Reservations About Someone Quotes

A book has been taken. A book has been taken? You summoned the Watch," Carrot drew himself up proudly, "because someone's taken a book? You think that's worse than murder?" The Librarian gave him the kind of look other people would reserve for people who said things like "What's so bad about genocide?

You accused me of murder. Do you make a habit of bringing schoolgirls into an interview room with murder suspects?' He waved his hand. 'Oh, I was only joking about that. I don't really think you murdered someone. Unless you did, in which case I reserve the right to say I knew it all along.

Stop worrying about someone taking your spot. God already have it reserved. Do the work to get there and fill it!

Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t? A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on. What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon. Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere. I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either. Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later. Let me do it right for once, for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes, you know the story, simply heaven. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing and when you open your eyes only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer. Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion. Hello darling, sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up in a stranger’s bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. I arrived in the city and you met me at the station, smiling in a way that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade, up the stairs of the building to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things, I looked out the window and said This doesn’t look that much different from home, because it didn’t, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights. We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud. Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you. Okay, if you’re so great, you do it— here’s the pencil, make it work … If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water. Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you. I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again, years later, in the chlorinated pool. I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries. I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together. I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

At first glance it seems strange that the attitude of the anti-Semite can be equated with that of the negrophobe. It was my philosophy teacher from the Antilles who reminded me one day: “When you hear someone insulting the Jews pay attention; he is talking about you.” And I believed at the time he was universally right, meaning that I was responsible in my body and my soul for the fate reserved for my brother. Since then, I have understood that what he meant quite simply was the anti-Semite is inevitably a negrophobe.

It’s hard to watch someone you care about suffer. But when you love someone, you do it. You do it without question or reservation. You do it because there’s no other option—because the thought of being without them is a hundred times more excruciating than bearing their burden.

People walk the paths of the gardens below, and the wind sings anthems in the hedges, and the big old cedars at the entrance to the maze creak. Marie-Laure imagines the electromagnetic waves traveling into and out of Michel’s machine, bending around them, just as Etienne used to describe, except now a thousand times more crisscross the air than when he lived - maybe a million times more. Torrents of text conversations, tides of cell conversations, of televisions programs, of e-mails, vast networks of fiber and wire interlaced above and beneath the city, passing through buildings, arcing between transmitters in Metro tunnels, between antennas atop buildings, from lampposts with cellular transmitters in them, commercials for Carrefour and Evian and prebaked toaster pastries flashing into space and back to earth again, I am going to be late and Maybe we should get reservations? and Pick up avocados and What did he say? and ten thousand I miss yous, fifty thousand I love yous, hate mail and appointment reminders and market updates, jewelry ads, coffee ads, furniture ads flying invisibly over the warrens of Paris, over the battlefields and tombs, over the Ardennes, over the Rhine, over Belgium and Denmark, over the scarred and ever-shifting landscape we call nations. And is it so hard to believe that souls might also travel those paths? That her father and Etienne and Madame Manec and the German boy named Werner Pfennig might harry the sky in flocks, like egrets, like terns, like starlings? That great shuttles of souls might fly about, faded but audible if you listen closely enough? They flow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip through your jacket and shirt and breastbone and lungs, and pass out through the other side, the air a library and the record of every life lived, every sentence spoken, every word transmitted still reverberating within it. Every hour, she thinks, someone for whom the war was memory falls out of the world. We rise again in the grass. In the flowers. In songs.

The true measure of courage was still waiting for him, however. After way too many years, he’d finally told Blay he was sorry. And then after way too much drama, he’d finally told the guy he was grateful. But coming forward and being real about the fact that he was in love? Even if Blay was with someone else? That was the true divide. And goddamn him, he was going to do it. Not to break the pair of them up, no, that wasn’t it. And not to burden Blay. In this case, payback, as it turned out, was actually a pledge. Something that was made with no expectations and no reservations. It was the jump without a parachute, the leap without knowing, the trip and the fall without anything to catch you. Blay had done that not once, but several times and yeah, sure, Qhuinn wanted to go back to any of those moments of vunerability and beat his earlier incarnations so badly that his head cleared, and he recognized the opportunity he’d been given. Unfortunately, shit didn’t run that way. It was time for him to repay the strength… and in all likelihood, bear the pain that was going to come when he was turned down in a far more kindly manner than he’d provided for. Forcing his lids down, he brought Blay’s knuckles to his mouth, brushing a kiss against them. Then he gave himself up to sleep, letting himself fall into unconsciousness, knowing that, at least for the next few hours, he was safe in the arms of his one and only.

...epic, epic love is not about having someone. It's about being willing to give them up. It's sacrifice. It's my mom's theater tickets stuffed down at the bottom of her jewelry box. It's Noah and August. It's my sister and Annabelle. It's Jordan and his mom, the truth he reserves to protect her. And see, that's the thing I didn't understand. The thing no one tells you. That just because you find love doesn't mean it's yours to keep. Love never belongs to you. It belongs to the universe.

When someone tells us of an unfavorable opinion about ourselves, instead of being distressed, we should think of all the “evil” we have spoken of others, and realize that it is only justice that as much should be said of ourselves. Ironically, no one is more vulnerable, more susceptible, and less likely to acknowledge his own defects than the backbiter. Merely tell him about the slightest reservation someone has made in his regard, and he will lose countenance, lose his temper, and drown in his own bile.

I think that a lot of the time, people are generous towards those whom they pity; but only find fault in those whom they see as better than themselves. There is a fake kind of goodness; and that is the goodness that is only good towards other people that make the givers feel better about themselves. Would you be good to someone you think is so much better than you are? Or who has so much more than you have? Or is your goodness only reserved for those who make you feel like a god because you give to them? Too often, there are shining, beautiful people, who suffer so much in this world, because there would be so many others willing to snuff out their flames! Goodness of a person is not measured by sympathy or compassion; rather, goodness is measured by empathy. Empathy goes beyond all the physical things you see with your two eyes. It’s easy to be good to those you pity; much harder to be good to those whom you envy!

Only a few centuries ago, a mere second in cosmic time, we knew nothing of where or when we were. Oblivious to the rest of the cosmos, we inhabited a kind of prison, a tiny universe bounded by a nutshell. How did we escape from the prison? It was the work of generations of searchers who took five simple rules to heart: 1. Question authority. No idea is true just because someone says so, including me. 2. Think for yourself. Question yourself. Don't believe anything just because you want to. Believing something doesn't make it so. 3. Test ideas by the evidence gained from observation and experiment. If a favorite idea fails a well-designed test, it's wrong. Get over it. 4. Follow the evidence wherever it leads. If you have no evidence, reserve judgment. And perhaps the most important rule of all... 5. Remember: you could be wrong. Even the best scientists have been wrong about some things. Newton, Einstein, and every other great scientist in history -- they all made mistakes. Of course they did. They were human. Science is a way to keep from fooling ourselves, and each other.

All great blades have names. It's just how it's done." "Bollocks." Mercurio took back the dagger, held it up between them. "Naming your blade is the sort of faff reserved for heroes, girl. Men who have songs sung about them, histories spun for them, brats named after them. It's the shadow road for you and me. And you dance it right, no one will ever know your name, let alone the pig-sticker in you belt. You'll be a rumor. A whisper. The thought that wakes the bastards of this world sweating in the nevernight. The last think you will ever be in this world, girl, is someone's hero." Mercurio handed back the blade. "But you will be a girl heroes fear.

Don’t strive to be a well-rounded leader. Instead, discover your zone and stay there. Then delegate everything else. Admitting a weakness is a sign of strength. Acknowledging weakness doesn’t make a leader less effective. Everybody in your organization benefits when you delegate responsibilities that fall outside your core competency. Thoughtful delegation will allow someone else in your organization to shine. Your weakness is someone’s opportunity. Leadership is not always about getting things done “right.” Leadership is about getting things done through other people. The people who follow us are exactly where we have led them. If there is no one to whom we can delegate, it is our own fault. As a leader, gifted by God to do a few things well, it is not right for you to attempt to do everything. Upgrade your performance by playing to your strengths and delegating your weaknesses. There are many things I can do, but I have to narrow it down to the one thing I must do. The secret of concentration is elimination. Devoting a little of yourself to everything means committing a great deal of yourself to nothing. My competence in these areas defines my success as a pastor. A sixty-hour workweek will not compensate for a poorly delivered sermon. People don’t show up on Sunday morning because I am a good pastor (leader, shepherd, counselor). In my world, it is my communication skills that make the difference. So that is where I focus my time. To develop a competent team, help the leaders in your organization discover their leadership competencies and delegate accordingly. Once you step outside your zone, don’t attempt to lead. Follow. The less you do, the more you will accomplish. Only those leaders who act boldly in times of crisis and change are willingly followed. Accepting the status quo is the equivalent of accepting a death sentence. Where there’s no progress, there’s no growth. If there’s no growth, there’s no life. Environments void of change are eventually void of life. So leaders find themselves in the precarious and often career-jeopardizing position of being the one to draw attention to the need for change. Consequently, courage is a nonnegotiable quality for the next generation leader. The leader is the one who has the courage to act on what he sees. A leader is someone who has the courage to say publicly what everybody else is whispering privately. It is not his insight that sets the leader apart from the crowd. It is his courage to act on what he sees, to speak up when everyone else is silent. Next generation leaders are those who would rather challenge what needs to change and pay the price than remain silent and die on the inside. The first person to step out in a new direction is viewed as the leader. And being the first to step out requires courage. In this way, courage establishes leadership. Leadership requires the courage to walk in the dark. The darkness is the uncertainty that always accompanies change. The mystery of whether or not a new enterprise will pan out. The reservation everyone initially feels when a new idea is introduced. The risk of being wrong. Many who lack the courage to forge ahead alone yearn for someone to take the first step, to go first, to show the way. It could be argued that the dark provides the optimal context for leadership. After all, if the pathway to the future were well lit, it would be crowded. Fear has kept many would-be leaders on the sidelines, while good opportunities paraded by. They didn’t lack insight. They lacked courage. Leaders are not always the first to see the need for change, but they are the first to act. Leadership is about moving boldly into the future in spite of uncertainty and risk. You can’t lead without taking risk. You won’t take risk without courage. Courage is essential to leadership.

