Rebound Book Quotes

Twin calamities had flattened her like a one-two punch two weeks ago, and she was still trying to get over them.

When we have hatred and anger in ourselves, they rebound to all quarters. When we have peace and joy in ourselves, our peace and joy will radiate throughout the whole cosmos.

It was the way he looked at me when he climbed on top of me that excited me the most. The look of pure dominance that told me that this was going to go his way and not mine made me so eager for it that I pulled him down gruffly toward me and kissed him deeply.

And I love that you never needed me to save you, but holy shit, I needed you to save me.

We all have our issues, it’s just some of us are better at hiding them from the world than others.

And I hope one day, when you realise I’m right about this, that you lie awake in deep regret that those words were the last thing you ever said to me.

Don’t, Mum, it’s only temporary.” She pulled me in for a goodbye hug. “Sweetie, all the best love affairs are.

He could have said Let’s go to hell—it’s warm there, right? And I would have just stared at his butt and said, Yeah. Let’s do that.

Baby, I would rather let you break my heart every day of my life than live without you.

I’m still here for you. You are not forgotten. We’re gonna be okay. I will see you again.

This guy isn’t offering you the world, he’s offering you the same thing he always has: the bare minimum. He’s holding you back and you know it. If you concede, you’ll resent him forever.

The heavy infantry stood. The heavy infantry held the trench. Even as they died, they backed not a single step. The Nah’ruk clawed for purchase on the blood-soaked mud of the berm. Iron chewed into them. Halberds slammed down, rebounded from shields. Reptilian bodies reeled back, blocking the advance of rear ranks. Arrows and quarrels poured into the foe from positions behind the trench. And from above, Locqui Wyval descended by the score, in a frenzy, to tear and rend the helmed heads of the lizard warriors. Others quickly closed to do battle with their kin, and the sky rained blood.

Thankfully the song that’s now playing is some cheesy Beyoncé ballad that we don’t have to dance to—and you could not pay me enough to dance to this song. Ever. “Oh, I love this song!” she exclaims, turning to me. Her eyes are all lit up. “Can we slow-dance to this?!” “Okay!” Fuck.

No, there is no failure for the man who realizes his power, who never knows when he is beaten; there is no failure for the determined endeavor; the unconquerable will. There is no failure for the man who gets up every time he falls, who rebounds like a rubber ball, who persists when everyone else gives up, who pushes on when everyone else turns back.

Book-club night stopped abruptly when Caleb died. For almost a year and a half, as if by some type of tacit agreement, they all knew they couldn’t be in the same room at the same time. It was as if their collective grief would multiply, rebounding endlessly within any closed space like an image in a house of mirrors, until the pain would overcome them all.

My New book will be released May 1,2020. I cannot envision a quick rebound for the U.S. economy, which has already suffered more than 16 million job losses in the past three weeks.  Im releasing my new book 6 months earlier than scheduled to help those looking to create a new business or piviot an existing business. The entrepreneurs mindset is all about adapting and adjusting for success.

But I'm not in danger of becoming "that girl." The one who throws away her college education in favor of marrying some guy right out of high school. The one who sacrifices everything she wants in order to make his dreams come true, to make him happy. The one who hangs on his every smile, his every word, bears his children, cooks his dinner, and snuggles up to him at night. Nope, definitely not in danger of becoming her. Because Galen doesn't want me. If that kiss were real, I might have thrown scholarships to the wind and followed him to our private island or his underwater kingdom. I might have even cooked him fish. Sure, Galen would love for me to do all those things. With his brother. So it's a good thing I'm being proactive about my own recovery by going on a date, even if it is a rebound-and even if I'm rebounding from a relationship that didn't actually exist. My feelings were real. That's all that matters, isn't it? There's no stipulation in the broken-heart rule book that states the relationship had to actually be authentic, right? Sure, I'm gray-shading the line that separates stable and crazy, but the point is, there is a line. And I haven't completely crossed over to lunatic.

