R&aw Quotes

You're in an awfully good mood," he observed. "Was there a sale at Khakis-R-Us?

You're getting into some kind of shape, cop." Aw, come on, now." Butch grinned. "Don't let that shower we took go to your head." Rhage fired a towel at the male. "Just pointing out your beer gut's gone." It was a Scotch pot. And I don't miss it.

Life is amazing. And then it's awful. And then it's amazing again. And in between the amazing and awful it's ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That's just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it's breathtakingly beautiful.

I need a world filled with wonder, with awe, with awful things. I couldn't exist in a world devoid of marvels, even if the marvels are terrible marvels. Even if they frighten me to consider them.

True knights protect the weak.” He snorted. “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.” Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.” “I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful.

I knew a brother drowned himself in wine once. It was a poor vintage, though, and his corpse did not improve it." "You drank the wine?" "It's an awful thing to find a brother dead. You'd have need of a drink as well, Lord Snow.

    The weapon gave a rusty croak. ‘I don’t normally do weather reports anymore,’ the gun informed him politely.      ‘Why is that?’      ‘Ever since the demise of the old metropolis, there has been no control of the weather systems. Anyone who would have appreciated a weather forecast perished an awful long time ago. Besides, every time I started to inform my potential victims of the current cloud formations, or wind velocity, or barometric pressure, or potential precipitation, they simply ran away.

As a collective exhale hit the airwaves, Qhuinn found himself looking over at Blay. Aw, hell, talk about a suck zone—this was why he avoided the guy like the plague. Just one glance and he was locked on, all kinds of reactions rolling through him, until the room spun a little— For no good reason, Blay’s eyes flipped up and met his. It was like getting goosed in the ass with a live wire, his body spasming to the point where he had to hide the reaction by coughing while he glanced away. About as smooth as a crater. Yup. Fantastic.

You're in an awfully good mood," he observed. "Was there a sale at Khakis-R-Us?" I gave up on my artistic interpretation and turned to him. "Nope. Brayden just broke up with me." Adrian's smirk faded. "Oh. Shit. I'm sorry. Are you... I mean, do you need a drink? Do you need to, uh, cry or anything?

You’re awful.” “I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful.

What the f*ck do you want from me?” He had to laugh. “Please. If I were running this show, you’d have had her back down here months ago and I’d be long f*cking gone.” Tohr laughed a little in surprise. “Aw, come on, my man,” Lassiter muttered. “I don’t want to screw you. You’re too flat chested, for one thing—I’m a boob man. And for another, you’re a good guy. You deserve better than this.” Now Tohr looked downright shocked.

I'm honest. It's the world that's awful - Sandor Clegane, The Hound. ASOIAF

No, sweeties, don't let them do that to you. You were there for more than forty-eight hours, and that awful part lasted one hour. Don't let them take that away from you, okay?

I could never stand to be a writer. Not a real writer. It's entirely too awful, having thoughts that refuse to become sentences.

Some terrible requirement of being a teenager is being absolutely awful when your parents are being lovely.

You were wrong, Gram," I said softly, tone emotionless because I was resigned to the awful, lonely truth of it. "Love doesn't save our souls. It kills them.

May the Father judge him justly. Now, there's an awful prospect.

For his own sake and for that of those around him, a man must be prepared for the awful, shrieking moment of truth when he realizes he is all alone on a hill ten thousand miles from home, and that he may be killed in the next second.

Out into the staff quarters. Over to the entrance to the movie theater. Tohr stopped dead. “If this is another Beaches marathon, I’m going to Bette your ass until you can’t sit down.” “Aw, look at you! Trying to be finny.” “Seriously, if you have any compassion in you at all, you’ll let me go to bed—” “I have peanut M&M’s up there.” “Not my style.” “Raisinets.” “Feh.” “Sam Adams.” Tohr narrowed his eyes. “Cold?” “Downright icy.” Tohr crossed his arms over his chest and told himself he was not pouting like a five-year-old. “I want Milk Duds.” “Got ’em. And popcorn.” With a curse, Tohr yanked open the door and ascended into the dimly lit red cave.

Layla brought her arms around herself, no doubt because she was remembering the feel of another, stronger set. "I have wanted to, but he holds back. I hope...I believe it is because he wishes to mate me properly first, in ceremony." Payne felt the awful weight of premonition. "Beware, sister. You are a gentle soul." Layla got to her feet, her smile now saddened. "Yes, I am. But I would rather my heart be broken than unopened and I know that one must ask if one is to receive.

