Red Cardinals Quotes

To err is human, to forgive is divine... but I’m only a cardinal and cardinals are human, so rather than forgiving you I’m going to err towards beating you with this stick.

I reached deep in you and pulled out a cardinal which in bright red flew out the window.

I think one of our cardinal fuckups is how we insist that even vicious whimsical crazy shit needs to make sense, add up, belong to a reason. We lay this pain on ourselves--there must be a reason behind this horror, there must, but I ain't adequate to findin' it, and that's my fault, so torture me some more.

Another man would have trouble imagining it, but he has no trouble. The red of a carpet’s ground, the flush of the robin’s breast or the chaffinch, the red of a wax seal or the heart of the rose: implanted in his landscape, cered in his inner eye, and caught in the glint of a ruby, in the color of blood, the cardinal is alive and speaking. Look at my face: I am not afraid of any man alive.

But once, a cardinal alighted on the kitchen windowsill and he found himself squinting long after it had flown away again, trying hard to hold on to its beauty.

Even without his helmet, the man was a symphony in red.

the unwashed and unworthy Red Sox finished off a sweep of the Cardinals and won their first World Series title since 1918. Edgar Renteria made the final St. Louis out, and he was wearing Ruth’s number, 3, when he did.

But the observers were even more surprised by her thigh boots, black breeches, and the red leather corset she wore over a white shirt. It was a daring outfit, to say the least... She also wore a sword and rode her horse like a man. It was scandalous... Page 37 of ARC

In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all.

Waiting for the Cardinals-Dodgers winner, the Red Sox decided to try to keep their edge by playing an exhibition series at Fenway Park against a handpicked group of leading American Leaguers that included Joe DiMaggio and Hank Greenberg. It was a cold, raw day, and only 1,996 people turned out to watch the first game on October 1, when DiMaggio was forced to take the field in a Boston uniform after his Yankees flannels did not arrive on time. In

The fisherman-painter has the best of the bargain as far as the weather goes, for the weather that is too bright for the trout deluges his hills and his sea with floods of radiant colour; the rain that interrupts picture-making puts water into the rivers and the lochs and sends him hopefully forth with rod and creel; while on cold dull days, when there is neither purple on the hills nor fly on the river, he can join a friendly party in a cosy bar and exchange information about Cardinals and March Browns, and practise making intricate knots in gut.

How Robin would have loved this!’ the aunts used to say fondly. 'How Robin would have laughed!’ In truth, Robin had been a giddy, fickle child - somber at odd moments, practically hysterical at others - and in life, this unpredictability had been a great part of his charm. But his younger sisters, who had never in any proper sense known him at all, nonetheless grew up certain of their dead brother’s favorite color (red); his favorite book (The Wind in the Willows) and his favorite character in it (Mr. Today); his favorite flavor of ice cream (chocolate) and his favorite baseball team (the Cardinals) and a thousand other things which they - being living children, and preferring chocolate ice cream one week and peach the next - were not even sure they knew about themselves. Consequently their relationship with their dead brother was of the most intimate sort, his strong, bright, immutable character shining changelessly against the vagueness and vacillation of their own characters, and the characters of people that they knew; and they grew up believing that this was due to some rare, angelic incandescence of nature on Robin’s part, and not at all to the fact that he was dead.

Tying his flatbed up on the bank of the Licking River, securing it the best he could, he caught sight of something red on its bottom. Reaching for it, he thought it was a cardinal feather stuck to his boat. He tugged and what came loose in his hand was a red ribbon knotted around a curl of wet woolly hair, clinging still to its bit of scalp. He untied the ribbon and put it in his pocket, dropped the curl in the weeds. On the way home, he stopped, short of breath and dizzy. He waited until the spell passed before continuing on his way. A moment later, his breath left him again. This time he sat down by a fence. Rested, he got to his feet, but before he took a step he turned to look back down the road he was traveling and said, to its frozen mud and the river beyond, “What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?” When

Whatever he thought about her personally—she wasn’t sure—his fretting and worry were endearing. She realized that she herself was feeling the strain, living constantly with the ice-cold secret. Goaded by anger at first, she had fallen into her new role, a different role. She had pushed herself for the Americans because she trusted them, they cared for her, they were professionals. But especially for Nate. Part of what Dominika was doing was for him, she realized. If he had asked her, she would have told him she had no thought of quitting. She was determined and focused. But right now she needed something more than the rush of deception, of the knowledge that her will was stronger than all others’, that she was besting the Gray Cardinals. She needed to be needed. By him. She could feel her secret self open the hurricane-room door and step outside. Dominika put her hands on the arms of Nate’s chair, bent over, and kissed him on the lips.