I press the blue glass triangle to my lips and smile for Matt, my best-friend-that’s-a-boy, my last goodbye to the brokenhearted promise I carried like my journal for so long. Somewhere below the black frothy ocean, a banished mermaid reads my letters and weeps endlessly for a love she’ll never know – not for a single moment. Before the trip, Frankie and I set out to have the Absolute Best Summer Ever, the summer of twenty boys. We’ll never agree on the final count – whether the boys from Caroline’s should be included in the tally, whether the milk-shake man was too old to be considered a “boy,” whether her tattooed rock star interlude was anything other than a rebound. But in the end, there were only two boys who really mattered. Matt and Sam. When I close my eyes, I see Sam lying next to me on the blanket that first night we watched the stars – the night he made me look at everything in a different way; the breeze on my skin and the music and the ocean at night. But I also see Matt; his marzipan frosting kiss. All the books he read to me. His postcard fairy tales of California, finally coming to life in Zanzibar Bay. When I kissed Sam, I was so scared of erasing Matt. But now I know that I could never erase him. He’ll always be part of me – just in a different way. Like Sam, making smoothies on the beach two thousand miles away. Like Frankie, my voodoo magic butterfly finding her way back home in the dark. Like the stars, fading with the halo of the vanishing moon. Like the ocean, falling and whispering against the shore. Nothing ever really goes away – it just changes into something else. Something beautiful.

Matt takes some time to settle himself before he speaks. When he does, he shares an anecdote about how Julie had written a book for him to have after she was gone, and she titled it, The Shortest Longest Romance: An Epic Love and Loss Story. He loses it here, then slowly composes himself and keeps going. He explains that in the book, he was surprised to find that near the end of the story—their story—Julie had included a chapter on how she hoped Matt would always have love in his life. She encouraged him to be honest and kind to what she called his “grief girlfriends”—the rebound girlfriends, the women he’ll date as he heals. Don’t mislead them, she wrote. Maybe you can get something from each other. She followed this with a charming and hilarious dating profile that Matt could use to find his grief girlfriends, and then she got more serious. She wrote the most achingly beautiful love letter in the form of another dating profile that Matt could use to find the person he’d end up with for good. She talked about his quirks, his devotion, their steamy sex life, the incredible family she inherited (and that, presumably, this new woman would inherit), and what an amazing father he’d be. She knew this, she wrote, because they got to be parents together—though in utero and for only a matter of months. The people in the crowd are simultaneously crying and laughing by the time Matt finishes reading. Everyone should have at least one epic love story in their lives, Julie concluded. Ours was that for me. If we’re lucky, we might get two. I wish you another epic love story. We all think it ends there, but then Matt says that he feels it’s only fair that Julie have love wherever she is too. So in that spirit, he says, he’s written her a dating profile for heaven. There are a few chuckles, although they’re hesitant at first. Is this too morbid? But no, it’s exactly what Julie would have wanted, I think. It’s out-there and uncomfortable and funny and sad, and soon everyone is laugh-sobbing with abandon. She hates mushrooms, Matt has written to her heavenly beau, don’t serve her anything with mushrooms. And If there’s a Trader Joe’s, and she says that she wants to work there, be supportive. You’ll also get great discounts. He goes on to talk about how Julie rebelled against death in many ways, but primarily by what Matt liked to call “doing kindnesses” for others, leaving the world a better place than she found it. He doesn’t enumerate them, but I know what they are—and the recipients of her kindnesses all speak about them anyway.