You know, sleeping outdoors isn’t all bad. You get to stare up at the stars and cool breezes ruffle your fur after a hot day. The grass smells sweet and,” he made eye contact with me, “so does your hair.” I blushed and grumbled, “Well, I’m glad someone enjoyed it.” He smiled smugly and said, “I did.” I had a quick flash of him as a man snuggled up next to me in the forest, imagined him resting his head on my lap while I stroked his hair, and decided to focus on the matter at hand. “Well, listen, Ren, you’re changing the subject. I don’t appreciate the way you manipulated me into being here. Mr. Kadam should’ve told me at the circus.” He shook his head. “We didn’t think you’d believe his story. He made up the trip to the tiger reserve to get you to India. We figured once you were here, I could change into a man and clarify everything.” I admitted, “You’re probably right. If you had changed to a man there, I don’t think I would have come” “Why did you come?” “I wanted to spend more time with…you. You know, the tiger. I would have missed him. I mean you.” I blushed. He grinned lopsidedly. “I would have missed you too.” I wrung the hem of my shirt between my hands. Misreading my thoughts, he said, “Kelsey. I’m truly sorry for the deception. If there’d been any other way-“ I looked up. He hung his head in a way that reminded me of the tiger. The frustration and awkwardness I felt about him dissipated. My instincts told me that I should believe him and help him. The strong emotional connection that drew me to the tiger tugged at my heart even more powerfully with the man. I felt pity for him and his situation. Softly, I asked, “When will you change into a tiger?” “Soon.” “Does it hurt?” “Not as much as it used to.” “Do you understand me when you are a tiger? Can I still speak to you?” “Yes, I’ll still be able to hear and understand you.” I took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll stay here with you until the shaman comes back. I still have a lot of questions for you though.” “I know. I’ll try to answer them as best I can, but you’ll have to save them for tomorrow when I’ll be able to speak with you again. We can stay here for the night. The shaman should be back around dusk.” “Ren?” “Yes?” “The jungle frightens me, and this situation frightens me.” He let go of the apron string and looked into my eyes. “I know.” “Ren?” “Yes?” “Don’t…leave me, okay?” His face softened into a tender expression, and his mouth turned up in a sincere smile. “Asambhava. I won’t.” I felt myself responding to his smile with one of my own when a shadow fell across his face. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw. I saw a tremor pass through his body, and the chair fell forward as he collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees. I stood to reach out to him and was amazed to see his body morph back into the tiger form I knew so well. Ren the tiger shook himself, then approached my outstretched hand and rubbed his head against it.

But wasn’t it better to have someone who was always gushing annoyingly about love than someone who was reserved with it?

Praise should be reserved for those times when someone stretches himself beyond the norm, puts extra effort or time into a task, or exceeds expectations. It’s not about doing the minimum, the expected.

She’ll kill me, or herself, or Elizabeth. And yet I’m still not going to kill her. Even to save myself. Once upon a time, I thought she was nothing like me. Now, as I look down at her wretched face, I see tiny facets of myself in her. Survivor of a poisoned childhood, someone who put themselves back together and came out stronger for it. She’s got hidden reserves of toughness that I never even glimpsed. And she’s got a mean streak in her too. I like that about her. I like it a lot. I like everything about her. If I were a normal man, I’d say that I love everything about her. She makes me wish that I could be what she needs, what she deserves. But I am the man that I am, hard and unchanging and incurable.

On the TV screen in Harry's is The Patty Winters Show, which is now on in the afternoon and is up against Geraldo Rivera, Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey. Today's topic is Does Economic Success Equal Happiness? The answer, in Harry's this afternoon, is a roar of resounding "Definitely," followed by much hooting, the guys all cheering together in a friendly way. On the screen now are scenes from President Bush's inauguration early this year, then a speech from former President Reagan, while Patty delivers a hard-to-hear commentary. Soon a tiresome debate forms over whether he's lying or not, even though we don't, can't, hear the words. The first and really only one to complain is Price, who, though I think he's bothered by something else, uses this opportunity to vent his frustration, looks inappropriately stunned, asks, "How can he lie like that? How can he pull that shit?" "Oh Christ," I moan. "What shit? Now where do we have reservations at? I mean I'm not really hungry but I would like to have reservations somewhere. How about 220?" An afterthought: "McDermott, how did that rate in the new Zagat's?" "No way," Farrell complains before Craig can answer. "The coke I scored there last time was cut with so much laxative I actually had to take a shit in M.K." "Yeah, yeah, life sucks and then you die." "Low point of the night," Farrell mutters. "Weren't you with Kyria the last time you were there?" Goodrich asks. "Wasn't that the low point?" "She caught me on call waiting. What could I do?" Farrell shrugs. "I apologize." "Caught him on call waiting." McDermott nudges me, dubious. "Shut up, McDermott," Farrell says, snapping Craig's suspenders. "Date a beggar." "You forgot something, Farrell," Preston mentions. "McDermott is a beggar." "How's Courtney?" Farrell asks Craig, leering. "Just say no." Someone laughs. Price looks away from the television screen, then at Craig, and he tries to hide his displeasure by asking me, waving at the TV, "I don't believe it. He looks so... normal. He seems so... out of it. So... un dangerous." "Bimbo, bimbo," someone says. "Bypass, bypass." "He is totally harmless, you geek. Was totally harmless. Just like you are totally harmless. But he did do all that shit and you have failed to get us into 150, so, you know, what can I say?" McDermott shrugs. "I just don't get how someone, anyone, can appear that way yet be involved in such total shit," Price says, ignoring Craig, averting his eyes from Farrell. He takes out a cigar and studies it sadly. To me it still looks like there's a smudge on Price's forehead. "Because Nancy was right behind him?" Farrell guesses, looking up from the Quotrek. "Because Nancy did it?" "How can you be so fucking, I don't know, cool about it?" Price, to whom something really eerie has obviously happened, sounds genuinely perplexed. Rumor has it that he was in rehab.

Sometimes while I ride the subway I try to look at each person and imagine what they look like to someone who is totally in love with them. I think everyone has had someone look at them that way, whether it was a lover, or a parent, or a friend, whether they know it or not. It's a wonderful thing, to look at someone to whom I would never be attracted and think about what looking at them feels like to someone who is devouring every part of their image, who has invisible strings that are connected to this person tied to every part of their body. I think this fun pastime is a way of cultivating compassion. It feels good to think about people that way, and to use that part of my mind that I think is traditionally reserved for a tiny portion of people I'll meet in my life to appreciate the general public. I wish I thought about people like this more often. I think it's the opposite of what our culture teaches us to do. We prefer to pick people apart to find their flaws. Cultivating these feelings of love or appreciation for random people, and even for people I don't like, makes me a more forgiving and appreciative person toward myself and people I love. Also, it's just a really excellent pastime.

The first question we needed to address in response to the popular “Take America Back for God” slogan concerned the precedent of Jesus, and in this light we must judge that the slogan can lead us into temptation. The second concerns the meaning of the slogan itself. I, for one, confess to being utterly mystified by the phrase. If we are to take America back for God, it must have once belonged to God, but it’s not at all clear when this golden Christian age was. Were these God-glorifying years before, during, or after Europeans “discovered” America and carried out the doctrine of “manifest destiny”—the belief that God (or, for some, nature) had destined white Christians to conquer the native inhabitants and steal their land? Were the God-glorifying years the ones in which whites massacred these natives by the millions, broke just about every covenant they ever made with them, and then forced survivors onto isolated reservations? Was the golden age before, during, or after white Christians loaded five to six million Africans on cargo ships to bring them to their newfound country, enslaving the three million or so who actually survived the brutal trip? Was it during the two centuries when Americans acquired remarkable wealth by the sweat and blood of their slaves? Was this the time when we were truly “one nation under God,” the blessed time that so many evangelicals seem to want to take our nation back to? Maybe someone would suggest that the golden age occurred after the Civil War, when blacks were finally freed. That doesn’t quite work either, however, for the virtual apartheid that followed under Jim Crow laws—along with the ongoing violence, injustices, and dishonesty toward Native Americans and other nonwhites up into the early twentieth century—was hardly “God-glorifying.” (In this light, it should come as no surprise to find that few Christian Native Americans, African-Americans, or other nonwhites join in the chorus that we need to “Take America Back for God.”) If we look at historical reality rather than pious verbiage, it’s obvious that America never really “belonged to God.

He had at most five minutes of life left. He said that those five minutes were an endless deadline, a colossal wealth. It seemed to him that he lived so many lives in those five minutes that he had no time to think about the final moment, and he even had to attend to different matters. He calculated the time necessary to say goodbye to his comrades and set aside a couple of minutes for that purpose. Then he allotted another two minutes to think about himself one last time and to look around one last time. After bidding farewell to his comrades, those two minutes he had reserved for thinking about himself arrived. He already knew in advance what he would think about: he wanted to imagine, as soon as possible and with utmost clarity, what he could become. At that moment, he existed and lived, and three minutes later he would be someone or something, but who? And where? He believed he would find the answer to all of that in those two minutes! Oh, if only he wouldn't die! If life could be restored to him! What eternity it would be! And all for himself! In that case, he would turn every minute into a whole century, without losing a single one, he would savor each moment and not waste anything! He said that this idea eventually degenerated into such rage that he wished to be executed as soon as possible.

There were a few small slips: after the first lunch on board the Tsar’s yacht Standart, the Kaiser drew Sazonov apart and spoke to him (‘at him’ might be a more appropriate locution) for over an hour in detail about his relationship with his parents, who, he claimed, had never loved him. Sazonov saw this as a shocking illustration of the German Emperor’s ‘marked tendency to overshoot the boundaries of the reserve and dignity’ that one would expect of someone in such an elevated position.

Anxiety isn’t an attack that explodes out of me; it’s not a volcano that lies dormant until it’s triggered by an earth-shattering event. It’s a constant companion. Like a blowfly that gets into the house in the middle of summer, flying around and around. You can hear it buzzing, but you can’t see it, can’t capture it, can’t let it out. My anxiety is invisible to others, but often it’s the focal point of my mind. Everything that happens on a day-to-day basis is filtered through a lens colored by anxiety. That nervousness that makes your palms sweat and your heart race before you get up and make a speech in front of an audience? That’s what I feel in a normal conversation at a dinner table. Or just thinking about having a conversation at a dinner table. The fear that other people feel on rare occasions, reserved only for when they jump out of a plane or hear a strange noise in the middle of the night—that’s my normal. That’s what I feel when the phone rings. When someone knocks on my door. When I go outside. When I’m alone. When I’m in line at a store. Everything feels like I’m on a stage, spotlight on me, all eyes on me, watching, judging. Like I’m one second away from total disaster. It’s invisible, it’s irrational, it’s never-ending. I could be standing there, smiling and chatting like everything is totally fine, while secretly wanting to scream and cry and run away. No one would ever know. In my mind, no one can hear me scream. I hide it because I know it’s not understood or acceptable—because I’m not understood or acceptable.

But is formalizing a bond really such a significant shift, such an emotional event? This may strike many as a silly question, given that so many couples today live together before marriage. About 41 percent of U.S. couples now cohabit before they wed, compared with only 16 percent in 1980. So how much of a change can there be after an official ceremony? A lot, researchers have found. Living together may fully acquaint you with someone’s everyday habits and likes and dislikes—he drops his dirty laundry on the floor or in the hamper; she wants the right or left side of the bed—but it often stops short of complete emotional linkage. It’s like bouncing on the diving board but not plunging in. Moreover, cohabitation seems to have a hangover effect. Data show that couples that have lived together are more likely to be dissatisfied with marriage and to divorce. Why this is so is unclear, but it may be that couples who live together have more general reservations about marriage, more ambivalence about long-term commitment, and are less religious. Religiosity seems to encourage partners to wed and, when problems occur, to struggle to stay married.

