Resist The Charm Quotes

Not in this lifetime, buddy,” I said finally. “Resistance is futile, Kitten.” “So is your charm.” “We’ll see.

And there’s no way I’m leaving you alone with Prince Perfect.” “So you don’t trust me to resist his charms?” “I don’t even trust myself. I’ve never seen anyone work a crowd the way he does. I’m pretty sure the rocks and trees are getting ready to swear fealty to him.

I said, I know why you’re afraid to fight with me.” "And why is that?” If he flexed again, I’d have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes. "You want me.” Oh boy. "You can’t resist my subtle charm, so you’re afraid you’re going to make a spectacle out of yourself.” "You know what? Don’t talk to me.

I'm afraid that's inappropriate behavior for the schoolyard," Xavier teased. "I know my charm is hard to resist, but please tray and control yourself.

One glance and I knew exactly who and what he was. The classic alpha male, the kind who had spurred evolution forward about five million years ago by nailing every female in sight. They charmed, seduced, and behaved like bastards, and yet women were biologically incapable of resisting their magic DNA.

Resistance is futile, Kitten"..."So is your charm.

It requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl in the world.

There’s no way a woman could possibly resist your charm” Dominic smiled. “Or my dick. Don’t worry, I won’t get it out. I don’t want you all to get intimidated. and in the interest of health and safety, I think it’s better that he’s not unleashed.

I feel like men are more romantic than women. When we get married we marry, like, one girl, 'cause we're resistant the whole way until we meet one girl and we think I'd be an idiot if I didn't marry this girl she's so great. But it seems like girls get to a place where they just kinda pick the best option... 'Oh he's got a good job.' I mean they spend their whole life looking for Prince Charming and then they marry the guy who's got a good job and is gonna stick around.

Providence has delivered me of every worldly passion, save this one; the desire to acquire books, new or old books of any kind, whose charms I cannot persuade myself to resist.

When virtue and modesty enlighten her charms, the lustre of a beautiful woman is brighter than the stars of heaven, and the influence of her power it is in vain to resist.

What are you so afraid will happen? Afraid you might start to like me?” He said nothing. Despite her fatigue, she trotted ahead of him. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want to like a Grisha. You’re scared that if you laugh at my jokes or answer my questions, you might start thinking I’m human. Would that be so terrible?” “I do like you.” “What was that?” “I do like you,” he said angrily. She’d beamed, feeling a well of pleasure erupt through her. “Now, really, is that so bad?” “Yes!” he roared. “Why?” “Because you’re horrible. You’re loud and lewd and . . . treacherous. Brum warned us that Grisha could be charming.” “Oh, I see. I’m the wicked Grisha seductress. I have beguiled you with my Grisha wiles!” She poked him in the chest. “Stop that.” “No. I’m beguiling you.” “Quit it.” She danced around him in the snow, poking his chest, his stomach, his side. “Goodness! You’re very solid. This is strenuous work.” He started to laugh. “It’s working! The beguiling has begun. The Fjerdan has fallen. You are powerless to resist me.

If he gets any more charming, men and women may start laying down in the street for the privilege of being stepped on by the new Ravkan King. However did you resist him?" "Good question," Mal murmured from beside me. "Turns out I don't care for emeralds," I said. Zoya rolled her eyes. "Or royal blood, blinding charisma, tremendous wealth--" "You can stop now," said Mal.

And in the darkness I smile at life, as if I were the possessor of charm which would enable me to transform all that is evil and tragical into serenity and happiness. But when I search my mind for the cause of this joy, I find there is no cause, and can only laugh at myself.

After an agonizing silence, Levana tittered. “My dear Emperor. How could I resist such a charming proposal?

yet she could not resist sometimes yielding to the charm of a woman, not a girl, of a woman confessing, as to her they often did, some scrape, some folly. And whether it was pity, or their beauty, or that she was older, or some accident-like a faint scent, or a violin next door (so strange is the power of sounds at certain moments), she did undoubtedly then feel what men felt.

This path turns out to be much as the commandments of Moses, but being only eight in number seems more understanding of a human heart. I like best, “to intend to resist evil.” I am charmed by the word intend.

You can resist the seductions of grandiosity, blame, and shame. You can support other people in their creative efforts, acknowledging the truth that there’s plenty of room for everyone. You can measure your worth by your dedication to your path, not by your successes or failures. You can battle your demons (through therapy, recovery, prayer, or humility) instead of battling your gifts—in part by realizing that your demons were never the ones doing the work, anyhow. You can believe that you are neither a slave to inspiration nor its master, but something far more interesting—its partner—and that the two of you are working together toward something intriguing and worthwhile. You can live a long life, making and doing really cool things the entire time. You might earn a living with your pursuits or you might not, but you can recognize that this is not really the point. And at the end of your days, you can thank creativity for having blessed you with a charmed, interesting, passionate existence.

While the Texas oil economy relies on the truth of geology, many of its inhabitants remain stubbornly resistant to its charms.

Resistance is futile, Kitten.” “So is your charm.

Hey, I saw your mom. Told her your sister was in the grove and that you’d be going there in a minute too.’ ‘Thanks. Does she seem all right?’ ‘She was pretty excited. Gave me a hug and a kiss,’ says Dum. ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Do you know how long it’s been since she’s given me a hug and a kiss?’ ‘Well, yeah, a lot of women find that they can’t resist my charms. They’re all over me for any excuse they can find.’ He takes a swig of pee-green Gatorade as if he thought that was sexy.

Tito had set up his headquarters in the Town Hall and Alix found him in a spacious room overlooking the main square. As always, he was dressed in the simple grey tunic and breeches of Partisan uniform, without any badges of rank or other decoration. It was enough that something in his bearing and in his eyes projected a natural authority. Lying under his desk was his Alsatian dog, Luks, his constant companion. He greeted her with a smile. ‘Ah, my flame of the forest! Come in. Sit, sit.’ Alix felt a warm flush of pleasure. The nickname was one Tito had coined for her in the course of the many battles they had fought and it signified a special relationship that had begun in the early days of the war, before they left Belgrade, when she had been able to bring a contingent of workers from her father’s estate to join the cause and, more importantly, with Drago’s help, reveal the location of arms handed out by the agents of the Special Operations Executive, (known to its members as SOE), to village heads in preparation for possible resistance. Tito had decided then that she was his lucky charm.