Nevertheless, it would be prudent to remain concerned. For, like death, IT would come: Armageddon. There would be-without exaggeration-a series of catastrophes. As a consequence of the evil in man...-no mere virus, however virulent, was even a burnt match for our madness, our unconcern, our cruelty-...there would arise a race of champions, predators of humans: namely earthquakes, eruptions, tidal waves, tornados, typhoons, hurricanes, droughts-the magnificent seven. Floods, winds, fires, slides. The classical elements, only angry. Oceans would warm, the sky boil and burn, the ice cap melt, the seas rise. Rogue nations, like kids killing kids at their grammar school, would fire atomic-hydrogen-neutron bombs at one another. Smallpox would revive, or out of the African jungle would slide a virus no one understood. Though reptilian only in spirit, the disease would make us shed our skins like snakes and, naked to the nerves, we'd expire in a froth of red spit. Markets worldwide would crash as reckless cars on a speedway do, striking the wall and rebounding into one another, hurling pieces of themselves at the spectators in the stands. With money worthless-that last faith lost-the multitude would riot, race against race at first, God against God, the gots against the gimmes. Insects hardened by generations of chemicals would consume our food, weeds smother our fields, fire ants, killer bees sting us while we're fleeing into refuge water, where, thrashing we would drown, our pride a sodden wafer. Pestilence. War. Famine. A cataclysm of one kind or another-coming-making millions of migrants. Wearing out the roads. Foraging in the fields. Looting the villages. Raping boys and women. There'd be no tent cities, no Red Cross lunches, hay drops. Deserts would appear as suddenly as patches of crusty skin. Only the sun would feel their itch. Floods would sweep suddenly over all those newly arid lands as if invited by the beach. Forest fires would burn, like those in coal mines, for years, uttering smoke, making soot for speech, blackening every tree leaf ahead of their actual charring. Volcanoes would erupt in series, and mountains melt as though made of rock candy till the cities beneath them were caught inside the lava flow where they would appear to later eyes, if there were any eyes after, like peanuts in brittle. May earthquakes jelly the earth, Professor Skizzen hotly whispered. Let glaciers advance like motorboats, he bellowed, threatening a book with his fist. These convulsions would be a sign the parasites had killed their host, evils having eaten all they could; we'd hear a groan that was the going of the Holy Ghost; we'd see the last of life pissed away like beer from a carouse; we'd feel a shudder move deeply through this universe of dirt, rock, water, ice, and air, because after its long illness the earth would have finally died, its engine out of oil, its sky of light, winds unable to catch a breath, oceans only acid; we'd be witnessing a world that's come to pieces bleeding searing steam from its many wounds; we'd hear it rattling its atoms around like dice in a cup before spilling randomly out through a split in the stratosphere, night and silence its place-well-not of rest-of disappearance. My wish be willed, he thought. Then this will be done, he whispered so no God could hear him. That justice may be served, he said to the four winds that raged in the corners of his attic.

Hesse the autodidact, who had acquired all his learning from books that he had chosen himself (in this, he was in good company with other important authors, such as Thomas Mann), knew that anyone who motivates themselves to read, reads differently than someone who is simply working their way through a program of compulsory reading. The self-starting readers seeks answers for his life in all the books he reads, and he expects every new volume he embarks on to open up fresh horizons. Books to him are the food of life, one might even say an essential means of survival. Yet alongside this function they also have an intrinsic value as beautiful objects with which he likes to surround himself. He recommends certain books, at the very least identifying favorite books that he will read over and over, and will have rebound several times - or, should he possess an aptitude for handicraft (as Hesse did), rebinding them himself. In this way, the book collector becomes a co-creator.

That we could be like normal people and live happily ever after. That a love like ours, while brief and intense, would really come only once in a lifetime.

For the past three months I've been lodged in the staring-out-the-window-and burning-toast stage of grief. According to Dr. Rupert, I had a depressive breakdown brought on by grief...as though showing up at the office in your bathrobe is perfectly understandable. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of everyone else dying and leaving me behind. You don't feel as though you're having a conversation, ore as though you're listening to a book on tape, the title "Steve the Sales Guy Goes on a Dinner Date". Isn't there some way around having to start this new life without my husband? I can't return Crystal as though she's an appliance that broke before the warranty expired. I'm significant otherless. By the time he calls, maybe I'll be a ndw person with self-confidence and cute comebacks. Straight hair, a better job, a smaller waistline. How could I have managed to lose my husband, my job, my house, and my ass all in one year? I'm so eager for intimacy, I would date a tree. It's a myth that people experience grief for a certain amount of time and then they're over it. Nine of the fifteen pounds I want to lose cling to me like an overprotective mother who doesn't want me to take my pants off until I'm married again. Good-riddance list. It's a list of all the stuff you don't like about a guy. You're supposed to make it when you break up with someone. It's funny how you don't have to be related to someone to love them like family. Dangerous rebound guy. My grief is diminished, but it feels permanent, like a scar. Another grief gold star. Marion & Crystal moved in with me. How can I live happily ever after without loving someone again?