The woman danced with an economy of motion Rosalind had noted among the very talented. There was always something self-contained about the better dancers; they held something in reserve, a restraint formed mysteriously by something they'd given up opposing. This surrender made the dancers beautiful. Rosalind had noticed it from the first, the way that skill reordered things; skill altered the economy of beauty so that this woman with a face like an old spoon would be the one men wanted to dance with all night. The dance and her skill made her desirable. She moved with a calm dignity as though it never occurred to her that someone wouldn't want to dance with her.

Though all the brilliant intellects of the ages were to concentrate upon this one theme, never could they adequately express their wonder at this dense darkness of the human mind. Men do not suffer anyone to seize their estates, and they rush to stones and arms if there is even the slightest dispute about the limit of their lands, yet they allow others to trespass upon their life—nay, they themselves even lead in those who will eventually possess it. No one is to be found who is willing to distribute his money, yet among how many does each one of us distribute his life! In guarding their fortune men are often closefisted, yet, when it comes to the matter of wasting time, in the case of the one thing in which it is right to be miserly, they show themselves most prodigal. And so I should like to lay hold upon someone from the company of older men and say: "I see that you have reached the farthest limit of human life, you are pressing hard upon your hundredth year, or are even beyond it; come now, recall your life and make a reckoning. Consider how much of your time was taken up with a moneylender, how much with a mistress, how much with a patron, how much with a client, how much in wrangling with your wife, how much in punishing your slaves, how much in rushing about the city on social duties. Add the diseases which we have caused by our own acts, add, too, the time that has lain idle and unused; you will see that you have fewer years to your credit than you count. Look back in memory and consider when you ever had a fixed plan, how few days have passed as you had intended, when you were ever at your own disposal, when your face ever wore its natural expression, when your mind was ever unperturbed, what work you have achieved in so long a life, how many have robbed you of life when you were not aware of what you were losing, how much was taken up in useless sorrow, in foolish joy, in greedy desire, in the allurements of society, how little of yourself was left to you; you will perceive that you are dying before your season!"7 What, then, is the reason of this? You live as if you were destined to live forever, no thought of your frailty ever enters your head, of how much time has already gone by you take no heed. You squander time as if you drew from a full and abundant supply, though all the while that day which you bestow on some person or thing is perhaps your last. You have all the fears of mortals and all the desires of immortals. You will hear many men saying: "After my fiftieth year I shall retire into leisure, my sixtieth year shall release me from public duties." And what guarantee, pray, have you that your life will last longer? Who will suffer your course to be just as you plan it? Are you not ashamed to reserve for yourself only the remnant of life, and to set apart for wisdom only that time which cannot be devoted to any business? How late it is to begin to live just when we must cease to live! What foolish forgetfulness of mortality to postpone wholesome plans to the fiftieth and sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life at a point to which few have attained!

Torrents of text conversations, tides of cell conversations, of television programs, of e-mail, vast networks of fiber and wire interlaced above and beneath the city, passing through buildings, arcing between transmitters in Metro tunnels, between antennas atop buildings, from lampposts with cellular transmitters in them, commercials for Carrefour and Evian and prebaked toaster pastries flashing into space and back to earth again, I’m going to be late and Maybe we should get reservations? and Pick up avocados and What did he say? and ten thousand I miss yous, fifty thousand I love yous, hate mail and appointment reminders and market updates, jewelry ads, coffee ads, furniture ads flying invisibly over the warrens of Paris, over the battlefields and tombs, over the Ardennes, over the Rhine, over Belgium and Denmark, over the scarred and ever-shifting landscapes we call nations. And is it so hard to believe that souls might also travel those paths? That her father and Etienne and Madame Manec and the German boy named Werner Pfennig might harry the sky in flocks, like egrets, like terns, like starlings? That great shuttles of souls might fly about, faded but audible if you listen closely enough? They flow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip through your jacket and shirt and breastbone and lungs, and pass out through the other side, the air a library and the record of every life lived, every sentence spoken, every word transmitted still reverberating within it. Every hour, she thinks, someone for whom the war was memory falls out of the world. We rise again in the grass. In the flowers. In songs.

Remember that craze a few years back in the BookWorld for sending chain letters? Receive a letter and send one on to ten friends? Well, someone has been overenthusiastic with the letter U—I’ve got a report here from the Text Sea Environmental Protection Agency saying that reserves of the letter U have reached dangerously low levels—we need to decrease consumption until stocks are brought back up. Any suggestions?” “How about using a lower-case n upside down?” said Benedict. “We tried that with M and W during the great M Migration of ’62; it never worked.” “How about respelling what, what?” suggested King Pellinore, stroking his large white mustache. “Any word with the our ending could be spelt or, don’tchaknow.” “Like neighbor instead of neighbour?” “It’s a good idea,” put in Snell. “Labor, valor, flavor, harbor—there must be hundreds. If we confine it to one geographical area, we can claim it as a local spelling idiosyncrasy.

Why can't we sit together? What's the point of seat reservations,anyway? The bored woman calls my section next,and I think terrible thoughts about her as she slides my ticket through her machine. At least I have a window seat. The middle and aisle are occupied with more businessmen. I'm reaching for my book again-it's going to be a long flight-when a polite English accent speaks to the man beside me. "Pardon me,but I wonder if you wouldn't mind switching seats.You see,that's my girlfriend there,and she's pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes,I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when...well..." St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around. The paper crinkles dramatically. The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend? "Thank you.I was in forty-five G." He slides into the vacated chair and waits for the man to disappear before speaking again. The guy onhis other side stares at us in horror,but St. Clair doesn't care. "They had me next to some horrible couple in matching Hawaiian shirts. There's no reason to suffer this flight alone when we can suffer it together." "That's flattering,thanks." But I laugh,and he looks pleased-until takeoff, when he claws the armrest and turns a color disturbingy similar to key lime pie. I distract him with a story about the time I broke my arm playing Peter Pan. It turned out there was more to flying than thinking happy thoughts and jumping out a window. St. Clair relaxes once we're above the clouds. Time passes quickly for an eight-hour flight. We don't talk about what waits on the other side of the ocean. Not his mother. Not Toph.Instead,we browse Skymall. We play the if-you-had-to-buy-one-thing-off-each-page game. He laughs when I choose the hot-dog toaster, and I tease him about the fogless shower mirror and the world's largest crossword puzzle. "At least they're practical," he says. "What are you gonna do with a giant crossword poster? 'Oh,I'm sorry Anna. I can't go to the movies tonight. I'm working on two thousand across, Norwegian Birdcall." "At least I'm not buying a Large Plastic Rock for hiding "unsightly utility posts.' You realize you have no lawn?" "I could hide other stuff.Like...failed French tests.Or illegal moonshining equipment." He doubles over with that wonderful boyish laughter, and I grin. "But what will you do with a motorized swimming-pool snack float?" "Use it in the bathtub." He wipes a tear from his cheek. "Ooo,look! A Mount Rushmore garden statue. Just what you need,Anna.And only forty dollars! A bargain!" We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane,followed by rude pictures of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair's eyes glint as he sketches the man falling down the Pantheon's spiral staircase. There's a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears. After a few hours,he grows sleepy.His head sinks against my shoulder. I don't dare move.The sun is coming up,and the sky is pink and orange and makes me think of sherbet.I siff his hair. Not out of weirdness.It's just...there. He must have woken earlier than I thought,because it smells shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy.Mmm.I doze in and out of a peaceful dream,and the next thing I know,the captain's voice is crackling over the airplane.We're here. I'm home.

His skin was darker than I'd remembered- golden now, rather than pale. Pale, from being locked Under the Mountain for fifty years. I scanned him, searching for any sign of the massive, membranous wings- the ones he'd admitted he'd loved flying with. But there was none. Just the male, smirking at me. And that too-familiar expression- 'How dare you-' Rhys snorted. 'I certainly missed that look on your face.' He stalked closer, his movements feline, those violet eyes turning subdued- lethal. 'You're welcome, you know.' 'For what?' Rhys paused less than a foot away, sliding his hands into his pockets. The night didn't seem to ripple from him here- and he appeared, despite his perfection, almost normal. 'For saving you when asked.' I stiffened. 'I didn't ask for anything.' His stare dipped to my hand. Rhys gave no warning as he gripped my arm, snarling softly, and tore off the glove. His touch was like a brand, and I flinched, yielding a step, but he held firm until he'd gotten both gloves off. 'I heard you begging someone, anyone, to rescue you, to get you out. I heard you say no.' 'I didn't say anything.' He turned my bare hand over, his hold tightening as he examined the eye he'd tattooed. He tapped the pupil. Once. Twice. 'I heard it loud and clear.' I wrenched my hand away. 'Take me back. Now. I didn't want to be stolen away.' He shrugged. 'What better time to take you here? Maybe Tamlin didn't notice you were about to reject him in front of his entire court- maybe you can now simply blame it on me.' 'You're a bastard. You made it clear enough that I had... reservations.' 'Such gratitude as always.

It wasn't only my friends who suffered from female rivalry. I remember when I was just sixteen years old, during spring vacation, being whisked off to an early lunch by my best friend's brother, only to discover, to my astonishment and hurt, that she was expecting some college boys to drop by and didn't want me there to compete with her. When I started college at Sarah Lawrence, I soon noticed that while some of my classmates were indeed true friends, others seemed to resent that I had a boyfriend. It didn't help that Sarah Lawrence, a former girls' school, included very few straight men among its student body--an early lesson in how competing for items in short supply often brings out the worst in women. In graduate school, the stakes got higher, and the competition got stiffer, a trend that continued when I went on to vie for a limited number of academic jobs. I always had friends and colleagues with whom I could have trusted my life--but I also found women who seemed to view not only me but all other female academics as their rivals. This sense of rivalry became more painful when I divorced my first husband. Many of my friends I depended on for comfort and support suddenly began to view me as a threat. Some took me out to lunch to get the dirt, then dropped me soon after. I think they found it disturbing that I left my unhappy marriage while they were still committed to theirs. For other women, the threat seemed more immediate--twice I was told in no uncertain terms that I had better stay away from someone's husband, despite my protests that I would no more go after a friend's husband than I would stay friends with a woman who went after mine. Thankfully, I also had some true friends who remained loyal and supportive during one of the most difficult times of my life. To this day I trust them implicitly, with the kind of faith you reserve for people who have proved themselves under fire. But I've also never forgotten the shock and disappointment of discovering how quickly those other friendships turned to rivalries.