Life is amazing. And then it's awful. And then it's amazing again. And in between the amazing and the awful, it's ordinary and mundane and routine. Breathe in the amazing, hold on through the awful, and relax and exhale during the ordinary. That's just living heartbreaking, soul-healing, amazing, awful, ordinary life. And it's breathtakingly beautiful.

Stepping onto the bath mat, that was also done in that god-awful deep pinky red, he toweled himself off. Still erect. Glancing at his fighting clothes, he found himself loath to put them upon his skin. Rough. Scratchy. Dirty. Mayhap the feminine environment was contaminating him. Xcor ended up in the big bed, naked, upon his back. Still erect.

Don't hide your scars, your stretch marks, your laugh lines, your calloused hands. They are your life story, telling of struggles won and lost, challenges faced, losses overcome, life grown and birthed and nurtured, hard work accomplished, stars reached for, hopes dashed, dreams realized, rock bottoms and mountain tops. They tell the story of your one amazing, awful, beautiful life written in the curves and lines of extraordinary, miraculous, beautiful you.

Watching someone warp your image and tell your story however they choose, knowing you have no power to stop it? No voice? That's how we all felt, watching you. Pretty awful, huh?

I had but one love and it is gone and now there is nothing and I tell you, that is the most awful feeling in the world.

God is looking for people through whom He can do the impossible—what a pity that we plan only the things we can do by ourselves. —A.W. TOZER

How awful it was. Early maturity. Still, the most frightening reality was my inability to mature when the time arrived.

All medieval and classic cultures of the ancient world, including those on which Tolkien modeled his elves, routinely exposed their young and marriageable women to the fortunes of war, because bearing and raising the next generation of warriors is not needed for equality-loving elves. Equality-loving elves. Who are monarchists. With a class system. Of ranks. Battles are more fun when attractive young women are dismembered and desecrated by goblins! I believe that this is one point where C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and all Christian fantasy writers from before World War Two were completely agreed upon, and it is a point necessary in order correctly to capture the mood and tone and nuance of the medieval romances or Norse sagas such writers were straining their every artistic nerve and sinew to create. So, wait, we have an ancient and ageless society of elves where the virgin maidens go off to war, but these same virgin maidens must abide by the decision of their father or liege lord for permission to marry? -- The Desolation of Tolkien

I’m trying to funnel this awfulness into something lovely. My salacious roman à clef will become a horror novel. My terror will become my readers’ terror. I will take my fugue state of delirious panic and compost it into a fertile bed of creativity—for aren’t all the best novels borne from some madness, which is borne from truth?

There is no perfect life we are born into, and there is no escaping the awful reality of suffering. There is also no escaping the beautiful synchronicity of the heart

I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful.

Beginning the day in a bad mood made it awfully easy to find reasons to stay there.

Awful places, towns. Nasty little secrets lying around and popping up when you least expect ’em. People expecting you to eat potatoes.

Forever was an awfully long time to miss a person.

R&AW.

He entertained himself with ideas of heaven as paradise, of green hills and brilliant skies where he and Ramy could sit and talk and watch an eternal sunset. But such fantasies did not comfort him so much as the idea that all death meant was nothingness, that everything would just stop: the pain, the anguish, the awful, suffocating grief. If nothing else, surely, death meant peace.

I feel like a meme of a clueless white person. The wildest thing about all this is that even now I cannot stop composing. I'm trying to funnel this awfulness into something lovely. My salacious roman à clef will become a horror novel. My terror will become my readers' terror. I will take my fugue state of delirious panic and compost it into a fertile bed of creativity — for aren't all the best novels borne from some madness, which is borne from truth? Perhaps, if I can capture all my fears and constrain them safely on the page, this will rob them of their power. Don't all the ancient myths tell us that we gain control over a thing once we name it?

Then Beren woke and opened eyes, and rose and cried: 'Neath other skies, in lands more awful and unknown, I wandered long, methought, alone to the deep shadow where the dead dwell; but ever a voice that I knew well, like bells, like viols, like harps, like birds, like music moving without words, called me, called me through the night, enchanted drew me back to light!

At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently it was seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-like hate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders of South America translated into human form, and endowed with intelligence just less than human, and you will have some faint conception of the terror inspired by the appalling effigy.

The real goal of all intelligence agencies is to access denied information or that information which the opposition takes extra care to protect and conceal.

Life is short, live it. Love is rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it. Memories are sweet, cherish them.

There are no victory parades, and no one would light a lamp for the unknown agents,

I don’t know much of what goes on inside those colleges, but I know their food is something awful.