But to start discarding without thinking ahead at all would be like casting yourself into the negative spiral of clutter. Instead, begin by identifying your goal. There must have been some reason you picked up this book. What was it that motivated you to tidy in the first place? What do you hope to gain through tidying? Before you start getting rid of things, take the time to think this through carefully. This means visualizing the ideal lifestyle you dream of. If you skip this step, not only will it delay the whole process, but it will also put you at higher risk for rebound. Goals like “I want to live clutter-free” or “I want to be able to put things away” are too broad. You need to think much more deeply than that. Think in concrete terms so that you can vividly picture what it would be like to live in a clutter-free space.

In the 2002-2003 season, Jordan would once again play in all 82 games and started 67 of them. He was the only Washington Wizard to do so that season. Despite turning 40 years old in that season, Jordan had averages of 20 points per game, 6.1 rebounds, 3.8 assists, and 1.5 steals. He scored 20 or more points in 42 games, passed the 30-point mark nine times, and the 40-point mark three times.

As I watch [the world],’ wrote Nan Shepherd in 1945, ‘it arches its back, and each layer of landscape bristles.’ It is a brilliant observation about observation. Shepherd knew that ‘landscape’ is not something to be viewed and appraised from a distance, as if it were a panel in a frieze or a canvas in a frame. It is not the passive object of our gaze, but rather a volatile participant – a fellow subject which arches and bristles at us, bristles into us. Landscape is still often understood as a noun connoting fixity, scenery, an immobile painterly decorum.* I prefer to think of the word as a noun containing a hidden verb: landscape scapes, it is dynamic and commotion causing, it sculpts and shapes us not only over the courses of our lives but also instant by instant, incident by incident. I prefer to take ‘landscape’ as a collective term for the temperature and pressure of the air, the fall of light and its rebounds, the textures and surfaces of rock, soil and building, the sounds (cricket screech, bird cry, wind through trees), the scents (pine resin, hot stone, crushed thyme) and the uncountable other transitory phenomena and atmospheres that together comprise the bristling presence of a particular place at a particular moment.

His twin twitched, and Qian Meng smirked a little. He knew it was a struggle for Zihao to look him in the eye. The coward lasted all of ten seconds at best, but it was enough. A shiver of revulsion echoed between them, their very cores recognized a finite difference. While being of the same blood, they were a paradox. Destined to rebound off one another for eternity, forever linked, but never united.

All I’ve known my whole life was

I had no idea if you were heartbroken or not, but I wasn’t planning on being your rebound.” She snorts, a mix of amusement and disbelief crossing her face. “Yet, you proposed being my friend to…” “To help you find out what you want in life, and hopefully, make you fall in love with me, Zoe.

Regina was a prime example of why it was not a good idea to make a deal with the devil. There was no escape until you were sucked dry and left in a pile of destruction.

When she had realized early in her Christian walk that she could not keep up with the seemingly dedicated Christian folk, she had also given up.

Jesus never claims to prevent us from feeling “weary and burdened.” He simply invites the weary and burdened to find rest in Him. Like

Without looking up, he moved his backpack from the chair next to him and waved me toward him. His blond head was bent over a book. “Are you planning to ignore me all lunch hour because you’re mad about what happened in class?” I asked. “No,” he said. “I just want to finish this book.” “How can you be absorbed in a book when Luke Stentorian is on the loose and Sebastian is on the verge of finding me? And when I say me, I mean us.” “Like Brandy said, the best course of action right now is to act normal. Besides, this is a great book.” I checked the cover. He was reading The Man in the Iron Mask. Not a light read, and he was nowhere near the end. I didn’t want to sit around twiddling my thumbs for the rest of lunch period, so I decided to practice my skills. I formed the thought I’d like to see the Eiffel Tower and wrapped it around the thoughts in Ian’s mind. The rebound made me draw a painful breath, but he looked up and into the distance. “What’s up?” I asked innocently. “It’s weird,” he said. “I was just thinking about the Eiffel Tower. I’ve seen it before—twice, actually. I wasn’t very impressed either time.” “I’m getting better and better at this.” “It was you,” he said with a grin. “Try it again.” When I accessed his mind next, I could tell he was watching for me, but I quickly wrapped I think I’ll have tofu lasagna for dinner around his thought strand. Expecting the rebound, I steadied myself before it hit. “No way!” he said.