A little deeper was a fear of falling in love without reservation, of committing herself to someone who might then be snatched from her. Or simply leave her. But if you never really fall in love, you can never really miss it. (She did not dwell on this sentiment, dimly aware that it did not ring quite true.) Also, if she never really fell in love with someone, she could never really betray him, as in her heart of hearts she felt that her mother had betrayed her long-dead father. She still missed him terribly. With Ken it seemed to be different. Or had her expectations been gradually compromised over the years? Unlike many other men she could think of, when challenged or stressed Ken displayed a gentler, more compassionate side. His tendency to compromise and his skill in scientific politics were part of the accoutrements of his job; but underneath she felt she had glimpsed something solid. She respected him for the way he had integrated science into the whole of his life, and for the courageous support for science that he had tried to inculcate into two administrations. They had, as discreetly as possible, been staying together, more or less, in her small apartment at Argus. Their conversations were a joy, with ideas flying back and forth like shuttlecocks. Sometimes they responded to each other’s uncompleted thoughts with almost perfect foreknowledge. He was a considerate and inventive lover. And anyway, she liked his pheromones. She was sometimes amazed at what she was able to do and say in his presence, because of their love. She came to admire him so much that his love for her affected her own self-esteem: She liked herself better because of him. And since he clearly felt the same, there was a kind of infinite regress of love and respect underlying their relationship. At least, that was how she described it to herself. In the presence of so many of her friends, she had felt an undercurrent of loneliness. With Ken, it was gone. She was comfortable describing to him her reveries, snatches of memories, childhood embarrassments. And he was not merely interested but fascinated. He would question her for hours about her childhood. His questions were always direct, sometimes probing, but without exception gentle. She began to understand why lovers talk baby talk to one another. There was no other socially acceptable circumstance in which the children inside her were permitted to come out. If the one-year-old, the five-year-old, the twelve-year-old, and the twenty-year-old all find compatible personalities in the beloved, there is a real chance to keep all of these sub-personas happy. Love ends their long loneliness. Perhaps the depth of love can be calibrated by the number of different selves that are actively involved in a given relationship. With her previous partners, it seemed, at most one of these selves was able to find a compatible opposite number; the other personas were grumpy hangers-on.

Unqualified Champions Consider these individuals from the Bible. Each person was aware of a personal shortcoming which should have rendered him disqualified for service. God, however, saw champion potential … Moses struggled with a speech impediment: “Then Moses said to the LORD, ‘Please, Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither recently nor in time past, nor since You have spoken to Your servant; for I am slow of speech and slow of tongue’” (Exodus 4:10). Yet God served as Moses’ source of strength. God used him to deliver the Israelites from bondage. Jeremiah considered himself too young to deliver a prophetic message to an adult population: “Then I said, ‘Alas, Lord GOD! Behold, I do not know how to speak, because I am a youth’” (Jeremiah 1:6). God’s reply: “Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you,” (Jeremiah 1:8). Isaiah, whose encouragement I quoted earlier, had reservations of his own. Perhaps his vocabulary reflected my own—especially my vocabulary as a teenager: “I am a man of unclean lips” (Isaiah 6:5). Despite Isaiah’s flaws, God saw him as a man He could use to provide guidance to the nation of Judah. Paul the Apostle had, in his past, persecuted the very people to whom God would send him later. To most of us, Paul’s track record would disqualify him for use. But God brought change to Paul’s heart and redemption to his fervency. Samson squandered his potential through poor life choices. As I read about him, I can’t help but think, “The guy acted like a spoiled brat.” But God had placed a call on his life. Though Samson sank to life’s darkest depths—captors blinded him and placed him in slavery—at the end of his life, he turned his heart toward God and asked to be used for God’s purposes. God used Samson to bring deliverance to the Israelites. Do you feel like the least qualified, the least important, the least regarded? Perhaps your reward is yet to come. God has high regard for those who are the least. Jesus said, “For the one who is least among all of you, this is the one who is great” (Luke 9:48) and “But many who are first will be last; and the last, first” (Matthew 19:30). If heaven includes strategic positioning among God’s people, which I believe it will, that positioning will be ego-free and based on a humble heart. Those of high position in God’s eyes don’t focus on position. They focus on hearts: their own hearts before God, and the hearts of others loved by God. When we get to heaven, I believe many people’s positions of responsibility will surprise us. What if, in heaven, the some of today’s most accomplished individuals end up reporting to someone who cried herself to sleep at night—yet kept her heart pure before God? According to Jesus in Matthew 6:5, some rewards are given in full before we reach heaven. When He spoke those words, He referred to hypocritical religious leaders as an example. Could we be in for a heavenly surprise? I believe many who are last today—the ultimate servants—will be first in heaven. God sees things differently than we do.

Unconditional Love - Love Without Condition I love you as you are, as you seek to find your own special way to relate to the world. I honour your choices to learn in the way you feel is right for you. I know it is important that you are the person you want to be and not someone that I or others think you "should" be. I realise that I cannot know what is best for you, although perhaps sometimes I think I do. I have not been where you have been, viewing life from the angle you have. I do not know what you have chosen to learn, how you have chosen to learn it, with whom or in what time period. I have not walked life looking through your eyes, so how can I know what you need. I allow you to be in the world without a thought or word of judgement from me about the deeds you undertake. I see no error in the things you say and do. In this place where I am, I see that there are many ways to perceive and experience the different facets of our world. I allow without reservation the choices you make in each moment. I make no judgement of this, for if I would deny your right to your evolution, then I would deny that right for myself and all others. To those who would choose a way I cannot walk, whilst I may not choose to add my power and my energy to this way, I will never deny you the gift of love that God has bestowed within me, for all creation. As I love you, so I shall be loved. As I sow, so shall I reap. I allow you the Universal right of Free Will to walk your own path, creating steps or to sit awhile if that is what is right for you. I will make no judgement that these steps are large or small, nor light or heavy or that they lead up or down, for this is just my viewpoint. I may see you do nothing and judge it to be unworthy and yet it may be that you bring great healing as you stand blessed by the Light of God. I cannot always see the higher picture of Divine Order. For it is the inalienable right of all life to choose their own evolution and with great Love I acknowledge your right to determine your future. In humility I bow to the realisation that the way I see as best for me does not have to mean it is also right for you. I know that you are led as I am, following the inner excitement to know your own path. I know that the many races, religions, customs, nationalities and beliefs within our world bring us great richness and allow us the benefit and teachings of such diverseness. I know we each learn in our own unique way in order to bring that Love and Wisdom back to the whole. I know that if there were only one way to do something, there would need only be one person. I will not only love you if you behave in a way I think you should, or believe in those things I believe in. I understand you are truly my brother and my sister, though you may have been born in a different place and believe in another God than I. The love I feel is for all of God's world. I know that every living thing is a part of God and I feel a Love deep within for every person, animal, tree and flower, every bird, river and ocean and for all the creatures in all the world. I live my life in loving service, being the best me I can, becoming wiser in the perfection of Divine Truth, becoming happier in the joy of ... Unconditional Love

Of course, she wasn’t entirely certain what kind of man she should like to encourage. She knew she wanted someone respectable but not dull. Exciting but not dangerous. Strong but not overbearing. Loyal and trustworthy but not a lapdog. And this mythical paragon would love her without reservation for the rest of his days. In short, the man of her dreams would be very nearly perfect and probably did not exist. Leo said something she didn’t quite catch, but she smiled and nodded nonetheless. Perhaps he was right about lowering her standards if she did indeed wish to marry.

If there was any politician in America who reflected the Cold War and what it did to the country, it was Richard Nixon—the man and the era were made for each other. The anger and resentment that were a critical part of his temperament were not unlike the tensions running through the nation as its new anxieties grew. He himself seized on the anti-Communist issue earlier and more tenaciously than any other centrist politician in the country. In fact that was why he had been put on the ticket in the first place. His first congressional race in 1946, against a pleasant liberal incumbent named Jerry Voorhis, was marked by red-baiting so savage that it took Voorhis completely by surprise. Upon getting elected, Nixon wasted no time in asking for membership in the House Un-American Activities Committee. He was the committee member who first spotted the contradictions in Hiss’s seemingly impeccable case; in later years he was inclined to think of the case as one of his greatest victories, in which he had challenged and defeated a man who was not what he seemed, and represented the hated Eastern establishment. His career, though, was riddled with contradictions. Like many of his conservative colleagues, he had few reservations about implying that some fellow Americans, including perhaps the highest officials in the opposition party, were loyal to a hostile foreign power and willing to betray their fellow citizens. Yet by the end of his career, he became the man who opened the door to normalized relations with China (perhaps, thought some critics, he was the only politician in America who could do that without being attacked by Richard Nixon), and he was a pal of both the Soviet and Chinese Communist leadership. If he later surprised many long-standing critics with his trips to Moscow and Peking, he had shown his genuine diplomatic skills much earlier in the way he balanced the demands of the warring factions within his own party. He never asked to be well liked or popular; he asked only to be accepted. There were many Republicans who hated him, particularly in California. Earl Warren feuded with him for years. Even Bill Knowland, the state’s senior senator and an old-fashioned reactionary, despised him. At the 1952 convention, Knowland had remained loyal to Warren despite Nixon’s attempts to help Eisenhower in the California delegation. When Knowland was asked to give a nominating speech for Nixon, he was not pleased: “I have to nominate the dirty son of a bitch,” he told friends. Nixon bridged the gap because his politics were never about ideology: They were the politics of self. Never popular with either wing, he managed to negotiate a delicate position acceptable to both. He did not bring warmth or friendship to the task; when he made attempts at these, he was, more often than not, stilted and artificial. Instead, he offered a stark choice: If you don’t like me, find someone who is closer to your position and who is also likely to win. If he tilted to either side, it was because that side seemed a little stronger at the moment or seemed to present a more formidable candidate with whom he had to deal. A classic example of this came early in 1960, when he told Barry Goldwater, the conservative Republican leader, that he would advocate a right-to-work plank at the convention; a few weeks later in a secret meeting with Nelson Rockefeller, the liberal Republican leader—then a more formidable national figure than Goldwater—Nixon not only reversed himself but agreed to call for its repeal under the Taft-Hartley act. “The man,” Goldwater noted of Nixon in his personal journal at the time, “is a two-fisted four-square liar.