There is no perfect life we are born into, and there is no escaping the awful reality of suffering. There is also no escaping the beautiful synchronicity of the heart.

Complete intelligence is not always available in a perfect manner. Even incomplete intelligence, if assessed properly and promptly by experts and acted upon effectively, can make a difference

The sun rose awful yellow and the cigarette turned to a tower of ash. I mouthed goodbye to no one and got onto my feet. That’s where I am now. In the space between my gasps. Where I will always be.

What it means for the most of us is that after having missed the Industrial Revolution if India misses the technological and information revolution, we should expect to be confined to dust and heap.

It was as if there was absolutely nothing in the universe but my consciousness and it felt awful. Already I could feel the utter lack of anything pierce my mind, crushing me under its overwhelming absence.

Q: Assume everything about your musical tastes was reversed overnight. Everything you once loved, you now hate; everything you once hated, you now love. For example, if your favorite band has always been R.E.M., they will suddenly sound awful to you; they will become the band you dislike the most. By the same token, if you’ve never been remotely interested in the work of Yes and Jethro Tull, those two groups will instantly seem fascinating. If you generally dislike jazz today, you’ll generally like jazz tomorrow. If you currently consider the first album by Veruca Salt to be slightly above average, you will abruptly find it to be slightly below average. Everything will become its opposite, but everything will remain in balance (and the rest of your personality will remain unchanged). So—in all likelihood—you won’t love music any less (or any more) than you do right now. There will still be artists you love and who make you happy; they will merely be all the artists you currently find unlistenable. Now, I concede that this transformation would make you unhappy. But explain why.

Running is a deeply unpleasant sport at the best of times, but it is particularly awful when you’re bad at it. There is so much unpleasantness at once. First, there is the shortness of breath, then the ache in the legs, then the sharp pain of the stitch, the soreness of the feet, the discomfort of the joints, and the lactic acid burn in the thighs. Eventually, some of this subsides with the increase of dizziness, delirium and sweating. Then there are the added difficulties of cross-country running – scraping through prickly bushes, standing on sharp rocks, getting jabbed by sticks and wading through icy cold streams. Altogether, it was Friday’s idea of hell.

But such fantasies did not comfort him so much as the idea that all death meant was nothingness, that everything would just stop: the pain, the anguish, the awful, suffocating grief. If nothing else, surely, death meant peace.

Feels bad, doesn’t it?” Candice drops the recorder in her backpack. “Watching someone warp your image and tell your story however they choose, knowing you have no power to stop it? No voice? That’s how we all felt, watching you. Pretty awful, huh?

There is nothing safe about the darkness of this city and its stink. Well, I have abrogated all claim to safety, coming here. It is better to discuss it as though I had chosen. That keeps the scrim of sanity before the awful set. What will lift it?

The battles are at night. The worst of times. The most awful of times, when he fights to prevent sleep while feeling so tired that all he wants is sleep. Sleep brings the nightmares. The ever-worsening terrors in his head. They become confusing and jumbled.

The fantasy/reality confusion...it's just marvelous in her work. I mean, there, it's practically like what we do, the fantasy working as a sort of metalogic, with which she can solve real, aesthetic problems in the most incredible ways -- I was actually in a few of her productions last year, a sort of ersatz member of the company. But finally I just had to get out. Because when that fantasy seeps into the reality, she just becomes an incredibly ugly person. She feels she can distort anything that occurs for whatever purpose she wants. Whatever she feels, that's what is, as far as she's concerned. But then, I suppose...' Bron laughed at the ground, then looked up: they'd just left the Plaza -- 'that's the right we just fought a war to defend. But Audri, when someone abuses that right, it can make it pretty awful for the rest of us.

The Liars believe in no afterlife, no God. We see the universe as it is, Father Damien, and these naked truths are cruel ones. We who believe in life, and treasure it, will die. Afterward there will be nothing, eternal emptiness, blackness, nonexistence. In our living there has been no purpose, no poetry, no meaning. Nor do our deaths possess these qualities. When we are gone, the universe will not long remember us, and shortly it will be as if we had never lived at all. Our worlds and our universe will not long outlive us. Ultimately entropy will consume all, and our puny efforts cannot stay that awful end. It will be gone. It has never been. It has never mattered. The universe itself is doomed, transient, uncaring. [...] The truths, the great truths - and most of the lesser ones as well - they are unbearable for most men. We find our shield in faith. Your faith, my faith, any faith. It doesn't matter, as long as we believe, really and truly believe, in whatever lie we cling to. [...] We know truth for the cruel instrument it is. Beauty is infinitely preferable to truth. We invent beauty. Faiths, political movements, high ideals, belief in love and fellowship. All of them are lies. [...] Our lies are not perfect, of course. The truths are too big. But perhaps someday we will find one great lie that all humanity can use. Until then, a thousand small lies will do. (from Way of Cross and Dragon)