Jeez, John, I’m trying to be helpful. You could learn a lot from me. No woman has ever been able to resist my natural charm.” “You know who else had natural charm?” I retort. “Ted Bundy.” Dean dons a blank look. “Who?” “The serial killer.” Oh Jesus, I’ve jumped on the Bundy bandwagon. I’m turning into Grace.

How could I resist your charms after I heard you tell that guy you'd cut off his balls and shove them down his throat?

Because she had always been happy, she wanted everyone about her to be happy or, at least, pleased with themselves. To this end, she always saw the best in everyone and remarked kindly upon it. There was no servant so stupid that she did not find some redeeming trait of loyalty and kind-heartedness, no girl so ugly and disagreeable that she could not discover grace of form or nobility of character in her, and no man so worthless or so boring that she did not view him in the light of his possibilities rather than his actualities. Because of these qualities that came sincerely and spontaneously from a generous heart, everyone flocked about her, for who can resist the charm of one who discovers in others admirable qualities undreamed of even by himself?

Every time I’m with you, I only want you more.

I just wanted to get you out of my head. But this is so much better. I like you in my head, under my skin, coated on my tongue. I like you everywhere.

Never criticize people overtly—that will make them insecure, and resistant to change. Plant ideas, insinuate suggestions. Charmed by your diplomatic skills, people will not notice your growing power.

Time is the greatest weapon you have. Patiently keep in mind a long-term goal and neither person nor army can resist you. And charm is the best way of playing for time, of widening your options in any situation. Through charm you can seduce your enemy into backing off, giving you the psychological space to plot an effective counterstrategy.

If you think you’re immune to my charms, you’re fooling yourself.” I pull my hand away and ignore how fiercely it tingles as I place it in my lap. “So, you don’t think any woman can resist you?” “I’m sure plenty of women could. But you? No. You’re so starved of romance in your life, you’re like an emotional skeleton. I intend to put some meat back on your bones. Make you believe in something other than a bleak apocalypse.

Then, unprompted, Henry says into the stretching stillness, “Return of the Jedi.” A beat. “What?” “To answer your question,” Henry says. “Yes, I do like Star Wars, and my favorite is Return of the Jedi.” “Oh,” Alex says. “Wow, you’re wrong.” Henry huffs out the tiniest, most poshly indignant puff of air. It smells minty. Alex resists the urge to throw another elbow. “How can I be wrong about my own favorite? It’s a personal truth.” “It’s a personal truth that is wrong and bad.” “Which do you prefer, then? Please show me the error of my ways.” “Okay, Empire.” Henry sniffs. “So dark, though.” “Yeah, which is what makes it good,” Alex says. “It’s the most thematically complex. It’s got the Han and Leia kiss in it, you meet Yoda, Han is at the top of his game, fucking Lando Calrissian, and the best twist in cinematic history. What does Jedi have? Fuckin’ Ewoks.” “Ewoks are iconic.” “Ewoks are stupid.” “But Endor.” “But Hoth. There’s a reason people always call the best, grittiest installment of a trilogy the Empire of the series.” “And I can appreciate that. But isn’t there something to be valued in a happy ending as well?” “Spoken like a true Prince Charming.” “I’m only saying, I like the resolution of Jedi. It ties everything up nicely. And the overall theme you’re intended to take away from the films is hope and love and … er, you know, all that. Which is what Jedi leaves you with a sense of most of all.

There is a sweetness in being the sole source, the autocratic and irresponsible cause of the greatest joy and profoundest pain to another, and I was like wax in Zinaïda's hands; though, indeed, I was not the only one in love with her. All the men who visited the house were crazy over her, and she kept them all in leading-strings at her feet. It amused her to arouse their hopes and then their fears, to turn them round her finger (she used to call it knocking their heads together), while they never dreamed of offering resistance and eagerly submitted to her. About her whole being, so full of life and beauty, there was a peculiarly bewitching mixture of slyness and carelessness, of artificiality and simplicity, of composure and frolicsomeness; about everything she did or said, about every action of hers, there clung a delicate, fine charm, in which an individual power was manifest at work. And her face was ever changing, working too; it expressed, almost at the same time, irony, dreaminess, and passion. Various emotions, delicate and quick-changing as the shadows of clouds on a sunny day of wind, chased one another continually over her lips and eyes.

He caught her by the shoulders and gave her a hard little shake. "Do you think you're so charming in that silly little nightdress that I can't resist tumbling you? Do you think I have no pride when it comes to you?" "B-b-but I—" "Well, you're right," he shouted. "I don't!" With that, his lips came down on hers

You have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the most insensible; No heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me that mine is no longer in my possession; or I should have to reproach myself for ever with having violated the Laws of Hospitality.

[339] Vita femina. To see the ultimate beauties in a work-all knowledge and good-will is not enough; it requires the rarest, good chance for the veil of clouds to move for once from the summits, and for the sun to shine on them. We must not only stand at precisely the right place to see this, our very soul itself must have pulled away the veil from its heights, and must be in need of an external expression and simile, so as to have a hold and remain master of itself. All these, however, are so rarely united at the same time that I am inclined to believe that the highest summit of all that is good, be it work, deed, man, or nature, has hitherto remained for most people, and even for the best, as something concealed and shrouded-that, however, which unveils itself to us, unveils itself to us but once. The Greeks indeed prayed: "Twice and thrice, everything beautiful!" Ah, they had their good reason to call on the Gods, for ungodly actuality does not furnish us with the beautiful at all, or only does so once! I mean to say that the world is overfull of beautiful things, but it is nevertheless poor, very poor, in beautiful moments, and in the unveiling of those beautiful things. But perhaps this is the greatest charm of life: it puts a gold- embroidered veil of lovely potentialities over itself, promising, resisting, modest, mocking, sympathetic, seductive. Yes, life is a woman!

What was that?” “I do like you,” he said angrily. She’d beamed, feeling a well of pleasure erupt through her. “Now, really, is that so bad?” “Yes!” he roared. “Why?” “Because you’re horrible. You’re loud and lewd and … treacherous. Brum warned us that Grisha could be charming.” “Oh, I see. I’m the wicked Grisha seductress. I have beguiled you with my Grisha wiles!” She poked him in the chest. “Stop that.” “No. I’m beguiling you.” “Quit it.” She danced around him in the snow, poking his chest, his stomach, his side. “Goodness! You’re very solid. This is strenuous work.” He started to laugh. “It’s working! The beguiling has begun. The Fjerdan has fallen. You are powerless to resist me. You—” Nina

So, that’s how you do things, right? You seduce your way out of things. I wonder how many men have been burned by your siren’s charm,” Collin sneers. “Some people can resist and some people can’t. I guess some people are just weak.” A low blow, but hey, he started it.

