the enemy. In the 1950s UNESCO was perceived by many as a platform for communists to attack the West and the KGB used it to place agents around the world. Che Guevara's diaries, with an introduction by Fidel Castro, were produced by the Kremlin's dezinformatsiya machine. Changing minds is what Soviet communism was all about. Khrushchev's political necrophagy ( = blaming and condemning one's predecessor in office. It is a dangerous game. It hurts the country's national pride and it usually turns against its own user ) evolved from the Soviet tradition of sanctifying the supreme ruler. Although the communists publicly proclaimed the decisive role of the people in history, the Kremlin and its KGB believed that only the leader counted. Change the public image of the leader and you change history, I heard over and over from Khrushchev's lips. Khrushchev was certainly the most controversial Soviet to reign in the Kremlin. He unmasked Stalin's crimes, but he made political assassination a main instrument of his own foreign policy; he authored a policy of peaceful coexistence with the West but he pushed the world to the brink of nuclear war; he repaired Moscow's relationships with Yugoslavia's Tito, but he destroyed the unity of the communist world. His close association with Stalin's killings made him aware of what political crime could accomplish and gave him a taste for the simple criminal solution. His total ignorance about the civilized world, together with his irrational hatred of the "bourgeoisie" and his propensity to offend people, made him believe that disinformation and threats were the most efficient and dignified way for a Soviet leader to deal with "bourgeois" governments. As that very clever master of deception Yuri Andropov once told me, if a good piece of disinformation is repeated over and over, after a while it will take on a life of its own and will, all by itself, generate a horde or unwitting but passionate advocates. When I was working for Ceausescu, I always tried to find a way to help him reach a decision on his own, rather than telling him directly what I thought he should do about something. That way both of us were happy. From our KGB advisors, I had learned that the best way to ut over a deception was to let the target see something for himself, with his own eyes. By 1999, President Yeltsin's ill-conceived privatization had enabled a small clique of predatory insiders to plunder Russia's most valuable assets. The corruption generated by this widespread looting penetrated every corner of the country and it eventually created a Mafia-style economic system that threatened the stability of Russia itself. During the old Cold War, the KGB was a state within a state. In Putin's time, the KGB now rechristened FSB, is the state. The Soviet Union had one KGB officer for every 428 citizens. In 2004, Putin's Russia had one FSB officer for every 297 citizens.

In 1982, when Arafat and his Fatah fighters were besieged in Beirut, on the brink of being pushed out of Lebanon by the Israelis, Gaddafi sent him an open telegram suggesting his best option was to kill himself. “Your suicide will immortalize the cause of Palestine for future generations,” he said. “There is a decision which, if taken by you, no one can prevent. It is the decision to die. Let this be.” Arafat is reported to have replied that if Gaddafi would like to join him, he might consider it.

For instance, in 1927, one dictionary still viewed dragons as real but rare, stating:  A huge serpent or snake (now rare); a fabulous monster variously represented, generally as a huge winged reptile with crested head and terrible claws, and often as spouting fire; in the Bible, a large serpent a crocodile, a great marine animal, or a jackal.5 But, again, this makes sense. As people spread out and settled in more lands, dragons, which were largely rare creatures anyway, were pushed to the brink of extinction.

Unfortunately, there were no Jeffersonian democracies in the Middle East that the United States could enlist as allies. This was the legacy of colonialism and of past US support for dictatorships that satisfied America's priorities of opposing the Soviet Union, assuring America's access to energy, and support for the State of Israel.

And I took the opportunity to push for the regulatory reforms I had long advocated.

I pushed our team to ask for the most expansive authorities, with as few limitations as possible, because I knew we had only one chance to get this from Congress.

He has people pushing him the wrong way,

See,” she cried, “the river-bank— the dark rushing stream. Ah, we are all alone, side by side, far away from every one. Fool! if you could read my heart, would you walk so near to the giddy brink ? Do you think the memory of the old love will stay my hand when the chance comes? Old love is dead: you beat it, cursed it to death. How fast does the stream run ? Can a strong man swim against it ? Oh, if I could be sure — sure that one push would end it all and give me freedom! Once I longed for love — your love. Now I long for death — your death. Oh, brave swift tide, are you strong enough to free me forever ? Hark ! I can hear the roar of the rapids in the distance. There is a deep fall from the river cliff; there are rocks. Fool ! you stand at the very edge, and look down. The moment is come. Ah !