You have to have approached a place from all four cardinal points if you want to take it in, and what’s more, you also have to have left it from all these points. Otherwise it will quite unexpectedly cross your path three or four times before you are prepared to discover it. One stage further, and you seek it out, you orient your-self by it. The same thing with houses. It is only after having crept along a series of them in search of a very specific one that you come to learn what they contain. From the arches of gates, on the frames of house doors, in letters of varying size, black, blue, yellow, red, in the shape of arrows or in the image of boots or freshly-ironed laundry or a word stoop or a stairway’s solid landing, the life leaps out at you, combative, determined, mute. You have to have traveled the streets by streetcar to realize how this running battle con-tinues up along the various stories and finally reaches its decisive pitch on the roofs.

Trying to get to 124 for the second time now, he regretted that conversation: the high tone he took; his refusal to see the effect of marrow weariness in a woman he believed was a mountain. Now, too late, he understood her. The heart that pumped out love, the mouth that spoke the Word, didn't count. They came in her yard anyway and she could not approve or condemn Sethe's rough choice. One or the other might have saved her, but beaten up by the claims of both, she went to bed. The whitefolks had tired her out at last. And him. Eighteen seventy-four and whitefolks were still on the loose. Whole towns wiped clean of Negroes; eighty-seven lynchings in one year alone in Kentucky; four colored schools burned to the ground; grown men whipped like children; children whipped like adults; black women raped by the crew; property taken, necks broken. He smelled skin, skin and hot blood. The skin was one thing, but human blood cooked in a lynch fire was a whole other thing. The stench stank. Stank up off the pages of the North Star, out of the mouths of witnesses, etched in crooked handwriting in letters delivered by hand. Detailed in documents and petitions full of whereas and presented to any legal body who'd read it, it stank. But none of that had worn out his marrow. None of that. It was the ribbon. Tying his flatbed up on the bank of the Licking River, securing it the best he could, he caught sight of something red on its bottom. Reaching for it, he thought it was a cardinal feather stuck to his boat. He tugged and what came loose in his hand was a red ribbon knotted around a curl of wet woolly hair, clinging still to its bit of scalp. He untied the ribbon and put it in his pocket, dropped the curl in the weeds. On the way home, he stopped, short of breath and dizzy. He waited until the spell passed before continuing on his way. A moment later, his breath left him again. This time he sat down by a fence. Rested, he got to his feet, but before he took a step he turned to look back down the road he was traveling and said, to its frozen mud and the river beyond, "What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?" When he got to his house he was too tired to eat the food his sister and nephews had prepared. He sat on the porch in the cold till way past dark and went to his bed only because his sister's voice calling him was getting nervous. He kept the ribbon; the skin smell nagged him, and his weakened marrow made him dwell on Baby Suggs' wish to consider what in the world was harmless. He hoped she stuck to blue, yellow, maybe green, and never fixed on red. Mistaking her, upbraiding her, owing her, now he needed to let her know he knew, and to get right with her and her kin. So, in spite of his exhausted marrow, he kept on through the voices and tried once more to knock at the door of 124. This time, although he couldn't cipher but one word, he believed he knew who spoke them. The people of the broken necks, of fire-cooked blood and black girls who had lost their ribbons. What a roaring.

Y' are welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady, Or gentleman that is not freely merry, Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome, And to you all, good health. [Drinks] Lord Sands. Your grace is noble. Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks, And save me so much talking. Cardinal Wolsey. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you; cheer your neighbours. Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? Lord Sands. The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord, then we shall have 'em Talk us to silence. Anne Bullen. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sands. Lord Sands. Yes, if I make my play. Here's to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam, For 'tis to such a thing,— Anne Bullen. You cannot show me. Lord Sands. I told your grace they would talk anon. [Drum and trumpet; chambers discharg'd] Cardinal Wolsey. What's that? Lord Chamberlain. Look out there, some of ye. [Exit Servant] Cardinal Wolsey. What warlike voice, And to what end is this? Nay, ladies, fear not; By all the laws of war y' are privileg’d.