--Suddenly the bus driver stops with a jolt, turns off his lights. A moose has come out of the impenetrable wood and stands there, looms, rather, in the middle of the road. It approaches; it sniffs at the bus's hot hood. Towering, antlerless, high as a church, homely as a house (or, safe as houses). A man's voice assures us 'Perfectly harmless. . . .' Some of the passengers exclaim in whispers, childishly, softly, 'Sure are big creatures.' 'It's awful plain.' 'Look! It's a she!' Taking her time, she looks the bus over, grand, otherworldly. Why, why do we feel (we all feel) this sweet sensation of joy? 'Curious creatures,' says our quiet driver, rolling his r's. 'Look at that, would you.' Then he shifts gears. For a moment longer, by craning backward, the moose can be seen on the moonlit macadam; then there's a dim smell of moose, an acrid smell of gasoline.

More information means less ignorance and a greater chance of rational and better decisions and not those based on illusions, hope, preconceived notions or perceptions. The danger from so much data—there is no definition of what is optimum—is that there are chances of overanalysis or falling into a conspiracy theory trap.

Sure enough, all of the Brotherhood was milling around and arming themselves like they were about to head off to find his sorry ass before dawn made shit too late. All eyes swung toward him, and as he saw the surprise and shock on those familiar faces, a load of aw-shucks hit him hard. To cover that up, he gave ’em a sly grin. “I’m back, bitches—miss us?

And being at school was awful in the beginning. Every new class I had was like a new chance for kids to “not stare” at me. They would sneak peeks at me from behind their notebooks or when they thought I wasn’t looking. They would take the longest way around me to avoid bumping into me in any way, like I had some germ they could catch, like my face was contagious.

Victoire shouldered the task. ‘I wonder,’ she said, very slowly, ‘if you’ve ever read any of the abolition literature published before Parliament finally outlawed slavery.’ Letty frowned. ‘I don’t see how . . .’ ‘The Quakers presented the first antislavery petition to Parliament in 1783,’ said Victoire. ‘Equiano published his memoir in 1789. Add that to the countless slave stories the abolitionists were telling the British public – stories of the cruellest, most awful tortures you can inflict on a fellow human. Because the mere fact that Black people were denied their freedom was not enough. They needed to see how grotesque it was. And even then, it took them decades to finally outlaw the trade. And that’s slavery. Compared to that, a war in Canton over trade rights is going to look like nothing. It’s not romantic. There are no novelists penning sagas about the effects of opium addiction on Chinese families. If Parliament votes to force Canton’s ports open, it’s going to look like free trade working as it should. So don’t tell me that the British public, if they knew, would do anything at all.

Sergeant Pepper was dead. G.I. Joe lived on. George Bush was president, movies stars were dying from AIDS, kids were smoking crack in the ghettos and the suburbs, Muslims were blowing airliners from the skies, rap music ruled, and nobody cared much about the Movement anymore. It was a dry and dusty thing, like the air in the graves of Hendrix, Joplin, and God. She was letting her thoughts take her into treacherous territory, and the thoughts threatened her smiley face. She stopped thinking about the dead heroes, the burning breed who made the bombs full of roofing nails and planted them in corporate boardrooms and National Guard Armories. She stopped thinking before the awful sadness crushed her. The sixties were dead. The survivors limped on, growing suits and neckties and potbellies, going bald and telling their children not to listen to that satanic heavy metal. The clock of the Age of Aquarius had turned, hippies and yippies had become preppies and yuppies. The Chicago Seven were old men. The Black Panthers had turned gray. The Grateful Dead were on MTV, and the Airplane had become a Top-40 Starship. Mary Terror closed her eyes, and thought she heard the noise of wind whistling through the ruins.

Butch came around in front, twisting the shirt he’d taken off into a rope. Thanks to all the lifting they’d been doing, the male’s chest and arm muscles were thickening up, and he hadn’t been small to begin with. He couldn’t pull the kind of iron Rhage did, but for a human, the guy was a bulldozer. “You’re getting into some kind of shape, cop.” “Aw, come on, now.” Butch grinned. “Don’t let that shower we took go to your head.