You can resist to girls but it is harder when they are ginger.

...This is the arena in which a spiritualized disobedience means most. It doesn't mean a second New Deal, another massive bureaucratic attack on our problems. It doesn't mean taking to the streets, throwing bricks through the window at the Bank of America, or driving a tractor through the local McDonald's. It means living differently. It means taking responsibility for the character of the human world. That's a real confrontation with the problem of value. In short, refusal of the present is a return to what Thoreau and Ruskin called "human fundamentals, valuable things," and it is a movement into the future. This movement into the future is also a powerful expression of that most human spiritual emotion, Hope. p.124

Yeah, well, I’m regretting every letting you catch me that night,” she huffed, taking no notice of his machinations as she blew back her hair in that charming habit she had. It was an invitation he could not resist. His hands crept into her gorgeous hair, the luxuriant strands settling between his fingers. “Hey, sweetheart, it was either me or the concrete. One of us had to do it.” “At this point I’m thinking the concrete would’ve been less painful . . . and less complicated.

When we are in love, our love is too vast to be wholly contained within ourselves; it radiates outwards, reaches the resistant surface of the loved one, which reflects it back to its starting-point; and this return of our own tenderness is what we see as the other's feelings, working their new, enhanced charm on us, because we do not recognize them as having originated in ourselves.

Derek turned to face Stiles, his expression falling into a very familiar stare of utter disgruntled bitchiness. "Would you like more water?" Stiles squinted, resisting the urge to mutter, ' not sure if angry, or just emotionally constipated,' under his breath. Instead, he pursed his lips and attempted to lay on the old Stilinski charm by blurting out, "I could do with something a little... harder." It was almost disturbing how Derek was able to stare back at Stiles without blinking once. "I have beer," he said slowly, cautiously. Stiles narrowed his eyes, echoing the tone of Derek's voice, "...harder." ".... pudding?" Derek ventured, as if pudding was actually a viable option when Stiles was demanding something harder than beer.

I think I die a little every time I look at you.” Lenna’s key slid from her hand and dropped to the floor at their feet. Braxton looked down at it for a second and then lifted his eyes. “The first time,” he went on, “at the Christmas party, when I looked up and saw you in the doorway...” He paused and sucked in a breath as if he were reliving that very moment all over again. “I couldn’t breathe. I haven’t been able to breathe right since then.

I thought that you said that your name was reserved only for family.” A small smile broke through his stoic expression. “The way I see it, even if you don’t come around and realize that you can’t resist my striking looks and enticing charm, and that you desperately want to spend the rest of your life in my arms—” “Which will never happen…” “—you’ll eventually end up with my silly little brother. Who, just to warn you, despite being a great guy, is nowhere near as handsome and charming as I.

Time is the greatest weapon you have. Patiently keep in mind a long-term goal and neither person nor army can resist you. And charm is the best way of playing for time, of widening your options in any situation. Through charm you can seduce your enemy into backing off, giving you the psychological space to plot an effective counterstrategy. The key is to make other people emotional while you remain detached. They may feel grateful, happy, moved, arrogant—it doesn’t matter, as long as they feel. An emotional person is a distracted person. Give them what they want, appeal to their self-interest, make them feel superior to you. When a baby has grabbed a sharp knife, do not try to grab it back; instead, stay calm, offer candy, and the baby will drop the knife to pick up the tempting morsel you offer.

That book taught me that by reading, I could live more intensely. It could give me back the sight I had lost. For that reason alone, a book that didn't matter to anyone, changed my life.' By then I was hopelessly dumbstruck, at the mercy of this creature whose words and charms I had neither means nor desire to resist. I wished that she would never stop speaking, that her voice would wrap itself around me forever, and that her uncle would never return to break the spell of that moment that belonged only to me.

You think you’re so gorgeous that no one can possibly resist your charms?” “Yes, actually.” “All right,” she said, rising slightly on her toes to kiss me. “I suppose that’s true.

My dear Emperor. How could I resist such a charming proposal?

Practical is always best. A charm that’s needed. No one can resist what they think they’re missing.

I ached for red silk romance, and carry me away passion, and I ached for it with nobody else but him. He was a breed of charming I couldn’t resist.

I focus on my favorite daydream, the one where I return from London at the end of the summer and am all glamorous and drop-dead gorgeous and every girl in my school is completely jealous when Quinn McKeyan asks me to Fall Homecoming because he can’t resist my charm. Hey, it’s my daydream. I can dream what I want to. The thing is, Quinn’s face keeps getting replaced in my head by Dante’s. Since I’ve had a mad crush on Quinn from the time we started kindergarten all the way through our junior year last year, that’s saying something. Every daydream I’ve had for eleven years has been of him. I’m a very loyal daydreamer. And I suddenly feel like I’m cheating on my imaginary boyfriend, a boy who happens to be real, but who has been dating my best friend Becca for the past two years. And no. Becca has no idea that I’m secretly in love with her boyfriend. It’s the one secret that I’ve kept from her.

He sensed that his bride was only a step away from bolting. Fiona's words came back to him — I've yet to meet a lass who could resist a strappin' fellow with a babe in his arms. In an effort to erase her stricken expression, he thrust his burden into her arms. "My children and I would like to welcome you to Elsinore, my lady." She eased back the blanket, then stood gazing down at the feathery perfection of the babe's head. Her eyes were as cool as the ash from yesterday's fire. "No, thank you," she finally said, handing it back to him. "I've already eaten.