Durant had a 42 point game to finish a spectacular rookie season where he averaged 20.3 points, 4.4 rebounds and 2.4 assists. He was the first rookie to average more than 20 points in a game since Carmelo Anthony (21) and LeBron James (20.9). He also became the first rookie to lead his team in scoring since Emeka Okafor and Josh Childress did it in 2004-05. As Durant won these accolades, he was knocked to his knees all year long. Durant was often criticized for flopping too much, but the truth was that he was not strong enough to stay on his feet to defend his heftier opponents. There were rumors that he couldn't even bench press 185 pounds because all he ate was chicken and candies. He was called "Starvin" and "String Bean" by his buddies because of his reed-thin 185 pound frame. Durant was so thin that Sonics Coach P.J. Carlisimo played him as a 6-9 guard at that time. Durant was also labeled as "chucker" because he took 1,366 shots from the field and made just 43%. He was just taking orders from Carlisimo, who

Focus. She’s Maddie. Your friend. Would you eyeball Keith or Dane’s butt like that? ~ Zach

One day, I thought as I let my hands wander further down into his shirt. I think of one my favorite things about Nix was his slight tummy. I liked it so much because it made him real; not that weird fantasy that all women have of six pack abs that I never understood.

This was what Jeff had been doing all this time: transcribing the contents of the Phoenix disk, word by word. Because he knew, in spite of his madness, that he couldn’t stay on Mars forever, and he wanted to leave something behind. A library, so that others could enjoy the same stories that had helped him through a dark and troubled time. The library is still here. In fact, we’ve improved it quite a bit. I had the bed and dresser removed, and replaced them with armchairs and reading lamps. The mural has been preserved within glass frames, and the books have been rebound inside plastic covers. The Phoenix disk is gone, but its contents have been downloaded into a couple of comps; the disk itself is in the base museum. And we’ve added a lot of books to the shelves; every time a cycleship arrives from Earth, it brings a few more volumes for our collection. It’s become one of the favorite places in Arsia for people to relax. There’s almost always someone there, sitting in a chair with a novel or story in his or her lap. The sign on the door reads Imperial Martian Library: an inside joke that newcomers and tourists don’t get. And, yes, I’ve spent a lot of time there myself. It’s never too late to catch up on the classics.

This is an extreme example, but easy math. If a $20.00 stock declines by 50% to $10.00, you will need a 100% gain to break even. Why? 100 shares of a $20.00 stock are worth $2,000.00 dollars. After a 50% decline, your investment is now only $1,000.00. So, even if the stock rebounds 50% back to the original price on the following day, your $1,000.00 is now only $1,500.00. 75% down, you need 300% to get back to even. If you were wrong on a stock. Take a loss. It's tuition. Use what you have left to make better choices.

You won’t leave? Fine…” Tristan steps over to the desk, picks up an oil lamp, and smashes it off the floor, a shard of glass rebounds, cutting his cheek but he does not so much as blink, “you can burn here,” he announces coldly as the flames begin to spread across the oak floor.

Frazier’s resume includes three extremes: one of the best big-game guards ever; one of the best defensive guards ever; and one of the single greatest performances ever (Game 7 of the ’70 Finals, when he notched 36 points, 19 assists, 7 rebounds and 5 steals and outclutched the actual Mr. Clutch).