Dylan's voice was awful, an aged quaver that sounded nothing like the deep-throated or silky R&B that Dad took as gospel. But the lyrics wore him down, until he played Dylan in that addicted manner of college kids who cordon off portions of their lives to decipher the prophecies of their favorite band. Dad heard poetry, but more than that an angle that confirmed what a latent part of him already suspected. This was was bullshit.

Because they don't care. It's a ar happening in a foreign country that they can't even imagine. It's too distant for them to care." "What makes you so sure of it?" "Because I didn't. I didn't even though I'd been told time and time again how awful things were, It took witnessing it happening in person, for me to realize all the abstractions were real. And even then, I tried my very hardest to look away. It's hard to accept what you don't want to see.

Well done,’ whispered one. ‘Let’s go.’ Robin nodded and opened the door to let them out. The moment they stepped foot over the barrier, an awful cacophony split the air – a screaming, a howling, the grinding of metal gears in some invisible mechanism. It was a threat and a warning, the hybrid of ancient horror and the modern capacity for spilling blood. Behind them, the panels in the door shifted, revealing a dark cavity within. Without another word, the Hermes

You won't get anywhere with that argument,' said Robin. 'Why not?' 'Because they don't care,' said Robin. It's too distant for them to care.' 'What makes you so sure of that?' asked Cathy. 'Because I didn't,' said Robin. 'I didn't, even though I'd been told time and time again how awful things were. It took witnessing it happening, in person, for me to realize all the abstractions were real. And even then, I tried my very hardest to look away. It's hard to accept what you don't want to see.

A lot of people disparage the Star Wars prequels, and understandably so; they’re not nearly as good as the original trilogy. But in their own way, they’re not just beautiful; they’re also awfully clever. Here’s the best part: all of the choices in the first trilogy are precisely mirrored in the prequels. The two trilogies are about freedom of choice under nearly identical conditions. Lucas was entirely aware of this: “Luke is faced with the same issues and practically the same scenes that Anakin is faced with. Anakin says yes and Luke says no.

Oh, very nice to see I was afforded a few scraps,” she said, smiling and plucking a chicken leg out of Heck’s hand before he could take his first bite. “Don’t get between me and my chow, old lady,” Heck said. “We’ll tussle.” “You’ll lose,” Agnes said, taking a bite. “Food’s always better after a battle. Sex, too.” Jimmie’s horrified face came up out of his plate. Max, Ava, and Lovina laughed, and Heck hugged Agnes and leaned in close to take a bite of her chicken leg. “Aw, a lassie after my own heart,” Heck said. “Care for a quick snog, you fiery vixen?

Moderns are tempted to consider the world as what Heidegger termed “standing reserve,” an undifferentiated set of resources awaiting our use. Rather than having the status of creatures full of God’s weight, things are just there, standing at attention before our desires, waiting to be led around on a leash. Things of the world become objects distanced and alienated from us, problems to overcome with some sort of method or technique. For the medievals, a thing known—a tree or cat, say—was a subject of being, it held its own act of existence, whereas we view things as objects. As subjects, creatures had interiority, a form or nature or essence that we did not create but were nevertheless bound to recognize. Now things are objects under our judgment, waiting to be captured in a sketch and cast aside. If we are not bound by the things, but they by us, what limits our use other than our own will? In what way can our desires be ordered so as to respect the integrity of things when their meaning is determined by the awful lightness of our whims?

In an extraordinary article in the Daily Express, Major R. Crisp stated that the ordinary German soldiers he used to come across had been replaced by an army of fanatical fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds who appeared incapable of anything but brutality. There is nothing that is decent, or gentle, or humble to be read in them. Everything that is beastly and lustful and cruel. This is a generation of men trained deliberately in barbarity, trained to execute the awful orders of a madman. Not a clean thought has ever touched them … Every German born since 1920 is under this satanic spell. The younger they are the more fiercely impregnated are they with its evil poison. Every child born under the Hitler regime is a lost child. It is a lost generation. The newspaper article went on to suggest that it was a blessing that so many of these children were being killed in the fighting, and that the remainder should be dealt with similarly for the good of the world. ‘But whether you exterminate them or sterilise them, Nazism in all its horribleness will not perish from the earth until the last Nazi is dead.