When you encounter people who are poisoned inside, don’t let it rub off on you. If you sink down to their level and you’re cold and rude back to them, you’ve allowed them to contaminate you. Rise above that. Be a part of the solution, not the problem. You overcome evil with good. If somebody is rude to you, just bless them, smile, and keep moving forward. Jesus put it this way: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth” (Matthew 5:5 NIV). When we hear the word meek, many times we think of someone who is weak, shy, and reserved; just a fearful little person. The image is that meek people can’t stand up for themselves and everyone runs over them. That’s not meek at all. Meekness is not weakness. It’s strength under control. Meekness is like a wild stallion that has been tamed. The horse is still strong, still powerful, and has just as much speed as before he was tamed. The only difference is, now that strength is under control. You can walk up to the horse, pet him, lead him around, probably get on him and ride him. But don’t be fooled. He has the same power, the same tenacity; he’s just learned how to control it. When you’re a meek person, you don’t go around trying to straighten everybody out. You don’t respond to every critic. People may be talking about you, but you don’t let it bother you. Keep your strength under control. It’s not how proud you are, or how many people you straighten out, or how you can prove yourself. If you argue with a critic and try to prove yourself, all you’re doing is sinking to his or her level. Don’t fall into that trap. You are an eagle. You can rise above it. You may have the power to straighten out your critic. You may feel like giving them a piece of your mind. Your emotions may tell you, Get in there. Pay them back. Get even. Instead, listen to what the apostle Paul told his protégé Timothy: “Be calm and cool and steady” (2 Timothy 4:5 AMP). He was saying, in other words, “Don’t give away your power. Keep your strength under control.

He stared at me for a long moment as if he was trying to figure me out and I dropped my eyes before he could. I didn’t want Darius Acrux in my head. My attention snagged on a deep red stain on the sleeve of his pristine white shirt and I pointed it out. “Are you bleeding?” I asked. “No,” he replied forcefully before looking down at the offending stain and waving his hand to clear it away with his water magic. “Well that was obviously blood so-” “I said no, just drop it,” he snarled. I flinched back but he didn’t release me and my heart started beating faster. He sighed heavily and shook his head before letting me go. “Sorry, I just... I’m not bleeding now. It’s not an issue.” “Okay...” I took a step back, wondering why I was even talking to him. This was the guy who had tormented me for weeks and he was clearly going to snap right back into asshole mode after tonight. But something about this nice version of Darius kept drawing me in despite my reservations. “Come on, let’s catch up with the others and get back to the Academy,” he urged, offering me his arm again. The anger which had risen in him a moment ago seemed to have gone so I tentatively accepted his arm and we started walking down the driveway and away from his family. “Careful,” I teased. “Someone might think we don’t even hate each other if you don’t release me soon.” We made it to the edge of the pooling light which lit up the front of his house and he drew me into the darkness beyond it. “I never said I hated you,” he murmured, his voice deep as he tugged me around to face him. I looked up at his striking face, the moonlight highlighting his strong jaw and pulling my attention to his mouth for a moment. “Well I really feel sorry for anyone you do hate,” I muttered, pulling my arm out of his grip. He resisted for a moment like he wanted to keep hold of me but gave in when I tugged a little harder. “The things I’ve done to you... you know it isn’t personal, right?” he asked. I looked up at him for several long seconds, wondering if he seriously bought into that horse shit or if it was just what he was trying to sell me. I wasn’t really sure what I saw there but I definitely didn’t buy his excuses. “Is that how you justify it to yourself?” I asked bitterly, our little bubble of peace well and truly burst now that we were standing in the cold air of the night. Darius hesitated and I gave him an eye roll dramatic enough to fell a small tree. I turned away from him, looking for Orion and the stardust which would take us back to the Academy but his fingers curled around my wrist before I could escape. “Do you hate me, then?” he asked quietly and for some strange reason it sounded like the idea of that didn’t sit well with him. I forced myself to reply in a steady tone, holding his eye as I spoke. “No,” I said and a glimmer of relief spilled through his eyes, almost halting me there but I wasn’t quite so blinded by him as to give him a free pass for all his bullshit. “To hate you, I’d have to care about you. And I don’t give one shit about you,” I said coldly. I shook his hand off of me for the second time and stalked away towards Darcy and Orion. He didn’t follow me and I was glad. Because I had the horrible feeling that that might just have been a lie.(toy)

I get that you might have reservations. But they aren’t going to stop me. I know the agony of living without Wren, of falling asleep thinking about her every night. Of wondering where she is and if she’s safe. Happy. Of imagining her falling in love with someone who isn’t me. Starting a family.

Beautiful people were led to think their beauty needed to go somewhere. On a person’s phone. In a magazine. Outwards. Why do anything with it? Maybe all the models on runways loved it, but maybe most just walked in because they fit inside the doors. Here was a pretty man who did not share himself and very much could have. It was rare to meet someone with that kind of jaw, sweet eyes, and those arms, who did not fall into modeling or influencing. There was magic in this. Lorenzo inadvertently alchemized his reserve into a valuable currency: the only time someone could see his beauty was if they were in the same room he was in or if they heard about it from someone who was there. Lorenzo had planted a kind of beauty in the world not captured by a camera, but a beauty that passed through and could only ever be run into.

During the Commonwealth period in England (1649–1660), antinomianism was present among high Calvinists who maintained that an elect person, being predestined to salvation, need not keep the moral law and doesn’t even need to repent. No one should be urged to repent, therefore. Others have said “that good works hinder salvation, and that a child of God cannot sin; that the moral law is altogether abrogated as a rule of life; that no Christian believeth or worketh any good, but that Christ only believeth and worketh [good].”[9] The Effect on Spiritual Formation Now, you have only to think for a moment to see what a disaster this will be for spiritual formation and the development of character. It amounts to rejecting it entirely except insofar as it may be done to you by God, passively. And you have only to glance briefly at the behavior of professing Christians currently to realize the practical outcome of holding the law and obedience to the law to be irrelevant to the life of faith in Christ.[10] The basic practice of Western Christianity today is, I fear, strongly antinomian. Here is a true story from the current Christian scene. Test our theology on it: A man—a longtime, faithful church member—came to his pastor and said, “I’m going to divorce my wife and marry someone else.” The pastor, aghast, said, “You can’t do that! You’re a devoted Christian, and so is your wife. Divorce in these circumstances is clearly wrong.” “Yes,” the man replied, “I know that, but I’m going to do it anyway. I just can’t stand her any longer. I know it’s wrong, but after it’s all over I’ll ask God for forgiveness and he will forgive me. He must, because I believe that Christ died for me. That’s what you teach.” You can extend this to imaginary cases: murdering someone who “deserves it”; a once-in-a-lifetime, career-making, crooked deal; and so forth. How, precisely, does our version of salvation rule out a judicious use of sin? And what does growth in Christlikeness mean if one can hold such a use in reserve? Just something to think about.

Life is a party you create; don’t wait to be invited to one. I’m sure if we were on an episode of Family Feud with the question things singles are guilty of, we would hear the host happily quip, 'Survey says … They put their lives on hold!' Even I have to put up a guilty finger on this one. Thank heaven this season of my life is over and I finally got a clue. The only thing that should be reserved for marriage is sex (but we’ll talk about that later). Otherwise, it’s time to let the games begin. Stop waiting for someone else to make your life happen. There is an endless world of possibilities for pleasure and fulfilling living at your fingertips. Fortunately, as a single person all your resources are yours to invest into living the life you want without having to check with anyone else. This makes for options and opportunities that are sure to be the envy of your married friends. There is no time like the present to enjoy what you might not be able to do tomorrow because of different priorities. What does a no-holds-barred life look like? It’s downright exciting. I repeatedly tell people I meet to finish this statement: 'I’ve always wanted to _______________.' Well, what’s stopping you? Certainly your excuse should not be 'Because I have no man.' Until that blessed addition to your life shows up to claim you, your life should be full of fulfilling activities and amazing experiences that broaden you intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually as a person. In other words, get a life. Get one that will make you interesting and intriguing to others. A well-lived life full of passion and interests is like a magnet. It will draw other exciting people to you. So go ahead and mix it up.

The issue I have with people who say they love me… Is that I don’t feel loved by them. Their love often seems more like opportunism to me or masked usery. Am not saying this man don’t love me or rate me. I don’t feel that love. I don’t feel loved by him… I am not saying a family member don’t love me or isn’t a good person or hasn’t been good to me… I am just saying that this person they project or profess to be… Is someone I have never experienced… Yes you are this great person to other people… The thing is… I don’t know that person. I’ve never experienced that person and those I reserve the right to feel the way I feel about you as a person and this experience… It also can’t be love if standing up for myself makes you hate me. Love would have led to empathy and not feelings of umbrage. “You know I love you” You can say I love you. But I don’t feel loved by you… Your love means nothing to me if I don’t feel or experience it. Selah.

There’s something to be said about fully giving yourself to someone, though. Mind, body, and soul. Often, people find this very thing, but it’s one-sided. It’s rare when that connection goes both ways, but with it comes the ability to do anything for the person you love without reservation. Because at the end of the day, what’s more important than that? I

Savona escorted me back to the Residence. For most of our journey the talk was in our usual pattern--he made outrageous compliments, which I turned into jokes. Once he said, “May I count on you to grace the Khazhred ball tomorrow?” “If the sight of me in my silver gown, dancing as often as I can, is your definition of grace, well, nothing easier,” I replied, wondering what he would do if I suddenly flirted back in earnest. He smiled, kissed my hand, and left. As I trod up the steps alone, I realized that he had never really talked with me about any serious subject, in spite of his obvious admiration. I thought back over the picnic. No serious subject had been discussed there, either, but I remembered some of the light, quick flirtatious comments he exchanged with some of the other ladies, and how much he appeared to appreciate their flirting right back. Would he appreciate it if I did? Except I can’t, I thought, walking down the hall to my room. Clever comments with double meanings; a fan pressed against someone’s wrist in different ways to hint at different things; all these things I’d observed and understood the meanings of, but I couldn’t see myself actually performing them even if I could think of them quickly enough. What troubled me most was trying to figure out Savona’s real intent. He certainly wasn’t courting me, I realized as I pushed aside my tapestry. What other purpose would there be in such a long, one-sided flirtation? My heart gave a bound of anticipation when I saw a letter waiting and I recognized the style of the Unknown. You ask what I think, and I will tell you that I admire without reservation your ability to solve your problems in a manner unforeseen by any, including those who would consider themselves far more clever than you. That was all. I read it through several times, trying to divine whether it was a compliment or something else entirely. He’s waiting to see what I do about Tamara, I thought at last. “And in return?” That was what Tamara had said. This is the essence of politics, I realized. One creates an interest, or, better, an obligation, that causes others to act according to one’s wishes. I grabbed up a paper, dipped my pen, and wrote swiftly: Today I have come to two realizations. Now, I well realize that every courtier in Athanarel probably saw all this by their tenth year. Nonetheless, I think I finally see the home-thrust of politics. Everyone who has an interest in such things seems to be waiting for me to make some sort of capital with respect to the situation with Tamara, and won’t they be surprised when I do nothing at all! Truth to say, I hold no grudge against Tamara. I’d have to be a mighty hypocrite to fault her for wishing to become a queen, when I tried to do the same a year back--though I really think her heart lies elsewhere--and if I am right, I got in her way yet again. Which brings me to my second insight: that Savona’s flirtation with me is just that, and not a courtship. The way I define courtship is that one befriends the other, tries to become a companion and not just a lover. I can’t see why he so exerted himself to seek me out, but I can’t complain, for I am morally certain that his interest is a good part of what has made me popular. (Though all this could end tomorrow). “Meliara?” Nee’s voice came through my tapestry. “The concert begins at the next time change.” I signed the letter hastily, sealed it, and left it lying there as I hurried to change my gown. No need to summon Mora, I thought; she was used to this particular exchange by now.