Menopause, like all times of transition, is a time between stories, when the old story fades and a new story is waiting to emerge. Its invitations are manifold. It’s a liminal time, when we hover on the brink of profound transformation. During this period of intense physical change, it’s also necessary to turn inward, to embark upon the inner work of elderhood — the work of reimagining and shaping who we want to be in the world, of gaining new perspectives on life, of challenging and evolving our belief systems, of exploring our calling, of uncovering meaning, and ultimately finding healing for a lifetime’s accumulation of wounds. Menopause is the threshold place we occupy before that new expedition to the country of elderhood properly begins: the waiting room in which we quietly sit and meditate on the unknown that is to come. The trick to navigating that space is not to push too hard, but to let the new story emerge in its own time, and to sit with, and perhaps even learn to cherish, the uncertainty.

I’ll remember those words fondly the next time I’m pushing my cock deep into you, Celeste. When I’ve got you on the brink of an orgasm, my name on your lips, I’ll make you eat those words before I make you beg for more. And you will. You’ll beg, just like you did that night.

Breathing raggedly, he gripped his cock, pumping a few times with his fist as he centered himself with my hole. One white-knuckled hand was still clamped around my knee as he pushed inside me, just an inch, an agonizing slow slide. Reed’s mouth fell open as he watched us come together, watched me stretch and yield to his thickness. My fingertips dug into the mat on either side of me as I panted, on the brink of another orgasm before he even filled me to the hilt. “Jesus, Halley…” Hissing out my name, he leaned farther over me, planting one hand on the mat as he pulled out, then slid back in halfway. “You’re so fucking tight.” I

Our countries have pushed each other to the brink of destruction,” she continued, walking to gaze out a window at the conflagration, and I followed. “We have both lost much, but for enduring peace, we must each gain a victory.” She assessed me, her eyes calculating. “I did not misjudge you, back when you were living in exile in that cave. We can work together, but Hytanica must make certain concessions.” “Then state your demands.” “You already know we desire crops, tools, seed, planting and irrigation knowledge. I am willing to trade for those things--jewels, precious metals and advancements we have that you have yet to discover. I have other concerns, however. The first is perhaps the most significant. Will your kingdom recognize you as its ruler or will it clamor for a King?” Her question took me aback, but I knew better than to be insulted. She was well aware of the history of my kingdom and was well informed as to the unsettled state of provincial rule. “Yes, they will,” I asserted, making steady eye contact. “Over the past six months, the citizens have been adjusting to me in that role. I have dealt with their concerns, eased their pain, guided the rebuilding of our city, reestablished foreign trade and reinstated some of our traditions, such as the Harvest Festival. And I am their Queen, duly crowned and with the right by blood to the throne. I can also assure you that no one will be crowned King, for Narian is the man to whom I will bind myself. But just as it is here in Cokyri, I will not head the military.” “And the men--Cannan, London, Steldor, the others--you can control them?” “No,” I answered honestly. “Nor would I want to. But they will not go behind my back. Neither will they flout me. We learned to work with one another and trust each other when we were in exile. I will always seek their advice, but I will be the one making the decisions.” “Very well, then. Peace may well be possible.

I’ve gotten into tons of fights before, but nothing like this. I’m trying to push a gangster past the brink. A gangster from a gang that kept my father drenched in sweat and nightmares. A gangster almost double my size. Howie better be watching.

It was clear that the only hope for salvation lay within the river itself, and yet people froze at the edge of the water, seemingly too overcome by shock or fear to actually plunge in.  It was at this time that Father Pernin, accustomed to baptizing people to save their souls, found himself forcibly “baptizing” his neighbors to save them: “The whirlwind in its continual ascension had, so to speak, worked up the smoke, dust, and cinders, so that, at least, we could see clear before us. The banks of the river as far as the eye could reach were covered with people standing there, motionless as statues, some with eyes staring, upturned towards heaven, and tongues protruded. The greater number seemed to have no idea of taking any steps to procure their safety, imagining, as many afterwards acknowledged to me, that the end of the world had arrived and that there was nothing for them but silent submission to their fate. Without uttering a word … I pushed the persons standing on each side of me into the water. One of these sprang back again with a half smothered cry, murmuring: "I am wet"; but immersion in water was better than immersion in fire. I caught him again and dragged him out with me into the river as far as possible. At the same moment I heard a splash of the water along the river's brink. All had followed my example. It was time; the air was no longer fit for inhalation, whilst the intensity of the heat was increasing. A few minutes more and no living thing could have resisted its fiery breath.