The Return Season On March 19, 1995, Michael Jordan officially returned to the hardwood floor as an NBA player in a game against the Indiana Pacers wearing jersey number 45, which was his brother Larry’s number and the number he used while playing baseball. Still feeling the rust of being away from competitive basketball for nearly two years, Jordan only had 19 points on a poor 7 out of 28 shooting clip in that loss to the Pacers. But while the Bulls may have lost that outing, they were happy enough that they had the franchise’s greatest player back in time to help them with their playoff push. While Jordan took his sweet time getting his groove back, he still had scoring explosions even as he was shaking off the rust. On March 28th he helped avenge the Bulls’ seven-game series loss to New York the previous year by exploding for 55 points against the Knicks. Just three days before that, he had 32 in a win over the Atlanta Hawks. Just as the Chicago Bulls had hoped, they got the push they needed when Jordan returned to the team. They won 13 of the 17 regular-season games that MJ appeared in and went on to make the playoffs with a 47-win season. In that brief 17-game campaign, Michael Jordan averaged 26.9 points, 6.9 rebounds, and 5.3 assists while shooting 41.1% from the floor. It was clear that

Many confirmed human skin books didn’t begin their print life in this controversial binding but were rebound by collectors, usually doctors who took the oldest or rarest texts in their private collections and rebound them in skin removed from a corpse during anatomical dissection.

On the other hand, she prized shabby old books and tattered paintings. She would take the partial remnants of books, separate them all into sections by topic, and then have them rebound. These she called her 'Fragments of Literature'. When she found some calligraphy or a painting that had been ruined, she felt she had to search for a piece of old paper on which to remount it. If there were portions missing, she would ask me to restore them. These she named the 'Collection of Discarded Delights'.

Being born is the greatest risk of all. We’re not sure how life will work out. But we’re here, and we have to try. Otherwise, all the karmic forces will send us rebounding back to Earth with no more consciousness than when we did our last round. We need to learn how to make our living, dying, and returning an entirely conscious, loving, and safe process.

The power of philosophy to blunt the blows of fate is beyond belief. No missile can settle in her body; she is well-protected and impenetrable. She spoils the force of some missiles and wards them off with the loose folds of her dress, as if they had no power to harm; others she dashes aside, and throws them back with such force that they rebound upon the sender. Farewell.” – Seneca

Primrose acquired a copy of Sir Walter Scott's novel Anne of Geierstein. The story tells of an enchanted princess who wore an opal that changed colors with her moods. Primrose became convinced Menge's stone was an opal. In the novel a few drops of holy water extinguish the stone's magic fire and the princess is reduced to ashes. As was my poor Primrose." The hairs on Stefan's forearms stood to attention. How ridiculous! Bishop would have him believing this fictional nonsense before long. Only a year after the publication of Scott's book people began associating opals with bad luck until Queen Victoria became totally enamored with the gemstones and the demand rebounded to such an extent the Hungarian mines as good as dried up. But none of that was relevant.

I keep wanting to say “love you, bye” like a total pussy. Or maybe I just never want to say good-bye to her. I look around to make sure no one’s watching me through the glass walls of my office before lowering my hand and checking to make sure I still have balls.

I am in so much trouble.

Seeing her with all those baggies full of mom purse stuff spread out over the sidewalk, I had this weird urge to impregnate her. That was a first for me.

I feel like an actress who’s losing her Schmidt while giving her Oscar acceptance speech: I have so many things to be thankful for! Thank you to the Academy of Hot Guy Arts and Sciences. For Vince Devlin’s penis. His mouth and hands and tongue. Thank you for his eyes and voice and the way he smells. For all the exciting places he’s been taking me—in New York and inside my own heart and mind. For giving me this opportunity to experience love in this new way. Also, I’d like to thank whoever invented multiple orgasms, because wow. My skin is amazing right now.

That is the Comte d’Erlette’s Cultes des Goules.” Gold spread his hands. “Or maybe I should say that it is the book most often called that, and supposed to be written by the Comte d’Erlette. Really the man was too careful to put down his name, and he didn’t give his book a title. That binding is human skin.” “Where did you get it?” “From a Paris dealer. It was easier to find than I thought it would be—people that have a copy don’t often want to keep it long—but it was harder to get it out of France and into the U.S.” “I meant the human skin. Where did you get that?” “I haven’t rebound this book, Mr. Weer. So far as I know, what you see is the original binding, done toward the last of the eighteenth century.” “How much do you want for it?” “It is already sold, Mr. Weer. To a college library in Massachusetts. The price was eight hundred and fifty dollars.