There are many things that men and women ought to think about, and must think about, in private, that they would not for a moment discuss in public. There are books on the proper conduct of women in certain most sacred relations of life, relations of life which are as holy as any, and which can be entered into in the presence of a holy God with no question of His approval, but which do not permit of public mention. . . . That the Bible is a pure book is evidenced by the fact that it is not a favourite book in dens of infamy. But on the other hand, books that try to make out that the Bible is an obscene book, and that endeavour to keep people from reading it, are favourite books in dens of infamy. The unclean classes, both men and women, were devoted admirers of the most brilliant man this country ever produced who attacked what he called the "obscenity of the Bible." These unclean classes do not frequent Bible classes. They do frequent infidel lectures. These infidel objectors to the book as an "obscene book" constantly betray their insincerity and hypocrisy. Colonel Ingersoll . . . objected to the Bible for telling these vile deeds "without a touch of humour." In other words, he did not object to telling stories of vice, if only a joke was made of the sin. Thank God, that is exactly what the Bible does not do--make a joke of sin. It makes sin hideous, so men who are obscene in their own hearts object to the Bible as being an obscene book. . . . To sum up, there are in the Bible descriptions of sins that cannot wisely be read in every public assembly, but these descriptions of sin are morally most wholesome in the places where God, the Author of the Book, manifestly intends them to be read. The child who is brought up to read the Bible as a whole, from Genesis to Revelation, will come to know in the very best way possible what a child ought to know very early in life if he is to be safeguarded against the perils that surround our modern life on every hand. A child who is brought up upon a constant, thorough, continuous reading of the whole Bible is more likely than any other child to be free from the vices that are undermining the mental, moral, and physical strength of our boys and girls, and young men and young women. But the child who is brought up on infidel literature and conversation is the easiest prey there is for the seducer and procuress. The next easiest is the one who, through neglect of the Bible, is left in ignorance of the awful pitfalls of life.

When other birds are still, the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning women their ancient u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is truly Ben Jonsonian.( Wise midnight hags! It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tu-who of the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the infernal groves. Yet I love to hear their wailing, their doleful responses, trilled along the woodside; reminding me sometimes of music and singing birds; as if it were the dark and tearful side of music, the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung. They are the spirits, the low spirits and melancholy forebodings, of fallen souls that once in human shape night-walked the earth and did the deeds of darkness, now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions. They give me a new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our common dwelling. Oh-o-o-o-o that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n! sighs one on this side of the pond, and circles with the restlessness of despair to some new perch on the gray oaks. Then — that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n! echoes another on the farther side with tremulous sincerity, and — bor-r-r-r-n! comes faintly from far in the Lincoln woods. I was also serenaded by a hooting owl. Near at hand you could fancy it the most melancholy sound in Nature, as if she meant by this to stereotype and make permanent in her choir the dying moans of a human being — some poor weak relic of mortality who has left hope behind, and howls like an animal, yet with human sobs, on entering the dark valley, made more awful by a certain gurgling melodiousness — I find myself beginning with the letters gl when I try to imitate it — expressive of a mind which has reached the gelatinous, mildewy stage in the mortification of all healthy and courageous thought. It reminded me of ghouls and idiots and insane howlings. But now one answers from far woods in a strain made really melodious by distance — Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer hoo; and indeed for the most part it suggested only pleasing associations, whether heard by day or night, summer or winter. I rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to swamps and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped nature which men have not recognized. They represent the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have. All day the sun has shone on the surface of some savage swamp, where the double spruce stands hung with usnea lichens, and small hawks circulate above, and the chickadee lisps amid the evergreens, and the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath; but now a more dismal and fitting day dawns, and a different race of creatures awakes to express the meaning of Nature there.

The reader I want is the one that wants the anguish, who will go up there and get on that big black cross. And that reader will have, with me, the saving grace of knowing that some awful payment is due...as all space must look askance at us, all galaxies send star frowns down, a cosmic leer envelop this small ball that has such Great GREAT pretenders.

He leaned against the chair, his muscular arms relaxed. “Is yer name Rose Amy.” I gave him an impressed look. I hadn’t expected him to catch on to the vague alphabetical clues to my initials. “Wrong.” “Curses.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth a few times, and I wanted to lean in and kiss him, hard. “Renee… Antoinette”. “I’d kill my mother if she named me Rene Antoinette.” I took another drink of my beer, wishing I hadn’t mentioned my mother. He gave a throaty laugh. “It’s god-awful, that’s fur sure.” “Quit stalling,” I sighed in mock boredom. “Rachel Anne.” My blood slopped to a halt in my veins. “Uh-No.” I lied, hiding the shock in my eyes.