While “Irwin lookalikes” hassle animals on the screen, they “unwittingly [record] our dysfunctional relationship with [nature], teaching our children to both fear and subjugate creatures already pushed to the brink of extinction.

He needed to focus. They were going to the range today and he couldn’t be thinking about her like this if he was trying to teach her how to shoot. “Where’s your IFAK?” Emily frowned. Reza almost laughed at the expression on her face. She was priceless. “My what?” He kept forgetting she didn’t speak the language. “Your first aid kit? Where is it?” He pulled his thoughts back from the brink of inappropriateness as she leaned forward on her knees. “Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?” he asked, his voice rough. She looked back over her shoulder and Reza’s entire body tightened. She had no fucking idea how sexy she was at that moment, army uniform and all. She knelt in front of him, pushing up on her knees with a frustrated sound. “I have no idea.” His gaze dropped to her lips, parted in frustration. She was there, just there. And Reza surrendered to the temptation. He leaned in. Slowly, so that she could back away if she wanted to. Slowly, so as not to frighten her off. Slowly, until his top lip brushed hers. A gentle nudge. A hesitant question. And her soft, yielding answer as her bottom lip opened, just a little, just enough as she leaned in, opening to his touch. He’d done stupid things in his life before and he would do stupid things again. Of that much he was certain. But his brain didn’t register the movement as stupid.

Kat was breathing steadily now but Lock knew he would never forget the feeling of relief that had swept over him when he saw her draw that first, shallow gasp as they pushed the stretcher out of the shuttle. He still didn’t know why she’d come back to them from the brink of death, only that he was desperate to keep her. “How

The Shriver Report reveals this quiet reality: The people who we expect to raise us, care for us, and work to support us are too often left unsupported and uncared for.

But what feels better, after a taxing day that pushes you to the brink of the strong person seen by everyone but yourself, a day that reinforces your belief that you are, in fact, weak and incapable? What feels better in that moment than to be held, to be loved, to bare yourself to someone else and know you are accepted?

The government must rethink its strategy toward the Bedouin, or else those in the area who are armed will turn it into the war that Cairo seems to be pushing for.

Unanswered questions are the source of true evolution, pushing mankind and its imagination onward past the brink of the unknown, in to realms never thought possible. Scenarios never thought conceivable. Created of pure fiction but ensconced within realistic possibilities where the impossible soon becomes the inevitable.

My God!” Sophia sat back, her eyes wide with horror. “It’s a drug! He’s drugging her and she doesn’t even know it.” Here we go. “It’s common knowledge that we’re genetic traders—the fact that we have more than one means to attract a mate of an entirely different species should come as no surprise,” he pointed out. “You…you cold blooded bastard.” Sophia shook her head. “Poor Liv—she has no idea what he’s doing to her.” “It wouldn’t matter even if she did,” Sylvan explained patiently, ignoring her insults. “The mating scent is too strong to fight, even with advanced warning. Stronger species than yours have tried and they have all failed. With very few exceptions.” He closed his eyes briefly thinking of Feenah, of her pure white hair and pale crystal eyes. I’m sorry, Sylvan… “It’s not right. You’re not fighting fair.” Sophia’s words pushed back the painful memory and Sylvan opened his eyes again to see the look of despair and anger on her lovely face. She looked almost on the brink of tears. Wonderful—she was even more upset and irrational than he had thought she would be. He supposed he ought to feel irritated. Instead, the illogical urge to hold and comfort her came over him so strongly that he had to sit back and cross his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her. “I believe you humans have a saying that covers this—‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Is that right?” he said softly. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—” Sylvan leaned forward again and took her soft, small hands between his own larger ones. “You must understand, Sophia—Baird isn’t trying to trick your sister into anything. He’s simply using every power at his disposal to keep her. Because he needs her—he loves her. She is the only woman in the entire universe for him and the bond that will form between them will be one of undying love and devotion.” “Maybe for him.” She looked down as though mesmerized by the sight of her own small hands being engulfed in his much larger ones. “But not for Liv. He’s going to trick her into having bonding sex with him —whatever that is—and then she’ll spend the rest of her life hating him once she finds out how he did it.” She looked up at Sylvan. “You don’t know her like I do—she hates being lied to. Her last boyfriend cheated on her and then lied about it and she dumped him and never looked back. If she knew what Baird was doing to her…” “It’s not as though it’s a conscious choice on his part,” Sylvan tried to explain. “It’s the way our bodies react chemically to our chosen mates. We can’t turn it off, even if we try. Sometimes it comes even when it’s not wanted. We have a saying for it—‘The blood knows what the mind does not wish to see.’” Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek and brushed away the single tear that had escaped her wide green eyes with his thumb. “It cannot be helped.” Sophia