Who is he?” Eleanor lowered her voice, the name rolling off her tongue like a dark secret. “Dante Berlin.” I laughed. “Dante? Like the Dante who wrote the Inferno? Did he pick that name just to cultivate his ‘dark and mysterious’ persona?” Eleanor shook her head in disapproval. “Just wait till you see him. You won’t be laughing then.” I rolled my eyes. “I bet his real name is something boring like Eugene or Dwayne.” I expected Eleanor to laugh or say something in return, but instead she gave me a concerned look. I ignored it. “He sounds like a snob to me. I bet he’s one of those guys who know they’re good-looking. He probably hasn’t even read the Inferno. It’s easy to pretend you’re smart when you don’t to anyone.” Eleanor still didn’t respond. “Shh . . .” she muttered under her breath. But before I could say “What?” I heard a cough behind me. Oh God, I thought to myself, and slowly turned around. “Hi,” he said with a half grin that seemed to be mocking me. And that’s how I met Dante Berlin. So how do you describe someone who leaves you speechless? He was beautiful. Not Monet beautiful or white sandy beach beautiful or even Grand Canyon beautiful. It was both more overwhelming and more delicate. Like gazing into the night sky and feeling incredibly small in comparison. Like holding a shell in your hand and wondering how nature was able to make something so complex yet to perfect: his eyes, dark and pensive; his messy brown hair tucked behind one ear; his arms, strong and lean beneath the cuffs of his collared shirt. I wanted to say something witty or charming, but all I could muster up was a timid “Hi.” He studied me with what looked like a mix of disgust and curiosity. “You must be Eugene,” I said. “I am.” He smiled, then leaned in and added, “I hope I can trust you to keep my true identity a secret. A name like Eugene could do real damage to my mysterious persona.” I blushed at the sound of my words coming from his lips. He didn’t seem anything like the person Eleanor had described. “And you are—” “Renee,” I interjected. “I was going to say, ‘in my seat,’ but Renee will do.” My face went red. “Oh, right. Sorry.” “Renee like the philosopher Rene Descartes? How esoteric of you. No wonder you think you know everything. You probably picked that name just to cultivate your overly analytical persona.” I glared at him. I knew he was just dishing back my own insults, but it still stung. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said curtly, and pushed past him before he could respond, waving a quick good-bye to Eleanor, who looked too stunned to move. I turned and walked to the last row, using all of my self-control to resist looking back.

I glanced down at the menu, relieved that although I hadn't taken a French class since my sophomore year in college, I still recognized most of the words. Chartier's menu is full of classics: steaks and chops, grilled sea bass with fennel seed, sweet chestnut purée, and wine-soaked prunes. What girl could resist the charm of a restaurant that allows you to order a bowl of crème chantilly- simple whipped cream- for dessert?

What the hell are you tryng to do?" She gave him an innocent stare. "Why, have a conversation. I suppose you're out of practice." He glared,narrow-eyed, then turned away. "I'm going for a walk," he muttered. "Lovely." Gennie slipped her arm through his. "I'll go with you." "I didn't ask you," Grant said flatly, stopping again. "Oh." Gennie batted her eyes. "You're trying to charm me by being rude again. It's so difficult to resist.

Thus saying, I turned my full attention to the lock. Like a proper maiden, it resisted for a token moment. But, upon further adept agitation of its slender hole, it relinquished its charms with smooth, willing finesse.

That was before Clay moved those big, warm hands up over her body, spreading one on her lower back while the other curved around her nape. The hold was so proprietary, so aggressive, it should’ve scared her into running in the other direction. Instead it sparked a darkly sexual heat in her, stoking her need past blazing. She melted into him, pressing her aching breasts against the solid wall of his chest. He purred into her mouth. Nipples shocked into sudden pleasure by the vibration, she pulled back. “You purr?” His smile was pure cat. “Only for you.” Any resistance she might’ve harbored to this dangerous, inevitable escalation in their relationship dissolved into a big fat pool at her feet. He was being charming. Clay did not do charm, not for anyone. Except, it seemed, her. She pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Stop being so sexy.” His smile widened and, sliding his hand from her nape to her hair, he tugged back her head so he could kiss her again. The embers in her stomach burst into flame as she realized she was rubbing her nipples against him. He didn’t seem to mind—he was doing that purring thing again.

I meant to resist your charms; I really did.I wasn't going to do this." Alan took her wrist, guiding her hand over so that he could press a kiss to the palm. "Make love with me?" "No." Shelby's gaze traveled from his mouth to his eyes. "Be in love with you." She felt his fingers tighten on her wrist, then loosen slowly as his eyes stayed dark and fixed on hers. Beneath her, she felt the change in his heartbeart. "And are you?" "Yes." The word, hardly audible, thundered in his head. Alan brought her to him, cradling her head against his chest, feeling her low slow expulsion of air as his arm came around her. He hadn't expected her to give him so much so soon. "When?" "When?" Shelby repeated, enjoying the solid feel of his chest under her cheek. "Sometime between when we first stepped out on the Write's terrace and when I opened a basket of strawberries." "It took you that long? All I had to do was look at you.

This is the tragedy of the madwoman. She whips us, and we achieve things. And so we think the whipping is why we achieved things and we’ll never achieve anything without the whipping. This is the most common reason we hear when people resist self-compassion. They’re worried that if they stop beating themselves up, they’ll lose all motivation, they’ll just sit around watching Real Housewives of Anywhere and eating Lucky Charms in a bowl full of Bud Light. This argument doesn’t stand up to even the most superficial investigation. Are we really working toward our goals only because we’ll torture ourselves if we stop, so that as soon as we put down the whip we’ll sink into eternal apathy? Of course not. In fact, it’s the opposite: We only whip ourselves because our goals matter so much that we’re willing to suffer this self-inflicted pain if that’s what it takes. And we believe that because we’ve always done it that way, it must be why we’ve accomplished as much as we have. Diligent practice of self-compassion works; it lowers stress hormones and improves mood.8 And many years of research have confirmed that self-forgiveness is associated with greater physical and mental well-being.9 All without diminishing your motivation to do the things that matter to you.

You know, I do have some ability to resist your charms, Marco.” He smiled at her as he held the passenger side door open. “I’m trained to break through the enemy’s front line.” “So you think of me as the enemy?” “No, not really. Just as someone I need to conquer.

She accepted the tea he had brought, with a word of thanks and a charming smile, but could not resist the impulse to ask him if he was not ravished by Neroli’s voice. He replied promptly: ‘Not entirely. A little too much vibrato, don’t you agree?’ ‘Ah, I perceive that you are an expert!’ said Abby, controlling a quivering lip. ‘You must enlighten my ignorance, sir! What does that mean, if you please?’ ‘Well, my Latin is pretty rusty, but I should think it means to tremble,’ he said coolly. ‘She does, too, like a blancmanger. And much the same shape as one,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Oh, you dreadful creature!’ protested Mrs Grayshott, bubbling over. ‘I didn’t mean that, when I said I thought she had rather too much vibrato! You know I didn’t!’ ‘I thought she had too much of everything,’ he said frankly.

This is the most common reason we hear when people resist self-compassion. They’re worried that if they stop beating themselves up, they’ll lose all motivation, they’ll just sit around watching Real Housewives of Anywhere and eating Lucky Charms in a bowl full of Bud Light.