While these tactics were aggressive and crude, they confirmed that our legislation had touched a nerve. I wasn’t the only one who recognized this. Many other victims of human rights abuses in Russia saw the same thing. After the bill was introduced they came to Washington or wrote letters to the Magnitsky Act’s cosponsors with the same basic message: “You have found the Achilles’ heel of the Putin regime.” Then, one by one, they would ask, “Can you add the people who killed my brother to the Magnitsky Act?” “Can you add the people who tortured my mother?” “How about the people who kidnapped my husband?” And on and on. The senators quickly realized that they’d stumbled onto something much bigger than one horrific case. They had inadvertently discovered a new method for fighting human rights abuses in authoritarian regimes in the twenty-first century: targeted visa sanctions and asset freezes. After a dozen or so of these visits and letters, Senator Cardin and his cosponsors conferred and decided to expand the law, adding sixty-five words to the Magnitsky Act. Those new words said that in addition to sanctioning Sergei’s tormentors, the Magnitsky Act would sanction all other gross human rights abusers in Russia. With those extra sixty-five words, my personal fight for justice had become everyone’s fight. The revised bill was officially introduced on May 19, 2011, less than a month after we posted the Olga Stepanova YouTube video. Following its introduction, a small army of Russian activists descended on Capitol Hill, pushing for the bill’s passage. They pressed every senator who would talk to them to sign on. There was Garry Kasparov, the famous chess grand master and human rights activist; there was Alexei Navalny, the most popular Russian opposition leader; and there was Evgenia Chirikova, a well-known Russian environmental activist. I didn’t have to recruit any of these people. They just showed up by themselves. This uncoordinated initiative worked beautifully. The number of Senate cosponsors grew quickly, with three or four new senators signing on every month. It was an easy sell. There wasn’t a pro-Russian-torture-and-murder lobby in Washington to oppose it. No senator, whether the most liberal Democrat or the most conservative Republican, would lose a single vote for banning Russian torturers and murderers from coming to America. The Magnitsky Act was gathering so much momentum that it appeared it might be unstoppable. From the day that Kyle Scott at the State Department stonewalled me, I knew that the administration was dead set against this, but now they were in a tough spot. If they openly opposed the law, it would look as if they were siding with the Russians. However, if they publicly supported it, it would threaten Obama’s “reset” with Russia. They needed to come up with some other solution. On July 20, 2011, the State Department showed its cards. They sent a memo to the Senate entitled “Administration Comments on S.1039 Sergei Magnitsky Rule of Law.” Though not meant to be made public, within a day it was leaked.

What this means is that the (Infinity) of points involved in continuity is greater than the (Infinity) of points comprised by any kind of discrete sequence, even an infinitely dense one. (2) Via his Diagonal Proof that c is greater than Aleph0, Cantor has succeeded in characterizing arithmetical continuity entirely in terms of order, sets, denumerability, etc. That is, he has characterized it 100% abstractly, without reference to time, motion, streets, noses, pies, or any other feature of the physical world-which is why Russell credits him with 'definitively solving' the deep problems behind the dichotomy. (3) The D.P. also explains, with respect to Dr. G.'s demonstration back in Section 2e, why there will always be more real numbers than red hankies. And it helps us understand why rational numbers ultimately take up 0 space on the Real Line, since it's obviously the irrational numbers that make the set of all reals nondenumerable. (4) An extension of Cantor's proof helps confirm J. Liouville's 1851 proof that there are an infinite number of transcendental irrationals in any interval on the Real Line. (This is pretty interesting. You'll recall from Section 3a FN 15 that of the two types of irrationals, transcendentals are the ones like pi and e that can't be the roots of integer-coefficient polynomials. Cantor's proof that the reals' (Infinity) outweighs the rationals' (Infinity) can be modified to show that it's actually the transcendental irrationals that are nondenumerable and that the set of all algebraic irrationals has the same cardinality as the rationals, which establishes that it's ultimately the transcendetnal-irrational-reals that account for the R.L.'s continuity.)