Oleg Kalugin, the KGB’s rising star in the First Directorate, claims in his book that a minister in Indira Gandhi’s cabinet offered to provide information to the KGB for $50,000. The KGB, however, felt there was no need to spend this money as they had enough intelligence from multiple well-placed sources. That minister, according to Kalugin, later became India’s prime minister.2

Bardzo wielu Polaków nosi cudzoziemskie nazwiska. Są one pamiątką po mniej lub bardziej odległych cudzoziemskich przodkach, zwykle jednak nie wyciągamy z tego wniosków dotyczących narodowej tożsamości człowieka. Aleksander Brückner miał bez wątpienia jakichś niemieckich, a właściwie austriackich przodków, ale nikt nie powie, że był Niemcem lub Austriakiem. Wiemy, że był Polakiem, wielkim luminarzem polskiej humanistyki. Nikt też nie powie, że Niemcem był Ryszard Reiff, w czasie okupacji żołnierz AK, potem jeniec NKWD, który zdołał uciec na piechotę z Syberii do kraju, następnie działacz PAX, przewodniczący tego stowarzyszenia, jedyny członek Rady Państwa PRL, który nie głosował za wprowadzeniem stanu wojennego, a w 1989 r. senator z listy OKP. Był to szczery Polak i – bez względu na powikłane losy – prawdziwy patriota. Podobnie Jadwigi Staniszkis nikt nie uważa za Litwinkę, a Romualda Szeremietiewa – za Rosjanina. Ale o Sewerynie Blumsztajnie mówimy bez zastanowienia: to Żyd. Mówimy tak, bo miał żydowskich przodków, podobnie jak Reiff – niemieckich, Jadwiga Staniszkis – litewskich, a Szeremietiew – rosyjskich. Tyle, że tamci się spolszczyli, więc są Polakami. A Blumsztajn to Żyd. Przecież ma żydowskie nazwisko. Ostatecznie możemy złożyć daninę poprawności politycznej i powiedzieć o nim, że to Polak pochodzenia żydowskiego. Wbrew pozorom jednak niewiele to zmienia. Nie mówimy przecież o Szeremietiewie, że jest Polakiem pochodzenia rosyjskiego. Widocznie jest tu jakaś nieusuwalna różnica.

Serious gap of communication between the IB and the State Police on the one hand and the IB and the R&AW and the CBI on the other, had become apparent during security operations in Punjab, Kashmir, Assam and against the Pakistan sponsored Jihadist elements. The most glaring example of total intelligence failure was the Kargil adventure by Pakistan army. The R&AW, the Military Intelligence and to a lesser extent the Intelligence Bureau had miserably failed to unearth the Pakistani design and warn the policy planners. Whatever intelligence was available was not coordinated to cull out a coherent collage. The rest is history.

The pioneers of the post-independence IB must be saluted for giving the country an efficient tool of national security in spite of the fact that the ruling class generally tried to use it for protecting and promoting their elite club. They never thought it fit to adopt a constitutionally validated Act to govern the IB and its sister organisations. The IB and the R&AW etc are the only organs of the government that are not accountable to any elected constitutional body of India and are not governed by any Act of the Parliament. They are subsidiary bureaus and departments.

then coiling his length together, roaring like thunder underground, he sped from his deep lair through its great door, out into the huge passages of the mountain-palace and up towards the Front Gate. To hunt the whole mountain till he had caught the thief and had torn and trampled him was his one thought. He issued from the Gate, the waters rose in fierce whistling steam, and up he soared blazing into the air and settled on the mountain-top in a spout of green and scarlet flame. The dwarves heard the awful rumour of his flight, and they crouched against the walls of the grassy terrace cringing under boulders, hoping somehow to escape the frightful eyes of the hunting dragon. There they would have all been killed, if it had not been for Bilbo once again. “Quick! Quick!” he gasped.

It will be clear that the very expression of this fear is a part of becoming what he is. Instead of simply being a façade, as if it were himself, he is coming closer to being himself, namely a frightened person hiding behind a façade because he regards himself as too awful to be seen.

Fuck,” I whispered when I saw how awful I looked. My hair was a mess. I swore I’d at least patted it down before getting off the plane. But it looked like I’d been fucked and then fallen into a bird’s nest where I’d been pecked to death.

I just don't know what to expect, Winnie. Every day is different. And usually it's awful.

China and not Pakistan will remains the biggest threat to Indian security interests and prosperity.