The prince tilts his head to study me. 'Tell me what you dream of, Jude Duarte, if that's your true name. Tell me what you want.' ... 'To resist enchantments,' I say, trying to will myself in to stillness. Trying not to fidget. I want to seem like a serious person who makes serious bargains. He regards me steadily. 'You already have True Sight, given to you as a child. Surely you understand our ways. You know the charms. Salt our food and you destroy any ensorcellment on it. Turn your stockings inside out and you will never find yourself led astray. Keep your pockets full of dried rowan berries and your mind won't be influenced.' The last few days have shown me how woefully inadequate those protections are. 'What happens when they turn out my pockets? What happens when they rip my stockings? What happens when they scatter my salt in the dirt?

In addition to protesting, building complex communities of resistance and vision, and self-care practices, writers also have language, one of the original magicks. We too can summon our own enchantments, incantations, protections, charms, curses, hexes, blessings, auguries, banishments, and more.

No institution of learning of Ingersoll's day had courage enough to confer upon him an honorary degree; not only for his own intellectual accomplishments, but also for his influence upon the minds of the learned men and women of his time and generation. Robert G. Ingersoll never received a prize for literature. The same prejudice and bigotry which prevented his getting an honorary college degree, militated against his being recognized as 'the greatest writer of the English language on the face of the earth,' as Henry Ward Beecher characterized him. Aye, in all the history of literature, Robert G. Ingersoll has never been excelled -- except by only one man, and that man was -- William Shakespeare. And yet there are times when Ingersoll even surpassed the immortal Bard. Yes, there are times when Ingersoll excelled even Shakespeare, in expressing human emotions, and in the use of language to express a thought, or to paint a picture. I say this fully conscious of my own admiration for that 'intellectual ocean, whose waves touched all the shores of thought.' Ingersoll was perfection himself. Every word was properly used. Every sentence was perfectly formed. Every noun, every verb and every object was in its proper place. Every punctuation mark, every comma, every semicolon, and every period was expertly placed to separate and balance each sentence. To read Ingersoll, it seems that every idea came properly clothed from his brain. Something rare indeed in the history of man's use of language in the expression of his thoughts. Every thought came from his brain with all the beauty and perfection of the full blown rose, with the velvety petals delicately touching each other. Thoughts of diamonds and pearls, rubies and sapphires rolled off his tongue as if from an inexhaustible mine of precious stones. Just as the cut of the diamond reveals the splendor of its brilliance, so the words and construction of the sentences gave a charm and beauty and eloquence to Ingersoll's thoughts. Ingersoll had everything: The song of the skylark; the tenderness of the dove; the hiss of the snake; the bite of the tiger; the strength of the lion; and perhaps more significant was the fact that he used each of these qualities and attributes, in their proper place, and at their proper time. He knew when to embrace with the tenderness of affection, and to resist and denounce wickedness and tyranny with that power of denunciation which he, and he alone, knew how to express.

I can feel just how much you hate sleeping next to me. I feel it every morning.” Matthias flushed bright scarlet. “Why do you have to say things like that?” “Because I like it when you turn red.” “It’s disgusting. You don’t need to make everything lewd.” “If you would just relax—” “I don’t want to relax.” “Why? What are you so afraid will happen? Afraid you might start to like me?” He said nothing. Despite her fatigue, she trotted ahead of him. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want to like a Grisha. You’re scared that if you laugh at my jokes or answer my questions, you might start thinking I’m human. Would that be so terrible?” “I do like you.” “What was that?” “I do like you,” he said angrily. She’d beamed, feeling a well of pleasure erupt through her. “Now, really, is that so bad?” “Yes!” he roared. “Why?” “Because you’re horrible. You’re loud and lewd and … treacherous. Brum warned us that Grisha could be charming.” “Oh, I see. I’m the wicked Grisha seductress. I have beguiled you with my Grisha wiles!” She poked him in the chest. “Stop that.” “No. I’m beguiling you.” “Quit it.” She danced around him in the snow, poking his chest, his stomach, his side. “Goodness! You’re very solid. This is strenuous work.” He started to laugh. “It’s working! The beguiling has begun. The Fjerdan has fallen. You are powerless to resist me. You—

It was something central which permeated; something warm which broke up surfaces and rippled the cold contact of man and woman, or of women together. For that she could dimly perceive. She resented it, had a scruple picked up Heaven knows where, or, as she felt, sent by Nature (who is invariably wise); yet she could not resist sometimes yielding to the charm of a woman, not a girl, of a woman confessing, as to her they often did, some scrape, some folly. And whether it was pity, or their beauty, or that she was older, or some accident—like a faint scent, or a violin next door (so strange is the power of sounds at certain moments), she did undoubtedly then feel what men felt.

He then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience and withdrew, but not to any distance. As to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it was not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen before he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all the blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of the summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his sailors, -- songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a divine harmony had their notes been taken down, -- he saw the Island of Monte Cristo, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the waves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer, the songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose to heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or Amphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city. At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued strains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to descend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that which may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from such perfumes as set the mind a dreaming, and such fires as burn the very senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed to fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows of the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure. They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy, with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair. They were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated courtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian angel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm shadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow before these marble wantons. Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in their long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves, and assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which saints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which the serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that held him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a voluptuous kiss. It seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about him saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a dream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug, love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were pressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like embraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more his senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle that taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and exhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the enchantment of his marvellous dream.

Just as I dress and go out to visit the professor and exchange a few more or less insincere compliments with him, without really wanting to at all, so it is with the majority of men day by day and hour by hour in their daily lives and affairs. Without really wanting to at all, they pay calls and carry on conversations, sit out their hours at desks and on office chairs; and it is all compulsory, mechanical and against the grain, and it could all be done or left undone just as well by machines; and indeed it is this never-ceasing machinery that prevents their being, like me, the critics of their own lives and recognizing the stupidity and shallowness, the hopeless tragedy and waste of the lives they lead, and the awful ambiguity grinning over it all. And they are right, right a thousand times to live as they do, playing their games and pursuing their business, instead of resisting the dreary machine and staring into the void as I do, who have left the track. Let no one think that I blame other men, though now and then in these pages I scorn and even deride them, or that I accuse them of the responsibility of my personal misery. But now that I have come so far, and standing as I do on the extreme verge of life where the ground falls away before me into bottomless darkness, I should do wrong and I should lie if I pretended to myself or to others that that machine still revolved for me and that I was still obedient to the eternal child's play of that charming world.