The 2008–2009 Great Recession also sent U.S. auto sales plunging from nearly 17 million in 2005 to 10.4 million in 2009, helping push the U.S. industry to the brink of collapse.

Jon spat on Tom, thumbing the thin saliva into him before spitting again, this time into his hand to stroke his cock with. When he pushed himself into Tom’s body, it was with a low moan of pleasure, and he moved slowly for a few strokes, letting Tom’s passion catch up as the first mate jerked the thick cock between his legs. Jon fell forward with one arm locked around Tom’s neck, the other around his torso, and his forehead pressed to the scars and tattoos on the first mate’s back as he slid his length into Tom’s heat. He brought himself close twice, three times, four… stopping each time on the very brink to rest shaking and panting against Tom. Jon could feel the first mate’s heart beating hard and fast, his tanned skin slick as he also held himself back. Finally, even the slightest movement became too much, and Jon pushed himself up off Tom to pound quickly into him, his hands tight around the first mate’s narrow hips. With a strangled cry, Jon spilled over, his cock throbbing as the hot, liquid current crackled through him, and he shuddered, blind and deaf to anything but his fevered, breathless climax.

Too much had happened already. Mental and emotional exhaustion had completely taken over my life lately, and today had pushed me to the brink of what I could handle.

the closure of Irish whiskey’s two biggest markets and the general restriction of trade from the two world wars, combined with most Irish distillers’ steadfast refusal to adopt the milder blended style of Scotch whisky, pushed Irish distilling to the brink in the 1960s. The remaining distillers in the Republic merged in 1966 to form Irish Distillers Ltd. They built a modern joint distillery in Midleton in 1975, and 11 years later they bought out Bushmills in the north. All Irish whiskey was now made by one company — one company, against the world.

And part of me thinks he loves that I push him to the brink, just so he has an excuse to punish me. Is that what I want? I know better. If only it wasn’t so fun to test his limits like he does in return.

My existence is excess. Every cell of this body was made to be pushed to the brink and beyond. I can never get enough.

Tomiyama... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you over the edge like this. But I guess this shows how close you were to the brink of snapping." "Shut up!" "But if you keep spiraling in despair and end up destroying everything... then from here on for the rest of your life... you'll only keep suffering.

What is a monster if not a man pushed to the brink?" Matteo murmured.

No, this run, Badwater, my entire desire to push myself to the brink of destruction, was about me. It was about how much I was willing to suffer, how much more I could take, and how much I had to give. If I was gonna make it, this shit would have to get personal.

It could have easily been a formula for disaster-but it worked. Right from the start, the two Emils found that they shared a deep intellectual divide that ran through the front lines of oncology: the rift between overmoderated causation and bold experimentation. Each time Freireich pushed too hard on one end of the experimental fulcrum-often bringing himself and his patients to the brink of disaster-Frei pushed back to ensure that the novel, quixotic, and often deeply toxic therapies were mitigated by causation. Frei and Freireich's battles soon became emblematic of the tussles within the NCI. "Frei's job," one researcher recalled, "in those days was to keep Freireich from getting in trouble.