Outside the snapdragons, cords of light. Today is easy as weeds & winds & early. Green hills shift green. Cardinals peck at feeders—an air seed salted. A power line across the road blows blue bolts. Crickets make crickets in the grass. We are made & remade together. An ant circles the sugar cube. Our shadow’s a blown sail running blue over cracked tiles. Cool glistening pours from the tap, even on the edges. A red wire, a live red wire, a temperature. Time, in balanced soil, grows inside the snapdragons. In the sizzling cast iron, a cut skin, a sunny side runs yellow across the pan. Silver pots throw a blue shadow across the range. We must carry this the length of our lives. Tall stones lining the garden flower at once. Tin stars burst bold & celestial from the fridge; blue applause. Morning winds crash the columbines; the turf nods. Two reeling petal-whorls gleam & break. Cartoon sheep are wool & want. Happy birthday oak; perfect in another ring. Branch shadows fall across the window in perfect accident without weight. Orange sponge a thousand suds to a squeeze, know your water. School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop. Garlic, ginger, and mangoes hang in tiers in a cradle of red wire. That paw at the door is a soft complaint. Corolla of petals, lean a little toward the light. Everything the worms do for the hills is a secret & enough. Floating sheep turn to wonder. Cracking typewriter, send forth your fire. Watched too long, tin stars throw a tantrum. In the closet in the dust the untouched accordion grows unclean along the white bone of keys. Wrapped in a branch, a canvas balloon, a piece of punctuation signaling the end. Holy honeysuckle, stand in your favorite position, beside the sandbox. The stripes on the couch are running out of color. Perfect in their polished silver, knives in the drawer are still asleep. A May of buzz, a stinger of hot honey, a drip of candy building inside a hive & picking up the pace. Sweetness completes each cell. In the fridge, the juice of a plucked pear. In another month, another set of moths. A mosquito is a moment. Sketched sheep are rather invincible, a destiny trimmed with flouncy ribbon. A basset hound, a paw flick bitching at black fleas. Tonight, maybe we could circle the floodwaters, find some perfect stones to skip across the light or we can float in the swimming pool on our backs—the stars shooting cells of light at each other (cosmic tag)—and watch this little opera, faults & all.

There’s water in their lungs. Mr. Bell holds her now and afterward. There’s water in their ears and a voice warm as a mother’s should be. They fall toward the voice, through the deepest lake in the Adirondacks. “When you were a baby,” the voice says, “you used to point at birds.” The gesture of their hands entwined, reaching up through their descent, clawing for the disappearing surface, could be misconstrued as fingers pointing out a goldfinch on a branch, a red cardinal nosing the grass for some seeds. Later that night the lake freezes, sealing the scar under a dusting of snow.

Each day I perform complex choreography around people, dogs, garbage bags, cyclists going the wrong way, traffic signs with arrows that say ONLY, creaking as they swing in the wind. Sometimes I walk for blocks, even miles, without paying much attention. But then my gait slows. Something tugs at my arm and whispers, Look! Look. There are limestone angels about the doors of the Parish of the Guardian Angel. There's a Banksy painted on Zabar's. There are toy cardinals tied like red ribbons to tree branches on Bank Street. And just like that, Manhattan has me again.

I was sitting in the meadows one day, not long ago, at a place where there was a small brook. It was a hot day. The sky was very blue, and white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. Just opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and among them one single tall, red cardinal flower, which was bending over the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. But the cardinal did not seem to be vain.

According to the priesthood of all believers, the homeless Christian living on the outskirts of town is of the same standing before God as the corpulent cardinal in red robes of silk. Living for God is not about fleeing the work to which God has called you so that you can live in a monastery praying all day; rather, living for God is about faithfully being used by God to perform the work to which He has called you.

As a child, crisp spring afternoons were spent wading along Reedy Creek just beyond the field. Then came the heavy breeze in the autumn, pushing off the almond, auburn, sugar-yellow and apple-red leaves into the creek, providing rafts for dragonflies. In winter, the snow upon the wood became an eerie deep, and the occasional gliding of an owl would be spotted from our bedroom. Then, to spend an afternoon walking in a snowy wood and find a scarlet red cardinal perched on a white limb, you would think God arranged that picture just for you.

The meat was pulsating. Grunting–from pigs. The corpses shifted, then rolled off onto the floor. Trotters clicked on the vinyl. They smelled him. Death-clouded eyes found the intruder. Snouts split in two, baring angry, red flesh. Human eyeballs rolled left and right within two slits in the redness. The closest pig dropped to its stomach. Snap! Fingers. A hand pulled itself out of the pink rip. Another. A pause, then bumps formed in the back. The tips of fifty-caliber bullets poked free–spines from neck to tail. The hands helped the animal feet–made the creature faster, but awkwardly.

All that remained were a few tassels from the cardinal’s red hat.