Lazily...possessively he ran a hand down her back. "Mmm, again," Shelby murmured. With a quiet laugh, Alan stroked up and down until she was ready to purr. "Shelby..." She gave another sigh as an answer and snuggled closer. "Shelby,there's something warm and fluffy under my feet." "Mmm-hmm." "If it's your cat, he's not breathing." "MacGregor." He kissed the top of her head. "What?" She gave a muffled laugh against his shoulder. "MacGregor," she repeated. "My pig." There was silence for a moment while he tried to digest this. "I beg your pardon?" The dry serious tone had more laughter bubbling up. Would she ever be able to face a day without hearing it? "Oh, say that again.I love it." Because she had to see his face, Shelby found the energy to lean across him and grope for the matches on the nightstand. Skin rubbed distractedly against skin while she struck one and lit a candle. "MacGregor," she said, giving Alan a quick kiss before she gestured to the foot of the bed. Alan studied the smiling porcine face. "You named a stuffed purple pig after me?" "Alan, is that any way to talk about our child?" His eyes shifted to hers in an expression so masculine and ironic, she collapsed on his chest in a fit of giggles. "I put him there because he was supposed to be the only MacGregor who charmed his way into my bed." "Really." Alan tugged on her hair until she lifted her face, full of amusement and fun,to his. "Is that what I dd?" "You knew damn well I wouldn't be able to resist balloons and rainbows foever.

I should have resisted somehow. I should’ve done something, anything. Instead, I just stood there and let them ... touch me.” Sam’s face crumpled with disgust at the thought. “No man has the power to resist their charms. You did what any other man would have done.” “But that’s just it, isn’t it?” He sat up angrily. “I’m not just any other man. In fact, I’m no man at all. I’m a demon.” “You are a man, and a good one. Have you even considered that your demon blood would make you just as susceptible to their charms?

Jacob, is something wrong? Is Isabella okay?” “Probably. She is not well today. It could be a normal thing for a human female, but since she is usually as resistant to common ailments now as we are, she is nervous. I figured Gideon could ease her mind.” Noah missed the wince that crossed his friend’s face that would have given away the indignant argument flying through the Enforcer’s thoughts. Jacob’s female counterpart huffily took umbrage to his claims of exactly who it was that was nervous and who had insisted on seeking Gideon, because it certainly had not been her. “Tell her I hope she feels better,” Noah said, his fondness for Bella quite clear in his tone. “Bear with her, old friend. She’s breaking new ground. It can be pretty frightening to play Eve for an entire race.” “Do not worry. When it comes to my Bella, I would do anything to see to her happiness. That includes making others do anything to see to her happiness,” Jacob said. He meant the words, of course, but he was hoping they’d help sooth someone’s bristling pride. “I’m sure Gideon is going to love that,” Noah laughed. Jacob grinned, altering gravity so that he began to float up from the floor. “If you see Gideon before I do, will you tell him to come to Bella?” “Of course. Tell her I said to start behaving like a real Druid or I—” Noah was cut off by a sharp hand motion and a warning expression from the Enforcer. It came a little too late, however, if Jacob’s pained expression was anything to judge by. “There goes your invitation for our wedding,” Jacob muttered. “And I think I am close behind you.” “I would believe that if I were not the one who is supposed to perform it and if you were not the father of her otherwise illegitimate child,” Noah countered loudly, clearly talking to the person beyond his immediate perception. “Ow! Damn it, Noah!” Jacob grumbled, rubbing his temples as Bella’s scream of frustration echoed through him. “Do you remember I am the one who has to go home to her, would you?” “Sorry, my friend,” Noah chuckled, not looking at all repentant. “Now get out of here, Enforcer. Find Gideon and tend to your beautiful and charming mate. Be sure to mention to her that I said she looks ravishing and that her pregnancy has made her shine like a precious jewel.” “Noah, if you were not my King, I would kill you for this.” “Yes, well, as your King I would have you arrested for treason just for saying that. Luckily for you, Jacob, you are the man who would arrest you, and the woman who also has the power to do so is sure to punish you far better than I can when you get home.” “You are all heart, my liege,” Jacob said wryly. “Thank you. Now leave, before I begin to expound on the disrespect that this mouthy little female of yours seems to have engendered my formerly loyal subjects.

Jude never loved Locke.” My face feels hot, but my shame is an excellent cover to hide behind. “She loved someone else. He’s the one she’d want dead.” I am pleased to see Cardan flinch. “Enough,” he says before I can go on. “I have heard all I care to on this subject—” “No!” Nicasia interrupts, causing everyone under the hill to stir a little. It is immense presumption to interrupt the High King. Even for a princess. Especially for an ambassador. A moment after she speaks, she seems to realize it, but she goes on anyway. “Taryn could have a charm on her, something that makes her resistant to glamours.” Cardan gives Nicasia a scathing look. He does not like her undermining his authority. And yet, after a moment, his anger gives way to something else. He gives me one of his most awful smiles. “I suppose she’ll have to be searched.” Nicasia’s mouth curves to match his. It feels like being back at lessons on the palace grounds, conspired against by the children of the Gentry. I recall the more recent humiliation of being crowned the Queen of Mirth, stripped in front of revelers. If they take my gown now, they will see the bandages on my arms, the fresh slashes on my skin for which I have no good explanation. They will guess I am not Taryn. I can’t let that happen. I summon all the dignity I can muster, trying to imitate my stepmother, Oriana, and the way she projects authority. “My husband was murdered,” I say. “And whether or not you believe me, I do mourn him. I will not make a spectacle of myself for the Court’s amusement when his body is barely cold.” Unfortunately, the High King’s smile only grows. “As you wish. Then I suppose I will have to examine you alone in my chambers.

In that moment, I almost kissed her. An instinctive reaction, really. I was Robin Goodfellow, the infamous Puck; I had kissed countless pretty girls, human and fey alike. Graceful nymphs, flirtatious satyrs, ethereal sidhe, and naive human females in the mortal world, none could resist my charm once I'd turned it on. I'd kissed a few boys as well, along with a mermaid, a trio of plant creatures that had no discernible gender, and one very disillusioned frog that thought it was a princess. Kissing, and all the activities that came with it, was so common an occurrence in the Nevernever it was almost expected. Love was never an option, or even an afterthought. While some fey did grow quite attached to each other, even to the point of developing real affection, true love required work, sacrifice, and putting the other person before yourself, something few faeries understood. So while I had done a lot of kissing in my long years as Robin Goodfellow, very little of it meant anything to me. With a couple exceptions, of course. The most notable was the queen we were on our way to see, right now. The princess I'd lost, who had chosen my greatest rival instead of me.