Their gazes separated temporarily as their minds were pushed to the brink of collapse. They needed rest. When the three pairs of eyes met once again, they were uncertain and erratic, like candles flickering in the wind. Evil! Evil! Evil! We’ll become devils! We’ll become devils! We’ll become devils! “But... what are they thinking?” Dongfang Yanxu asked softly. To the two vice-captains, her voice, while soft, seemed to linger uninterrupted in the white space, like the buzz of a mosquito. Yes. We don’t want to become devils, but who knows what they’re thinking. Then we’re already devils, or how else could we think of them as devils unprovoked? Very well, then we won’t think of them as devils. “That won’t solve the problem,” Dongfang Yanxu said with a gentle shake of her head. Yes. Even if they aren’t devils, the problem remains. Because they don’t know what we’re thinking. Suppose they know that we’re not devils? The problem still exists. They don’t know what we’re thinking about them. They don’t know what we’re thinking about what they’re thinking about us. That carries on in an endless chain of suspicion: They don’t know what we’re thinking about what they’re thinking about what we’re thinking about what they’re thinking about what we’re... How can this chain of suspicion be broken? Communication?

I am wary of the emerging new consensus around MMT. Of course, I understand that when rates are near zero or negative, governments can increase spending and debt, boosting national economic growth, without facing ballooning debt-service costs. But that magical thinking cannot last forever. Gaping deficits today are causing debt ratios to rise despite those low prevailing interest rates. Absent a powerful and lasting level of economic growth, some sort of event will eventually lance the worldwide debt bubble. The COVID-19 pandemic has pushed us close to the brink. The next shock is likely to push us over.

Sometimes I thought the secret to Pre’s appeal was his passion. He didn’t care if he died crossing the finish line, so long as he crossed first. No matter what Bowerman told him, no matter what his body told him, Pre refused to slow down, ease off. He pushed himself to the brink and beyond. This was often a counterproductive strategy, and sometimes it was plainly stupid, and occasionally it was suicidal. But it was always uplifting for the crowd. No matter the sport—no matter the human endeavor, really—total effort will win people’s hearts.

Chemical pollutants not only disrupt ecosystems but also pose direct threats to the health and reproductive capabilities of freshwater species, pushing them closer to the brink of extinction.

Whitney never thinks about Xavier in this way. With him, she could never see past the day, the hour, the boy he is in that very moment. Needing, wanting, challenging. Pushing her right to the very brink.

Although he didn’t like my message, he didn’t push back as hard as I’d expected.

the responsibility for the events that combined to push India to the brink of default must lie with Rajiv Gandhi and V. P. Singh.

There was no unity to their attack. These were not wolves, pack animals that coordinated to dominate a larger prey. They were mercenaries, single fighters who relied on their skills with a blade and nothing - and no one - else. Had they struck him in concert, the Incubi might have pushed Lucius to the brink of defeat, or at least driven him away from their charge. They were exemplary, their craft honed to a brilliant edge, and fast as quicksilver. United, they would have been a terrible foe. As individuals, they were an amusing challenge, but nothing more. It last seven clashes before the first Eldar fell. The alien crashed to the deck, trying in vain to stymie the slopping discharge of his guts with arms that no longer had hands. Decreased by a third, the potency of the other two visibly diminished. Lucius could focus a greater share of his murderous attention on each of them, reducing their chances of survival from slim to non-existent. The second would die screaming, eventually, as Lucius crushed him in the grip of his lash and pitched him into the abyss. The third paused, shoulders heaving with exertion, before leaping at Lucius, its silver glaive flashing high. The Eldar came crashing down before the Eternal, blood spurting from the stump where its head had been moments before.

It seems as though most of us have less and less space to think creatively or imaginatively, if at all. Even among people who work within the ‘creative industries’, their imagination seems increasingly harnessed to create demand for things nobody really needs, whose production is increasingly pushing our human and ecological systems to the brink of collapse – almost as if imagination has been coopted in the service of our own extinction.