Technically, “inflammation” describes how the immune system first reacts after it detects a harmful pathogen, something noxious, or a damaged tissue. In most cases, inflammation is rapid and vigorous. Whether the offenders are viruses, bacteria, or sunburns, the immune system quickly launches an armada of cells into battle. These cells discharge a barrage of compounds that cause blood vessels to dilate and become more permeable to white blood cells that swoop in to destroy any invaders. This extra blood flow brings critically needed immune cells and fluids, but the swelling compresses nerves and causes the four cardinal symptoms of inflammation (which literally means “to set on fire”): redness, heat, swelling, and pain. Later, if necessary, the immune system activates additional lines of defense by making antibodies that target and then kill specific pathogens.

BY NOW HE COULD HAVE BEEN a cardinal of the Holy Catholic Church, preaching his sermons at assemblies and conferences, a red biretta on his head. With his history of faithful orthodoxy, he had just about paid the necessary dues to be awarded that kind of position. Instead, he’s buried in the basement of the rickety Cathedral of a poor Central American country in the forgotten South, with a bullet in his heart.

It’s those very setbacks, detours, trials, and life transitions that become steppingstones on the path to your brilliant destination. All the while, your intuition orchestrates amazing miracles and signs around you. The key is to trust your gut and the signs crossing your path. Some of the divine signs include: • Red Cardinal Birds • Rainbows • Butterflies • Deer • Angelic Encounters • Vivid dreams of departed loved ones, friends, & pets • Triple Digits • White Feather • Plus, so much more

Pictures hung from the walls. There in effigy were Wilfred Laurier, Ernest Lapointe, Mackenzie King, and at the far end was a photograph of Cardinal Villeneuve, next to the image of the Sacred Heart. The heart of the statue was heated by electricity while its toes were warmed by a well-trimmed lamp. The image was painted red, for Providence is on the side of the Liberals.

Well, when you miss me, you’ll go somewhere big and open, a place like our lake or any place where you can see the whole sky. Once you’re there, take a big, deep breath, and start to notice all the things we notice when we’re together.” “Like birds?” “Yes, notice the cardinals, the scissor-tailed flycatchers…” “And the hummingbirds, robins, and red-bellied woodpeckers?” “Yes, and the clouds, moon, and stars. And the sounds of things, like the breeze in the tall grass, the wind in the trees, the whir of cars passing on the interstate, people talking, yelling, laughing. Smell the campfire smoke, summer rain, wet leaves. But most of all, I want you to notice what’s inside you. Ask yourself, What do I need?” “Okay.” “Try it now. Close your eyes. Ask yourself—” “—what do I need?” Wren squeezed her eyes closed. “Prolly ice cream.” “You’re darn right. Always.” “Always.

Paying attention is the cardinal sign of love.

Kerry addressed Cardin directly: “I don’t view this as a completely finished product, and I don’t want it judged as such.” Kerry then carried on in his condescending Boston Brahmin voice with a lot of barely intelligible thoughts about how the Magnitsky Act could potentially compromise classified information, and that while it was “very legitimate to name and shame,” he was “worried about the unintended consequences of requiring that kind of detailed reporting that implicates a broader range of intelligence equities.

The King's Perspective There's a story of a king And this story is very true Some say it's just a rumor Some say it's just a ruse They called the man King Flip But that wasn't really his name His name was Filipileetos But that's too hard to say King FLip had a penchant For really expensive things He liked anything shiny And anything with bling He had the nicest castle Out of all the lands But that didn't stop him From wanting one even more grand So he bought a town called perspective And made the people build him a castle At the top of their highest mountain He didn't care if it was a hassle When the work was finally done He decided to go inspect it But when he arrived in the town of Perspective It was exactly as he'd left it He couldn't find a castle It wasn't on the mountain It wasn't on the breach It wasn't on the mainland He immediately grew angry And sought his just revenge On all those who had fooled him On the town, his army did descend When the people were all dead A red cardinal then appeared "King Flip, what have you done? You killed good people, I do fear." King Flip tried to explain That the town deserved to die For his castle was never build Or he would see it with his own eyes The bird said, "But King, you merely assumed. You didn't even try Look from a different perspective, Don't just look from your own two eyes." The bird then led him over to where The castle should surely be He then moved aside a boulder And King Flip feel to his knees For inside the mountain was the castle The most magnificent one ever build King Flip couldn't believe his eyes He quickly became wracked with guilt He had killed so many people. People he should have protected Simply because he couldn't see the castle from their perspective "Hide their bodies!" King Flip yelled "Hide every last one! Put them inside the mountain And then close those doors for good!" The kings army hid the bodies And King Flip fled the land HE went back to his old castle And never spoke of Perspective again Some say this story isn't true Some say it never existed But look at any map and you'll see There is no longer a town called Perspective.