After a universal silence, Leo was the first to speak. “Did anyone else notice--” “Yes,” Catherine said. “What did you make of it?” “I haven’t decided yet.” Leo frowned and took a sip of port. “He’s not someone I would pair Bea with.” “Whom would you pair her with?” “Hanged if I know,” Leo said. “Someone with similar interests. The local veterinarian, perhaps?” “He’s eighty-three years old and deaf,” Catherine said. “They would never argue,” Leo pointed out. Amelia smiled and stirred her tea slowly. “Much as I hate to admit it, I agree with Leo. Not about the veterinarian, but…Beatrix with a soldier? That doesn’t seem a likely match.” “Phelan did resign his commission,” Cam said. “He’s no longer a soldier.” “And if he inherits Riverton,” Amelia mused, “Beatrix would have all that forest to roam…” “I see a likeness between them,” Catherine said reflectively. Leo arched a brow. “How are they alike, pray tell? She likes animals, and he likes to shoot things.” “Beatrix puts a distance between herself and the rest of the world. She’s very engaging, but also quite private in nature. I see the same qualities in Captain Phelan.” “Yes,” Amelia said. “You’re absolutely right, Catherine. Put that way, the match does seem more appropriate.” “I still have reservations,” Leo said. “You always do,” Amelia replied. “If you’ll recall, you objected to Cam in the beginning, but now you’ve accepted him.” “That’s because the more brothers-in-law I acquire,” Leo said, “the better Cam looks by comparison.

No, they were," Avery said, clearly confusing her. As he waited for someone to answer the phone, he gave Janice his most cocky grin, a very clear watch-me-get-what-I-want expression. "La Bella Luna, can I help you?" The deep rich timbre turned him on instantly, and his gaze strayed to the corner of his desk, Janice completely forgotten. "Good Morning, this is Avery Adams. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?" He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear Kane's voice again. Avery thought about Kane's hands and how competently he'd handled that bottle of wine. He imagined them using the same care as he picked up the phone from the cradle. The air in the room sizzled, his heartbeat picked up, and his body grew hard with need. He had never in his life been so immediately taken with another. Avery prayed Kane might be at least bi-sexual. Straight men were much harder to work into his bed—not impossible, but harder—and he definitely wanted Kane Dalton in his bed. "Hello, Mr. Adams. This Kane Dalton, would you prefer I transfer this call to someone else?" The soothing voice on the other end of the phone became tense. "No, you're who I was hoping to speak with. It seems you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I'd like to set things right between us," Avery said, adjusting his gaze to stare out the open window. "I have no issue with you, sir," Kane responded back immediately. "There's a large bouquet of rather expensive lilies sitting in my office that might say otherwise." He cut his eyes back to the flowers on the small conference table. Kane didn't respond this time, there was just silence. Good. Kane got a taste of his own medicine. "Listen, I'd like to book a regular table in your restaurant a couple of days a week. It doesn't have to be the same days each week, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself a few nights ago and got reacquainted with several families from my youth." He was met with more silence, then he heard the rustle of pages being turned. "Sir, I'm sorry, but I just don't have—" "I'll make it worth your while." Avery cut him off, his eyes still on the flowers, but seeing the man who sent them instead of the lovely blooms. "It's not that, sir. We're just incredibly booked." Kane started with the excuses again, but Avery wasn't taking no for an answer. "Please lose the sir. My name's Avery. I'd like you to use it." Avery's voice turned lower and huskier as he spoke from his deepest desires. "Avery," Kane said as if testing the word. "We don't have the space available. We're booked solidly for several months." "No one's that booked," Avery called him on the lie, and left it right there between them. After a long extended pause, Kane finally answered, "You're right, let's get you in Monday and Wednesday evenings. Does that suit you?" "You sure do," Avery said. Now that he'd managed a firm reservation, it was time to draw Kane in. Not surprisingly, he was met with silence. "I'll take whatever days you offer." In fact, I'll take whatever you are willing to give. As the thought faded, Avery realized those were actually terrible days to be seen out and about. "Seven o'clock?" Kane asked, ignoring everything he said. "Whatever works," Avery replied. "All right, would you like to come in tomorrow night?" Kane asked. His tone was back to all business. "Absolutely!

So you and Ubaid are fuck buddies?" I asked, trying to determine the truth of the matter. Andy elbowed me furtively, intimating that I should not be so blatant in my inquiries. Ramiz looked embarrassed but replied, "Well, I suppose you can call it that but the more we continued, the more I found that I was in love with him. As you already know, Ubaid is hot-blooded, and is into both men and women. I suppose I'm smitten. He frustrates me. He has no reservations about doing whatever he wishes, no matter the consequences. He is rebellious. Maybe that’s why I'm attracted to him. He’ll never return my love but that does not deter me. I'll always be drawn to him." I was fascinated and wanted to ask more but Andy stepped in. "Is that why you are employed at the Hadrah's home – to continue your liaison with him?" "He needs someone to keep him in check so he won’t get too out of hand. But, to answer your question, yes. I love him unconditionally. I suppose that is the main reason I took the governor's position; I can be close, and also keep an eye on him." Andy and I were indeed surprised by this piece of news which my teacher made us promise to keep confidential. We solemnly gave him our pledge.

At the heart of existentialist philosophy is the premise that all existence is absurd. Life has no meaning and death is the ultimate absurdity, But in the course of this absurd existence, man is forced to make choices, even if those choices may be about absurd issues. But man abhors this freedom of choice, a condition called 'existential angst'. Until we reach a time when most of our life lies behind us, we second guess ourselves interminably. 'What if I had done done this?' 'What if I had done that?' 'Could I have learnt from what others before me have done?' But that is a futile endeavor. It is just not possible to pass on the burden of decision-making to someone else, nor is it possible to learn from other's experiences. Every man has to make choices by falling back on his own experience. In short, man is condemned to be free.

From the Bridge” by Captain Hank Bracker Behind “The Exciting Story of Cuba” It was on a rainy evening in January of 2013, after Captain Hank and his wife Ursula returned by ship from a cruise in the Mediterranean, that Captain Hank was pondering on how to market his book, Seawater One. Some years prior he had published the book “Suppressed I Rise.” But lacking a good marketing plan the book floundered. Locally it was well received and the newspapers gave it great reviews, but Ursula was battling allergies and, unfortunately, the timing was off, as was the economy. Captain Hank has the ability to see sunshine when it’s raining and he’s not one easily deterred. Perhaps the timing was off for a novel or a textbook, like the Scramble Book he wrote years before computers made the scene. The history of West Africa was an option, however such a book would have limited public interest and besides, he had written a section regarding this topic for the second Seawater book. No, what he was embarking on would have to be steeped in history and be intertwined with true-life adventures that people could identify with. Out of the blue, his friend Jorge suggested that he write about Cuba. “You were there prior to the Revolution when Fidel Castro was in jail,” he ventured. Laughing, Captain Hank told a story of Mardi Gras in Havana. “Half of the Miami Police Department was there and the Coca-Cola cost more than the rum. Havana was one hell of a place!” Hank said. “I’ll tell you what I could do. I could write a pamphlet about the history of the island. It doesn’t have to be very long… 25 to 30 pages would do it.” His idea was to test the waters for public interest and then later add it to his book Seawater One. Writing is a passion surpassed only by his love for telling stories. It is true that Captain Hank had visited Cuba prior to the Revolution, but back then he was interested more in the beauty of the Latino girls than the history or politics of the country. “You don’t have to be Greek to appreciate Greek history,” Hank once said. “History is not owned solely by historians. It is a part of everyone’s heritage.” And so it was that he started to write about Cuba. When asked about why he wasn’t footnoting his work, he replied that the pamphlet, which grew into a book over 600 pages long, was a book for the people. “I’m not writing this to be a history book or an academic paper. I’m writing this book, so that by knowing Cuba’s past, people would understand it’s present.” He added that unless you lived it, you got it from somewhere else anyway, and footnoting just identifies where it came from. Aside from having been a ship’s captain and harbor pilot, Captain Hank was a high school math and science teacher and was once awarded the status of “Teacher of the Month” by the Connecticut State Board of Education. He has done extensive graduate work, was a union leader and the attendance officer at a vocational technical school. He was also an officer in the Naval Reserve and an officer in the U.S. Army for a total of over 40 years. He once said that “Life is to be lived,” and he certainly has. Active with Military Intelligence he returned to Europe, and when I asked what he did there, he jokingly said that if he had told me he would have to kill me. The Exciting Story of Cuba has the exhilaration of a novel. It is packed full of interesting details and, with the normalizing of the United States and Cuba, it belongs on everyone’s bookshelf, or at least in the bathroom if that’s where you do your reading. Captain Hank is not someone you can hold down and after having read a Proof Copy I know that it will be universally received as the book to go to, if you want to know anything about Cuba! Excerpts from a conversation with Chief Warrant Officer Peter Rommel, USA Retired, Military Intelligence Corps, Winter of 2014.

2014 Andy’s Message   Hello, Young, here I am again. I remember the winter of 1967 at Chateau Rouge. I searched the entire castle to find you that morning. Time and again, you have the knack for disappearing on me, you scalawag.☺               You have a flair for vanishing without informing anyone. I’d thought you were in the drawing room with the baron’s guest when I was privately consulting with the Duchess.               The one thing I regret not doing: we never got around to discussing my own conversation with the Medium. Maybe this is the appropriate time for me to tell you — and for you to tell me what happened that morning when you disappeared on me. Downhearted from my meeting, I went looking for you. She had envisioned a forthcoming discord in my life, yet could not be specific about its nature. Although you’d given me your amiable assurance, I could detect reservations in your voice whenever I spoke of Albert. When you disappeared, my first thought was of your jealousy of Albert. When I finally found someone – a stable boy – who could tell me that you had gone riding alone, I became terribly worried for your safety and went searching for you. Concerned that I had somehow driven you away, I rode the estate, but you were nowhere to be found. It had crossed my mind to warrant a search party to find you when you strolled through the entrance, invigorated. I was relieved to see you and never got a chance to ask where you had gone. Young, you know I loved you then, and I love you now. In my mind, you are still the mischievous little rascal I came to love and cherish…

Once her skin cooled, she would be another homicide victim. She would be part of a process that would talk about her life in terms of her cause of death, her injuries, her final moments, not dwelling on all the moments leading up to this. That was reserved for the victim impact statements. But those could never do justice to all the little ordinary things that, together, made someone extraordinary. Ethan

Ms. Wu pressed on. “Elise, I wanted to talk to you because lately you’ve seemed a little … off. Less engaged than you used to be. Maybe even exhausted. Is there anything you want to talk about? Any problems at home?” This woman. This horrifying woman. With her muted sweaters and her sensible heels. All those times I had eaten lunch in her classroom, watching videos of Mandelbrot sets on her computer, she was secretly, insidiously, monitoring me. Any problems at home? Please. Sally has parents who won’t let her read any books with sex in them, and everybody knows that Emily Wallace’s mother made her get a boob job when she was a freshman; meanwhile, my dad buys me DJ equipment, and my mom wants only for me to be an educated member of a working democracy—yet I get asked if I have any problems at home? I bet I do seem exhausted, Ms. Wu. I bet I do seem less engaged. I was up all night, doing something that I really love, and I’m sorry, but I just didn’t reserve enough energy to fully participate in this miserable, mandatory little exercise in public education. Since discovering Start, I had felt, for the first time in years, like good things could happen to me. I felt happy. Yet somehow, for the first time in years, someone was bothering to ask me what was wrong. Where were you in September, Ms. Wu? Where were you last spring? Where were you when I needed you?

if you meet someone you don’t like, or who doesn’t treat you right, try to reserve judgment, because you don’t know what that person’s going through, and it’s probably not so much about you at all.