And then I was in love with Franchot Tone. I wrote to him and he sent me a signed photograph. Of course, I must say I'd enclosed a stamp. I can't tell you what looking at that photograph did for me. Then later on there was a boy at our A.R.P. post who was awfully witty if one hadn't read Oscar Wilde. But the first time he kissed me was a shocking disillusion. Not at all what Franchot Tone had led me to expect.'' Peggy obviously shot out this nonsense rather as a pursued octopus shoots out protective fluid.

A government that has an intelligence system that ensures a surprise does not become a surprise will be successful in securing its people and the nation.

In the twenty-first century, unfortunately, quite often policymakers and politicians judge intelligence agencies in comparison with what has appeared in the media.

Since intelligence is a demand-driven activity, like a service industry, it makes sense that while it may not form policy, it nevertheless should be in close touch with policymakers and political leaders to provide policy inputs when required, or to reorient priorities so that the intelligence provided remains relevant.

He has his own chambers and sleeps in a pile of hunting dogs." Jordan admitted. "Aw," Lam said. "Okay, but," Ari said, "this isn't about Arthur and his adorable dog pile.

The night sky is dotted in bright little specks; the night sky is dotted in monstrous fireballs. I am the size of ten million ants, and I don't make up even one percentage of the weight of the rock that I'm floating on. Everything matters so much and so little; it is disgusting. One of my shoes is untied. It would be awful if my shoe fell off and hurt someone driving beneath me. I tuck my legs in.

Then suddenly Merry felt it at last, beyond doubt: a change. Wind was in his face! Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting: morning lay beyond them. But at that moment there was a flash, as if lightning had sprung from the earth beneath the city. For a searing second it stood dazzling far off in black and white, its topmost tower like a glittering needle; and then as the darkness closed again there came rolling over the fields a great boom. At that sound the bent shape of the king sprang suddenly erect. Tall and proud he seemed again; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before: "Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden! Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter! spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!" With that he siezed a great horn from Guthláf his banner-bearer and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder. And straightaway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Rohan in that hour was like a storm on the plain and a thunder in the mountains. "Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!" Suddenly the King cried to Snowmane and the horse sprang away. Behind him his banner blew in the wind, white horse upon a field of green, but he outpaced it. After him thundered the knights of his house, but he was ever before them. Éomer rode there, the white horsetail on his helm floating in his speed, and the front of the first éored roared like a breaker foaming to the shore, but Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Oromë the Great in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed. For morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removes, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror overtook them, and they fled, and died, and the hoofs of wrath overtook them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the city.

I remember on one occasion, when we met, he asked what my last Sabbath's subject had been. It had been, 'The wicked shall be turned into hell.' On hearing this awful text, he asked, 'Were you able to preach it *with tenderness*?' Certain it is that the tone of reproach and upbraiding is widely different from the voice of solemn warning. It is not saying hard things that pierces the consciences of our people; it is the voice of Divine love heard amid the thunder. The sharpest point of the two-edged sword is not *death* but *life*; and against self-righteous souls this latter ought to be more used than the former. For such souls can hear us tell of the open gates of hell and the unquenchable fire far more unconcernedly than of the gates of heaven wide-open for their immediate return. When we preach that the glad tidings *were intended to impart immediate assurance of eternal life to every sinner that believes them*, we strike deeper upon the proud enmity of the world to God, than when we show the eternal curse and the second death.

He embraced the awful memories. He brought them into his consciousness and examined them fully and rationally, telling himself that this was as it had been. Not as it should have been, but a simple reality of his past, a memory that he would have to carry with him.

Evil’s very ordinary; it’s close to us all the time, just as goodness is. It’s a dangerous illusion to preen ourselves up on our feelings of superiority to those who commit these awful crimes.

but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two;

we should be taking action to save a dying world, not just talking about how awful it is that the world is dying.

knew I couldn't take it back, I could only delay the awful realization from hitting my people. I never would have thought that it was the world I was failing," the king rambled. "Be still, Your Majesty. You are out of danger, but you will need to rest," Myranda said. "Your Majesty . . . Your Majesty! I am no king. I am barely a man. My name, my kingdom, my bloodline is tainted forever," he raged, throwing his crown to the ground.

I didn't, even though I'd been told time and time again how awful things were, It took witnessing it happening in person, for me to realize all the abstractions were real. And even then, I tried my very hardest to look away. It's hard to accept what you don't want to see.

When she heard the news, she said: “Well, if this man is really Mrs. Bean’s brother, it’s awful hard on the Beans, but we’ve got no right to interfere. Because the money really belongs to him. I wish we knew.

Awful things will happen to everyone eventually. Everybody falls at some point.