Last time on the Anime Trope System, Clyde and Team Stone dealt with one of their biggest problems yet: an unexpected and uncalled for visit from the Punishment Squad. Group Eight, known as one of the most reckless and destructive divisions, was sent to conduct an investigation concerning Venus’s appearance and other major figures involving themselves with the Stone, possibly illegally. Haruko, captain of Group Eight, had other plans. His disobedience of Atlas’s orders brought Team Stone to the brink of death. But… Even when they’re overmatched, Team Stone should never be underestimated. Pushed to the edge, they fought back with strength that could only be awakened with backs to the wall. Unfortunately, there was still a loss, a casualty. Showing her love for the first time, Amaterasu took a blast from a Punisher’s attack that would’ve surely killed Melody and anyone near her. Her sacrifice didn’t go in vain. Through the power of friendship…

I returned to Denmark in 1975 and was part of a group trying to set up an international lesbian front. To my surprise all kinds of new lesbians were “coming out” of the women’s movement. Although we had wanted this to happen it was surprising when it did, and difficult to adjust to. I had known some of the women as heterosexual feminists and it was hard to accept them as the new experts on lesbian political theory. They seemed in some way to lack what I felt was a lesbian identity, though I was unable to analyse quite why. I went to a lesbian conference in Amsterdam, with women who didn’t know and couldn’t have cared that there had been one there ten years before, and how important it had been. I sought out some of the 1965 lesbians and found them now quite anti-political. “We can’t stand all these new lesbians,” they said, “they’re so negative.” I disagreed, of course, on principle, but somehow there was less joy in the air. Unemployment was starting to happen in Europe, political discussions seemed different, we talked more about rape and violence, about men and what they were doing to the world. We talked less and less about sisterhood until finally we didn’t talk about it at all, because none of us could really believe in it quite the way we had when the sun shone and it was always summer, and the whole world was poised on the brink of change. I asked one of the new lesbians to dance at a social after a meeting. Then I tried to kiss her, gently, as we had been doing for the previous five years. She pushed me away roughly and said I was behaving like a man. I felt hurt and didn’t understand. I got drunk in a corner with some twenty-year-olds, crying into the schnapps bottle and trying to explain to them that there was something happening now that wasn’t what I thought I’d fought to achieve. Something uptight, critical, rejecting. Something not quite— lesbian. I was only 35, but I was beginning to feel like an old woman of the movement. Most of the lesbians my age were not to be found in the lesbian movement. Many were back working in the mixed homophile organizations, now changing their names to associations of gay men and women. Or they were branching out to start women’s refuges, getting involved in the peace movement, active in the political women’s movement. I had moved to Norway and found that the only lesbian group I wanted to work in was called The Panthers, involved in social and cultural activites of lesbian poetry, discussions, and sing-alongs. I got involved with the Norwegian F48 and a huge split over Marxist-Leninist politics, which resulted in the formation of the Worker’s Homophile Association (AHF)— which turned out to be not at all marxist anyway. It all made for interesting political intrigues, but I grew tired and began working very hard so that I could spend part of each year back in Aotearoa/New Zealand. My work as a tour guide made saving money easy, especially doing lots of trips through the USSR, where there were few consumer temptations. I did, of course, and dangerously, search for Soviet lesbians whenever I could.

The satanic spirit of the secret sect will push the Church to the brink of collapse. Apostasies will occur, from the secret sect that has influenced education by monetary support, in countries of the western world. Contempt for the sacred will include, trying to eliminate consecration of the bread and the wine from the Holy Mass. This is still an ultimate goal of the Freemasonry/Illuminati.

I’ve always been like that—if I’m not pushed to the brink, I won’t move.

Just a moment of heat and bruising pressure; a moment of gasping breaths and warring tongues as they half-fought, half-claimed each other with slick strokes and biting teeth and the mating of lips to lips. Push and pull, give and take, ever and always this tug of war between them that drew on both Seong-Jae’s body and his heart, leaving him teetering on the brink of sinking.

For the sake of brevity, accept the point that the incessant accusations of racism pushed conservatives to the brink. And once one party decides the other party’s thoughts are beyond the bounds of polite conversation, that doesn’t mean the conversation is over. All that means is that polite conversation ends. The conversation goes somewhere else; it spirals.

In the end, history would march on toward a future where people would still be pushed down, kept away, and discarded. Maybe once she'd hoped that by destroying the Brink, she could change the future, but with everything that had happened, she wasn't so sure anymore. Fear and hatred and ignorance seemed so...inevitable.