How each sex has its own prejudice about love — Despite all the concessions that I am willing to make to the prejudice in favor of monogamy, I will never admit the claim that man and woman have equal rights in love; these do not exist. For man and woman have different conceptions of love; and it is one of the conditions of love in both sexes that neither sex presupposes the same feeling and the same concept of “love” in the other. What woman means by love is clear enough: total devotion (not mere surrender98) with soul and body, without any consideration or reserve, rather with shame and horror at the thought of a devotion that might be subject to special clauses or conditions. In this absence of conditions her love is a faith; woman has no other faith. Man, when he loves a woman, wants precisely this love from her and is thus himself as far as can be from the presupposition of feminine love. Supposing, however, that there should also be men to whom the desire for total devotion is not alien; well, then they simply are—not men. A man who loves like a woman becomes a slave; while a woman who loves like a woman becomes a more perfect woman. A woman’s passion in its unconditional renunciation of rights of her own presupposes precisely that on the other side there is no equal pathos, no equal will to renunciation; for if both partners felt impelled by love to renounce themselves, we should then get—I do not know what; perhaps an empty space? Woman wants to be taken and accepted as a possession, wants to be absorbed into the concept of possession, possessed Consequently, she wants someone who takes, who does not give himself or give himself away; on the contrary, he is supposed to become richer in “himself”—through the accretion of strength, happiness, and faith given him by the woman who gives herself. Woman gives herself away, man acquires more—I do not see how one can get around this natural opposition by means of social contracts or with the best will in the world to be just, desirable as it may be not to remind oneself constantly how harsh, terrible, enigmatic, and immoral this antagonism is. For love, thought of in its entirety as great and full, is nature, and being nature it is in all eternity something “immoral.” Faithfulness is accordingly included in woman’s love; it follows from the definition. In man, it can easily develop in the wake of his love, perhaps as gratitude or as an idiosyncratic taste and so-called elective affinity; but it is not an essential element of his love—so definitely not that one might almost speak with some justification of a natural counterplay of love and faithfulness in man. For his love consists of wanting to have and not of renunciation and giving away; but wanting to have always comes to an end with having. It is actually man’s more refined and suspicious lust for possession that rarely admits his “having,” and then only late, and thus permits his love to persist. It is even possible for his love to increase after the surrender; he will not readily concede that a woman should have nothing more to give him.—

I’d never thought she would be the one I lost control with. Since I had known her, she had been quiet and reserved and innocent—someone that I would never ever think about touching or blackmailing.

Humility and objectivity are indivisible, just as love is. I cannot be truly objective about my family if i cannot be objective about the stranger, and vice versa. If i want to learn the art of loving, i must strive for objectivity in every situation, and become sensitive to the situationswhere I am not objective. I must try to see the difference between my picture of a person and his behavior, as it is harcissistically distorted, and the person's reality as it exists regardless of my interests, needs and fears. To have acquired the capacity for objectivity and reason is half the road to achieving the art of loving, but it must be acquired with regard to everybody with whom one comes in contact. If someone would want to reserve his objectivity for the loved person, and think he can dispense with it in his relationship to the rest of the world, he will soon discover that he fails both here and there.

Maybe we can’t expect to enjoy every day, but we can find it endearing. When we reach the end of the day, instead of berating ourselves for what we did or didn’t do, we can be charmed by the ordinary moments of living and what our days can bring. As writer Marieke Hardy told me, “In my work life, social life, and emotional life, I’ve always got something to look forward to—and sometimes that’s a donut.” Imagine what someone would do with just a few days of your life, if they had the chance. Would they reserve their enjoyment in anticipation of the big things, or would they see that there’s something to look forward to in something as simple as a donut? Would they worry about what they did or didn’t do, or would they search for the moments they enjoyed? Would they notice what they have? Would they say what they want to say? Would they dance around in the fecund garden of the day? Imagine just a few days of it. What we all have in common is that

Why do some countries safely navigate the road through the anocracy zone, while others become engulfed in cycles of chaos and violence? The story of Iraq again offers a clue. When I asked Noor to describe what changed before civil war erupted in her homeland, she looked at me for a moment. Soft-spoken and reserved, she radiated the quiet confidence of someone who doesn’t break easily. Her face, however, was heavy with sadness. “People began asking whether you were Shia or Sunni,” she said.57 People had never asked her this before, she explained. In Baghdad, there were no Shia or Sunni neighborhoods; she had never been told she couldn’t marry someone from a different ethnic or religious group. She had no sense that she was a minority or that religion mattered; she didn’t even know which of her friends were Shia or Sunni. “But then people started asking about it publicly. What are you? Where are you from? What is your religion?

Associating with Benjamin was fraught with considerable difficulties, though on the surface these seemed insignificant in view of his consummate courtesy and willingness to listen. He always was surrounded by a wall of reserve, which could be recognized intuitively and was evident to another person even without Benjamin’s not infrequent efforts to make that area noticeable. These efforts consisted above all in a secretiveness bordering on eccentricity, a mystery-mongering that generally prevailed in everything relating to him personally, though it sometimes was breached unexpectedly by personal and confidential revelations. There were primarily three difficult requirements. The first was respect for his solitude; this was easy to observe, for it was dictated by a natural sense of limits. I soon realized that he appreciated this respect, a sine qua non for associating with him, and that it heightened his trust. The observance of the second requirement was particularly easy for me: his utter aversion to discussing the political events of the day and occurrences of the war. Some reviewers of the Briefe expressed astonishment at the fact that the published letters contain no reference to the events of the First World War (which, after all, so decisively influenced our generation) and blamed the editors (I was the one responsible for this period) for an incomprehensible omission or, worse, censorship. The fact of the matter is that in those years anyone who wished to have a closer association with Benjamin either had to share this attitude (as I did) or respect it. ...The third requirement, that of overlooking his secretiveness, often demanded a real effort, because there was something surprising, even ludicrous, about such secretiveness in someone as sober, as melancholy as Benjamin. He did not like to give the names of friends and acquaintances if he could avoid it. When circumstances of his life were mentioned, there frequently was attached an urgent request for absolute secrecy; more often than not this made very little sense. Gradually, but even then only partially, this secretiveness (which by that time others had noticed as well) began to dissipate, and Benjamin began to speak of people without the accompanying stamp of anonymity, at least when he had initiated the discussion. It was in keeping with this aversion that he tried to keep his acquaintances separate; for a time this was more effective with me, who came from another environment—Zionist youth—than it was with those from the same sphere as he, namely members of the German-Jewish intelligentsia. Only occasionally did it turn out that we had mutual acquaintances, such as the poet Ludwig Strauss or the philosopher David Baumgardt. Other friends and acquaintances of his I did not meet until years later, from 1918 on, some of them only after 1945. In short, then, to associate with Benjamin took a great deal of patience and consideration—qualities that were by no means natural to my temperament and that, to my own surprise, I was able to muster only in my association with him.

He looked like a man at the deathbed of someone he loved. That someone was me. I put him through this. I wasn’t even that lovable to begin with. I was a selfish ass, but somehow something I did made this man love me, deeply and without reservation. He knew things about me that I would die to keep secret. I trusted him more than I trusted anyone in my life. I mattered to him.

Gurfein said he was open to the idea, so Polakoff told him he would call this “intermediary,” as Polakoff put it.1 Gurfein had no idea who Polakoff was talking about, but he did have faith that Polakoff understood perfectly how the underworld was organized and knew what he was doing. Socks Lanza was happy to be Luciano’s contact. But from what Haffenden had learned about underworld hierarchy, he had his reservations about sending in Lanza to meet Luciano, so when Gurfein reported back that Polakoff had someone else in mind, the commander was more than receptive to the idea. Another dancer was thus added to the circus. Interestingly, Polakoff’s choice wasn’t Frank Costello—Luciano’s acting boss—or anyone from the Luciano family, for that matter. Polakoff knew Luciano well after spending so much time defending him—albeit unsuccessfully—during his trial. So he knew that the person who held the most sway with his client was his business partner, current accountant, and best friend, Meyer “Little Man” Lansky.

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you meet someone you don’t like, or who doesn’t treat you right, try to reserve judgment, because you don’t know what that person’s going through, and it’s probably not so much about you at all.

You might be tempted to conclude: “Well, how about we live together, instead of getting married? We will try each other out. It is the sensible thing to do.” But what exactly does it mean, when you invite someone to live with you, instead of committing yourself to each other? And let us be appropriately harsh and realistic about our appraisal, instead of pretending we are taking a used car for a test jaunt. Here is what it means: “You will do, for now, and I presume you feel the same way about me. Otherwise we would just get married. But in the name of a common sense that neither of us possesses, we are going to reserve the right to swap each other out for a better option at any point.” And if you do not think that is what living together means—as a fully articulated ethical statement—see if you can formulate something more plausible. You might think, “Look, Doc, that is pretty cynical.” So why not we consider the stats, instead of the opinion of arguably but not truly old-fashioned me? The breakup rate among people who are not married but are living together—so, married in everything but the formal sense—is substantially higher than the divorce rate among married couples. And even if you do get married and make an honest person, so to speak, of the individual with whom you cohabited, you are still much more rather than less likely to get divorced than you would be had you never lived together initially. So the idea of trying each other out? Sounds enticing, but does not work.

My confidante who worked as a Crown attorney paused before I left her office and said, “The advice you get from lawyers about what to do here isn’t necessarily going to be the same that you will give yourself as a woman, as a mother, as a political activist.” It was the first time someone had made this distinction for me, and it felt like an important one. Only one criminal lawyer I know, Chris Murphy, advised me, without reservation, to come forward. He said, “Say everything. Say everything about your sexual past, say everything about the ways in which you were interested in him, all of your inconsistencies, and then be clear that you know that what happened to you was an assault.” It was the right thing to do, he said. I said I was worried about the repercussions it could all have on my life. I said, “I’m the mother of two little kids.” He said, “Yes. You’re the mother of two little kids. That could be an argument for coming forward as well.