If only he weren’t so infuriating and so solicitous, all at once. One or the other, she knew how to resist, but insolence and charm made a potent brew indeed. The way he’d soothed her concern with rough fingers, even as his words teased. The way he’d guided her with a light touch at the small of her back, kissed her fingers so tenderly…they could have been in an elegant ballroom, preparing to dance a quadrille. By all evidence-his fine attire, cultured accent, proud bearing, the rare flash of politesse-Mr. Grayson was a man who could move in the highest echelons of English society, but delighted in doing just the reverse.

As he stood with his fingers in the iceflower bowls, he heard his mom and Cyra talking. “My son was eager for me to meet you, I could tell,” his mom said. “You must be a good friend.” “Um…yes,” Cyra said. “I think so, yes.” You think so, Akos thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’d given her clear enough labels, back in the stairwell, but she still couldn’t quite believe it. That was the problem with being so convinced of your own awfulness--you thought other people were lying when they didn’t agree with you. “I have heard that you have a talent for death,” his mom said. At least Akos had warned Cyra about Sifa’s lack of charm.

One of its charming miracles is that through its form, poetry can resist the content of authoritarian discourse. By resorting to understatement, concrete and physical language, a poet contends against abstraction, generalization, hyperbole and the heroic language of hot-headed generals and bogus lovers alike.... Poetry remains one of the astonishing forms in our hands to resist obscurantism and silence. And since we cannot wash the polluted words of hatred the same way we wash greasy dishes with soap and hot water, we the poets of the world, continue to write our poems to restore the respect of meaning and to give meaning to our existence.

I know what the problem is.” Curran pulled his shoulders back and flexed, warming up a little. I stole a glance. He had decided to fight in jeans and an old black T-shirt, from which he’d torn the sleeves. Probably his workout shirt. His biceps were carved, the muscle defined and built by countless exertions, neither too bulky nor too lean. Perfect. Kissing him might make me guilty of catastrophically bad judgment, but at least nobody could fault my taste. The trick was not to kiss him again. Once could be an accident; twice was trouble. “You said something?” I arched an eyebrow at him. Nonchalance—best camouflage for drooling. Both the werebison and the swordsman looked ready to charge: the muscles of their legs tense, leaning forward slightly on their toes. They seemed to be terribly sure that we would stay in one place and wait for them. Curran was looking at their legs, too. They must be expecting a distraction from the lamia. She sat cocooned in magic, holding on with both hands as it strained on its leash. “I said, I know why you’re afraid to fight with me.” “And why is that?” If he flexed again, I’d have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes. “You want me.” Oh boy. “You can’t resist my subtle charm, so you’re afraid you’re going to make a spectacle out of yourself.” “You know what? Don’t talk to me.

Talking with Merritt was like slipping into one of those silk-lined borrowed coats from the Challons. Comfortable, luxurious. She was whip-smart, understanding the details, the unsaid words. She had a way of wrapping people in empathy that extended to everyone from the duke down to the young assistant groundskeeper. It was the kind of charm that made people feel wittier, more attractive, more interesting, in her reflected glow. Keir was doing his level best to resist her lure. But he was so drawn to her, so damn besotted. He adored her fancy words... "prevarication"... "resplendent"... her easy smiles... her perfumed wrists and throat. She was like a beautiful gift that begged to be unwrapped. Just being near her made the blood sing in his veins.

If Spence had really wanted to bed Miss Nordstrum, he would have said how she’d been in his mind since the moment he arrived in Reederville. He’d have added that her visits to Amanda after the baby’s birth had given him hope that she might have come in part to see him. And he would have ended by assuring her that when he agreed to go riding with her today it hadn’t been with the intention of kissing her, but her beauty had stolen his senses away and he couldn’t resist her charms. He wouldn’t have fucked her that afternoon, but sometime within a month, he could’ve seduced her into bed. Spence was a master at weaving a spell of words to charm a woman into doing what he wanted. Hadn’t he proven that with Amanda? Amanda, who wouldn’t leave his head, day or night. Amanda, the most colossal mistake of his life.

They know that the rich in democracies always need the poor, and that in democratic times one ties the poor to oneself more by manners than by benefits. The very greatness of the benefits, which brings to light the difference in conditions, causes a secret irritation to those who profit from them; but simplicity of manners has almost irresistible charms: their familiarity carries one away and even their coarseness does not always displease. At first this truth does not penetrate the minds of the rich. They ordinarily resist it as long as the democratic revolution lasts, and they do not accept it immediately even after this revolution is accomplished. They willingly consent to do good for the people, but they want to continue to hold them carefully at a distance. They believe that is enough; they are mistaken.

As he stood with his fingers in the iceflower bowls, he heard his mom and Cyra talking. “My son was eager for me to meet you, I could tell,” his mom said. “You must be a good friend.” “Um…yes,” Cyra said. “I think so, yes.” You think so, Akos thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’d given her clear enough labels, back in the stairwell, but she still couldn’t quite believe it. That was the problem with being so convinced of your own awfulness--you thought other people were lying when they didn’t agree with you. “I have heard that you have a talent for death,” his mom said. At least Akos had warned Cyra about Sifa’s lack of charm. He glanced at Cyra. She held her armored wrist against her gut. “I suppose I do,” she said. “But I don’t have a passion for it.” Vapor slipped from the nose of the water kettle, not yet thick enough for Akos to pour. Water had never boiled so slowly. “You two have spent a lot of time together,” his mom said. “Yes.” “Are you to blame for his survival these past few seasons?” “No,” Cyra said. “Your son survives because of his own will.” His mom smiled. “You should defensive.” “I don’t take credit for other people’s strength,” Cyra said. “Only my own.” His mom’s smile got even bigger. “And a little cocky.” “I’ve been called worse.” The vapor was thick enough. Akos grabbed the hook with the wooden handle that hung next to the stove, and attached it to the kettle. It caught, and locked in place as he poured water in each of the mugs. Isae came forward for one, standing on tiptoe so she could whisper in his ear. “If it hasn’t already, it should be dawning on you right about now that your girl and your mother are very similar people,” she said. “I will pause as that irrefutable fact chills you to the core.” Akos eyed her. “Was that humor, Chancellor?” “On occasion, I have been known to make a humorous remark.