The essential traits we associate with maps today evolved gradually over millennia. We first see cardinal directions on Babylonian clay tablet maps from five thousand years ago, for instance, but distances don’t appear on maps for three thousand more years—our oldest such example is a bronze plate from China’s Zhou Dynasty. Centuries more pass before we get to our oldest surviving paper map, a Greek papyrus depicting the Iberian Peninsula around the time of Christ. The first compass rose appears in the Catalan Atlas of 1375. “Chloropleth” maps—those in which areas are colored differently to represent different values on some scale, like the red-and-blue maps on election night—date back only to 1826.

As we grow our faith, we wait in silence. As we listen for His voice, we have hope that He will speak. It may not be a loud boom or thunder, but a soft whisper. He may use a song, a butterfly, a sermon, a stranger, or even a red cardinal, but there is hope that God will come through for us.

To err is human, to forgive is divine … but I’m only a cardinal and cardinals are human, so rather than forgiving you I’m going to err toward beating you with this stick.

For some years now there has been a constant onslaught of images, lights, and colors that blind man. His interior dwelling is violated by ... unhealthy, provocative images ... that assault purity of heart and infiltrate through the door of sight. / The faculty of sight, which ought to see and contemplate the essential things, is turned aside to what is artificial. ... Our eyelids remain open incessantly, and our eyes are forced to look at a sort of ongoing spectacle. The dictatorship of the image, which plunges our attention into a perpetual whirlpool, detests silence. Man feels obliged to seek ever new realities that give him an appetite to own things; but his eyes are red, haggard, and sick. The artificial spectacles and the screens glowing uninterruptedly try to bewitch the mind and the soul. In the brightly lit prisons of the modern world, man is separated from himself and from God. He is riveted to ephemeral things, farther and farther away from what is essential.

Canon Wallopp is by far the most imposing of the guests. Six feet and clad in fine raiment. A heavy, round red face with roving little eyes. Viewed through the golden glass of the vestibule where we first meet him, wondering where he’s left his ticket of invitation and fuming inwardly because he can’t enter without it, he looks like a dogfish in aspic. Some toady once told him he was the image of Cardinal Wolsey. Later, our friend Inspector Littlejohn is to notice in him a strong resemblance to a casual alcoholic tout who shouts loudly in front of a cheapjack-auctioneer’s shop on the promenade

First it’s your temper, now you’ve become a green-eyed klikusha, a hysterical jealous demoniac, she thought. Idiotka, concentrate on your work. Focus on the Gray Cardinals in the Kremlin; reserve your spite for them

Here too we see the disparity of treatment as between traditional Catholics who in any way present an obstacle to the new orientation, and those who embrace the new orientation wholly and entirely. In contrast with the Vatican's pandering to the CPA, Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre was publicly pronounced both excommunicated and schismatic in a motu proprio prepared for the Pope's signature within 48 hours of Archbishop Lefebvre's consecration of four bishops without a papal mandate - an action the Archbishop took in an effort (however misguided some may think it to be) to maintain Catholic tradition in a Church that appears to have gone mad. The Red Chinese procure (through former Catholic bishops) the consecration of 100 bishops without a papal mandate for their pro-abortion "church" and the Vatican takes no punitive action. Quite the contrary, it sends a Cardinal (no less) as a representative to hobnob with some of the illicit bishops! Yet, when Archbishop Lefebvre consecrates four bishops to serve Catholic Tradition, he is immediately cast into outer darkness by the same Vatican apparatus, even though Archbishop Lefebvre and the four newly consecrated bishops consistently professed their loyalty to the Pope whom they were attempting to serve by preserving traditional Catholic practice and belief. Why this striking disparity of treatment? The answer, once again, is that Archbishop Lefebvre resisted the Adaptation; the Red Chinese bishops, on the other hand, exemplify it. (page 124)

Once, a cardinal flew down into the chimney in the living room, and I remembered how startling it had been to see this beautiful, bright red bird perched in the ashes. It was just like this. The ruin of my shitty Ford just highlighted the contrast, how out of place she was. Women like Alexis didn’t live in ashes. They didn’t live in small towns in the middle of nowhere where you couldn’t get a damn steak in the off-season. They didn’t ride around in tired work trucks and hold hands with men who had calluses. They lived in big cities with accomplished men who had important jobs.