One of Ross’s biggest gripes was the way I operated in meetings, something that had always driven the team crazy, too. He called out my bad habits: I was notoriously impatient, prone to distraction, and a fidgety nail-biter. I also talked over people and dismissed underdeveloped ideas that deserved more conversation. Ross said, “You can’t put all of your attention on the content in meetings. You have to reserve at least 10 percent of it to observe what’s happening in the room, to watch the body language and pick up on how people are truly feeling.” It was a radical notion for me, the idea that I was responsible for reading the room. And I wasn’t even sure why it was important, until Linda sharpened Ross’s point: “Everything you do is a clue for other people about how it is and isn’t okay to behave,” she said. “When you yawn during a presentation, or miss a deadline, or interrupt a speaker, you’re telling everyone that that behavior is acceptable.” Until then, I’d been oblivious to how I was being perceived. So, to prove the point, Ross made me stand on a conference room table during a staff meeting and look down at everyone while we had a conversation. It felt ridiculous, totally uncomfortable, but it taught me about the CEO’s megaphone effect. “You know when you say things like ‘Hey, we should go and do this,’ but you don’t really mean it? In fact, you’ve given it no more than five seconds of thought?” Ross said. “Someone is going to go run and waste time doing that thing you didn’t even want them to do, because you’re the guy with the megaphone. You’re standing on top of the table.” Other times, I’d explode into the office on a Friday morning and announce, “I want to wrap every water tower in New York in a charity: water banner,” and I’d expect everyone to leap into action. Ross had a shorthand for my impulsive ideas. He’d say, “Scott. Squirrel”—as in “Don’t be like a dog chasing after every squirrel you see.” Sometimes I’d fight back and say, “No, this is not a squirrel. Doing this one thing is the whole point.” But most of the time, I’d back off, and my team would breathe a huge sigh of relief.

In Tommy Orange’s début novel, There There, a man trying to describe the problem of suicides on Native American reservations says, “Kids are jumping out the windows of burning buildings, falling to their deaths. And we think the problem is that they’re jumping.”[36] The poverty debate has suffered from a similar kind of myopia. For the past half century, we’ve approached the poverty question by attending to the poor themselves—posing questions about their work ethic, say, or their welfare benefits—when we should have been focusing on the fire. The question that should serve as a looping incantation, the one we should ask every time we drive past a tent encampment, those tarped American slums smelling of asphalt and bodies, every time we see someone asleep on the bus, slumped over in work clothes, is simply: Who benefits? Not Why don’t you find a better job? or Why don’t you move? or Why don’t you stop taking out such bad loans? but Who is feeding off this?

Feel-good factor If you want a promotion but come across as aloof or reserved, you’ll be overlooked in favor of someone who has warm “people skills”—skills that make others feel good about being around them.

I know what it’s like to lose someone,” Finn said, lowering his voice into that old gentle tone he used when discussing something private and sacred. “I also know from experience that if you keep this up, this reserved attitude, dwelling on your loss instead of what you still have in front of you, you’ll feel this way for the rest of your life. If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t say anything.

Lorenzo steps closer, his body a breath away from mine as he whispers, "Trust me?" I have no idea what he's asking, but I nod because what else am I gonna do? We're about to go to dinner and pretend like we're happy newlyweds with someone who could blow up my entire social circle, and likely my professional life, with a single well-placed word. Lorenzo walks me backward until my back hits the wall. I gasp, surprised. But he's not done. "Trust me," he orders softly. And with that, he picks me to straddle him and slams my back against the door with a thump. It rattles loudly behind me. "Fuck, Abigail, Quick, mia rosa. Come on my cock before your friends get here or they're going to hear me fucking you deep and hard. I want your cum on me and my cum in you while we sit at this prim and proper dinner, wife." I gasp, both at his filthy talk and the ridge of his cock pressing against my core. "Ungh." I can't make words, am barely making incoherent sounds, and Lorenzo lifts one hand from my thigh to hold my head still. He meets my eyes, one of his brows lifted pointedly. If I couldn't feel his cock, I wouldn't even know what this is doing to him. For all the fire rushing through my body and turning my brain to melted goo, he's clear-eyed and has a plan. I blink and realize what he's doing. Emily needs to think we're newlyweds, and what do newlyweds do non-stop? Fuck. Now that I've caught on, he winks at me and I smile back. He thrusts against me and I bounce on the door. "Yes, hard ... just like that," I moan. He grunts, finding a pace that is actually doing a lot for me even though I just came in the shower a bit ago. I'd be embarrassed at the wet heat of my core, but his cock jumps against me. I like that he's carried away too as he dry humps me, only hinting at what we're playacting. "Take it. Take me, Abigail," he hisses through clenched teeth. Is that for effect or is he holding the reins that tightly? "Yes, my Italian Stallion!" I cry out, clawing at his shoulders for purchase. Confusion mars his face as he mouths, "Italian Stallion?" I shake me head and whisper back, "I don't know, it just came out." He grins like that's the funniest thing he's ever heard and goes back to thrusting against me with renewed furor. "That's it, mia rosa. Are you going to come for me?" Oh shit. I am. Like I am ... for real. Any sane, rational, reasonable person would tilt their hips and move away from the power of his thrusts to save a little face. Do I? Absolutely not. If anything, I'm humping him back, riding him like the pony at my sixteenth birthday party. Don't laugh ... it was an amazing blowout. Like I'm about to have ... "Yes, yes. Right there Lorenz-ohh!" He pulls me tight against him, his cock grinding against my clit as he grunts through several short strokes and says something I don't understand in Italian. Is he? Did he? As I float back to Earth and realize what just happened, there's another knock on the door. This one is harder and louder. "Hey, Abi! We have reservations, you know?" Emily yells through the wood, literally inches away from where I just loudly came on Lorenzo's cock for real.

There is something very significant about Jane Austen’s own reservation in her letter about the Evangelicals. She was “at least persuaded that they who are so from reason and feeling, must be happiest and safest”. It leaves one wondering just what her own reason and feeling were telling her. We have no idea. In this passage, she sounds curiously like someone of our own times saying how much they would like to believe in God, if only they could.

It is common and correct for people to talk about the important presumption of innocence—a legal term relating to trial—in court. The application of that sacred principle is the reason a criminal trial can be conducted fairly. It is why juries can weigh all the evidence and reserve judgment before making a determination. The investigative phase is different. The presumption of innocence would be a dangerous standard for an investigator. The investigator has to keep an open mind about the potential guilt of everyone—whether it’s someone who’s a good friend of the victim or a blood relative or even the privileged, well-to-do sons.

I’m a Muslim migrant woman, I’m heading to the Senate on Monday, and there’s nothing Senator Fraser Anning can do about that.” Once inside the Senate, Mehreen did not mince her words. She said some of Australia’s politicians were “creating and fanning racial divisions.” Her position in politics has led to accusations that Mehreen is not “Australian enough” to serve the country. Mehreen’s response? “But how can I be Australian enough? Do I need to point to my love of cricket? My career in the public service? My husband’s role as major in the army reserves?” People of color in white-dominant societies are often forced to walk the lines of “enough.” Not quite brown enough, never quite assimilated enough, to the point that we feel, well, like we can never be enough. Mehreen refuses to play that game. “Instead of being accepted because this is our home, we are asked to apologize for every action of someone who looks like us. We are subject to rules that white people never will be . . . for some, we will never be Australian enough.

So why do so few of us have a plan for unexpected violence? For some reason, we see training for self-defense as a Herculean effort reserved for the physically elite, so we dismiss it. That means there are just two main groups who study and prepare for violence. One group is the predators (we’ll talk more about them later). The other group is the professional protectors, like the police and military. Many people are content to bank on those protectors to be there in times of need. But pinning all your hopes on the possibility that one of those professionals will be on the very spot at the very moment you’re in danger is a lot like throwing out your fire extinguisher in the hopes that a fire truck will be turning the corner onto your block the very moment the flames touch the drapes. I don’t want to live like that, and this book is for those who don’t want to live like that, either. Obviously, I hope violence never visits you. But we don’t always control whether we experience violence. That’s never entirely up to us, because violence is an equal opportunity offender. It cuts across all demographic lines—race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, nationality, socioeconomic status. There is no amount of privilege or social standing that can make you immune to, or allow you to opt out of, violence when someone has identified you as their target. The choice you do have is whether you’re going to be ready for it. I believe that the wisest thing we can do is ready ourselves for the kind of moment we hope never happens. The solution to fear is

Shea parked her truck at the village petrol station and slipped from the cab. Almost immediately she was uneasy, not certain why. Few villagers were out and about at such an early hour. She leaned casually against the truck, taking a long look around. She could detect no one, but she felt eyes on her, someone or something watching her. The feeling was strong. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to ignore her overactive imagination while she filled the truck, its reserve tank, and the two tanks for her generator. The feeling of being watched became so strong, it made her skin crawl. Without warning something pushed at her mind. Not Jacques. It wasn’t his familiar touch. Fear slammed into her, but she kept her cool, professional mask, her single-minded purpose to finish her tasks as quickly as possible. Whatever it was retreated, unable to penetrate. Shea drove down the nearly deserted street and parked close to the small medical clinic. This time, as she slid from the seat, she searched the shadows around her carefully, using every sense she could. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Instinct. There was someone, something. It had followed her, was near. She could feel it, but she couldn’t find it. Jacques? She touched his mind gently, suddenly afraid she was feeling something that was happening to him. I am awaiting your return. She sensed his tiredness. The morning light was even harder on him than on her. She hated being away from him. I will come soon. Shea took another deep breath and looked around, determined to find what was making her so uneasy. A man lounged lazily in the shade of a tree. He was tall, dark, and motionless, like a hunter. She felt the impact of his eyes as his gaze casually found her.

I don't vote. The 2 guys you get to pick to "run the country" are there as a charade to make you think you have choice. And to be fair, I'm sure these people make a lot of the day to day decisions that don't matter very much. But when you get down to it, if someone from the Rockefeller family, the Rothschild family, the duponts, or some of the other true owners of the country want something to happen, it's going to happen whether you like it or not. If they want you to have a car and house that run on oil or gas, then that's what you are going to get. Because those families own oil and gas companies. They own all the important land, they own the hospitals, the schools, tv stations that make the Grammys, x factor or American idol seem much more important than real events that you should actually care about that affect you. They own a huge chunk of the federal reserve, they lobby the congress, the senate, governors, judges, etc.to get exactly what they want when they want. You won't find these people on the Forbes list, because they don't fucking want you to know what they own and what they control. They want you to think the "walmart" Walton family are the richest family. Haha! Vote if you want to, but in reality it's like voting for Ronald McDonald vs. Grimace instead of the true executives of mcdonalds that actually run the company and make all the important decisions.

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