His weight lifted, and his hand reached between her thighs, stroking and opening her. She felt a nudge, an adjustment as he aligned himself, then steady pressure at her entrance. He was so hard, his flesh like steel, but he was gentle and controlled, taking his time. She gasped as her muscles gave way and the broad tip pushed inside, stretching her, keeping her open. He held still, his hands stroking her hips and bottom. All her nerves tingled and sparked in anticipation, knowing how good it was going to be. She pressed back against him, and he sheathed himself in a slow, wet plunge, all the way inside, deeper than she'd ever been filled before. He went in at just the right angle, pressing where she most wanted. Her body gripped him, or tried to, except the invasion was so thick, her muscles only fluttered and throbbed instead of clenching down. She felt almost as if she were at the brink of release. And to her astonishment... she was. She was about to tip over into a sea of mind-dissolving pleasure. "Wait," she heard Keir say through the clamor of her heartbeat. His hands were on her hips, keeping her close and tight. For some reason it aroused her intolerably, knowing he was trying to stop her from climaxing. She tried to drive herself back on the hard shaft inside her, unable to get enough of its even though she was stretched to the limit. Raising up on her forearms, she writhed and pushed desperately against him. Keir's husky laugh caressed her ears as he leaned over her. He held her hips snugly against his, allowing only a sense of motion, a subtle grinding that wasn't nearly enough. Very gently, he closed his teeth on the side of her neck and soothed it with his tongue. "Tell me how good it feels," he whispered. Merritt fought for the breath to reply. "It feels too good. I want to come... I want to spend... oh, please, Keir..." "Spend," he repeated, and smiled against her shoulder. "I like that word for it." He withdrew just an inch, and rolled his hips upward. "Aye, I want your pleasure. Spend it all on me." She sobbed and squirmed, able to feel the motion of him deep in her belly, but it wasn't enough. "Harder. Please." The rhythmic drives grew longer, more aggressive. "No one else could ever feel this good to me," he said. "No other woman in the world. Only you." He reached beneath her to cup the round weights of her breasts, and began to pinch and tug at her nipples. Not sharply but not softly, the little flashes of discomfort somehow magnifying her pleasure. His hand slid down her front and between her thighs, finding the taut peak of her sex. The gently massaging fingers, the steady pumping, set off an explosion of pleasure that spread to every part of her body and kept unfolding and renewing itself. The release was so powerful, it left her dazed and too weak to move. She was only vaguely aware of Keir's climax, the quiet growl he pressed against her skin, the rough shudders that ran though him.

There is so much love in his eyes that I don’t need words to know he loves me. His love is deep, emotional, barely contained, and he wants to give me the feelings that have already overwhelmed him and seemingly pushed him to the brink.

The secret is just to not give up hope. It’s very hard not to, because if you’re really doing something worthwhile I think you will be pushed to the brink of hopelessness before you come through the other side. And you just have to hang in through that.” ~ George Lucas

Opportunity becomes a family tradition when we design programs and policies with the whole family’s educational and economic future in mind and help them access the social networks needed to make it in life.

Without light, our circadian rhythms quickly get decalibrated and we lose all sense of time. You can sleep for an entire day and think you’ve just taken a quick catnap. You can be down underground for months and think it was just weeks. Artificial light doesn’t help, because you can turn that on and off. If you take away the difference between night and day, you start pushing the human mind right to the brink of insanity.

I turned a rich god into a beggar. A surge of power spirals through me, pushing me to the brink of insanity.

That is, the responsibility for the events that combined to push India to the brink of default must lie with Rajiv Gandhi and V. P. Singh. It was then left to Chandra Shekhar and Narasimha Rao to arrest the slide and clean up the mess. And the credit for understanding the seriousness of the situation and acting in time must go to the two of them.

Rest has been revolutionary for my soul. This book is a testimony and testament of my refusal to donate my body to a system that still owes a debt to my Ancestors for the theft of their labor and DreamSpace. I refuse to push my body to the brink of exhaustion and destruction. Let the chips fall where they may. I trust myself more than capitalism. Our refusal will make space for abundance. We will have to leap and trust rest. May the ground underneath hold us, and if we must collapse, may a soft pillow be there.