Melanie had the face of a sheltered child who had never known anything but simplicity and kindness, truth and love, a child who had never looked upon harshness or evil and would not recognize them if she saw them. Because she had always been happy, she wanted everyone about her to be happy or, at least, pleased with themselves. To this end, she always saw the best in everyone and remarked kindly upon it. There was no servant so stupid that she did not find some redeeming trait of loyalty and kind heartedness, no girl so ugly and disagreeable that she could not discover grace of form or nobility of character in her, and no man so worthless or so boring that she did not view him in the light of his possibilities rather than his actualities. Because of these qualities that came sincerely and spontaneously from a generous heart, everyone flocked about her, for who can resist the charm of one who discovers in others admirable qualities undreamed of even by himself? She had more girl friends than anyone in town and more men friends too, though she had few beaux for she lacked the willfulness and selfishness that go far toward trapping men's hearts. What Melanie did was no more than all Southern girls were taught to do-to make those about them feel at ease and pleased with themselves. It was this happy feminine conspiracy which made Southern society so pleasant. Women knew that a land where men were contented, uncontradicted and safe in possession of unpunctured vanity was likely to be a very pleasant place for women to live. So, from the cradle to the grave, women strove to make men pleased with themselves, and the satisfied men repaid lavishly with gallantry and adoration. In fact, men willingly gave the ladies everything in the world except credit for having intelligence. Scarlett exercised the same charms as Melanie but with a studied artistry and consummate skill. The difference between the two girls lay in the fact that Melanie spoke kind and flattering words from a desire to make people happy, if only temporarily, and Scarlett never did it except to further her own aims.

She could see what she lacked. It was not beauty; it was not mind. It was something central which permeated; something warm which broke up surfaces and rippled the cold contact of man and woman, or of women together. For that she could dimly perceive. She resented it, had a scruple picked up Heaven knows where, or, as she felt, sent by Nature (who is invariably wise); yet she could not resist sometimes yielding to the charm of a woman, not a girl, of a woman confessing, as to her they often did, some scrape, some folly. And whether it was pity, or their beauty, or that she was older, or some accident—like a faint scent, or a violin next door (so strange is the power of sounds at certain moments), she did undoubtedly then feel what men felt. Only for a moment; but it was enough. It was a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush which one tried to check and then, as it spread, one yielded to its expansion, and rushed to the farthest verge and there quivered and felt the world come closer, swollen with some astonishing significance, some pressure of rapture, which split its thin skin and gushed and poured with an extraordinary alleviation over the cracks and sores! Then,

It is said that the essence of Zen is the absence of all particularities, and that the real power to see consists in the knowledge that one's own heart possesses neither form nor feature. Yet the power to sec, which is capable of properly envisaging the absence of feature, must be exceedingly keen in resisting the charm of formal appearances. How can a person who is unable to see forms or features with selfless keenness so vividly see and apprehend formlessness and featurelessness? Thus the clear form of a person like Tsurukawa who emitted brightness by the mere fact of his existence, of a person who could be reached by both hands and eyes, who could in fact be called life for life's sake, might, now that this person was dead, serve as the clearest possible metaphor to describe unclear formlessness; and his sense of his own existence might become the most real, existent model of formless nihility. It seemed, indeed, as though he himself might now have become nothing more than such a metaphor. For example, the aptness and suitability of the juxtaposition between Tsurukawa and May flowers was precisely the aptness and suitability of those flowers which, as a result of his sudden May death, had been thrown onto his coffin.

As he stood with his fingers in the iceflower bowls, he heard his mom and Cyra talking. “My son was eager for me to meet you, I could tell,” his mom said. “You must be a good friend.” “Um…yes,” Cyra said. “I think so, yes.” You think so, Akos thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’d given her clear enough labels, back in the stairwell, but she still couldn’t quite believe it. That was the problem with being so convinced of your own awfulness--you thought other people were lying when they didn’t agree with you. “I have heard that you have a talent for death,” his mom said. At least Akos had warned Cyra about Sifa’s lack of charm. He glanced at Cyra. She held her armored wrist against her gut. “I suppose I do,” she said. “But I don’t have a passion for it.” Vapor slipped from the nose of the water kettle, not yet thick enough for Akos to pour. Water had never boiled so slowly. “You two have spent a lot of time together,” his mom said. “Yes.” “Are you to blame for his survival these past few seasons?” “No,” Cyra said. “Your son survives because of his own will.” His mom smiled. “You should defensive.” “I don’t take credit for other people’s strength,” Cyra said. “Only my own.” His mom’s smile got even bigger. “And a little cocky.” “I’ve been called worse.

In Amsterdam, I took a room in a small hotel located in the Jordann District and after lunch in a café went for a walk in the western parts of the city. In Flaubert’s Alexandria, the exotic had collected around camels, Arabs peacefully fishing and guttural cries. Modern Amsterdam provided different but analogous examples: buildings with elongated pale-pink bricks stuck together with curiously white mortar, long rows of narrow apartment blocks from the early twentieth century, with large ground-floor windows, bicycles parked outside every house, street furniture displaying a certain demographic scruffiness, an absence of ostentatious buildings, straight streets interspersed with small parks…..In one street lines with uniform apartment buildings, I stopped by a red front door and felt an intense longing to spend the rest of my life there. Above me, on the second floor, I could see an apartment with three large windows and no curtains. The walls were painted white and decorated with a single large painting covered with small blue and red dots. There was an oaken desk against a wall, a large bookshelf and an armchair. I wanted the life that this space implied. I wanted a bicycle; I wanted to put my key in that red front door every evening. Why be seduced by something as small as a front door in another country? Why fall in love with a place because it has trams and its people seldom have curtains in their homes? However absurd the intense reactions provoked by such small (and mute) foreign elements my seem, the pattern is at least familiar from our personal lives. My love for the apartment building was based on what I perceived to be its modesty. The building was comfortable but not grand. It suggested a society attracted to the financial mean. There was an honesty in its design. Whereas front doorways in London are prone to ape the look of classical temples, in Amsterdam they accept their status, avoiding pillars and plaster in favor of neat, undecorated brick. The building was modern in the best sense, speaking of order, cleanliness, and light. In the more fugitive, trivial associations of the word exotic, the charm of a foreign place arises from the simple idea of novelty and change-from finding camels where at home there are horses, for example, or unadorned apartment buildings where at home there are pillared ones. But there may be a more profound pleasure as well: we may value foreign elements not only because they are new but because they seem to accord more faithfully with our identity and commitments than anything our homeland can provide. And so it was with my enthusiasms in Amsterdam, which were connected to my dissatisfactions with my own country, including its lack of modernity and aesthetic simplicity, its resistance to urban life and its net-curtained mentality. What we find exotic abroad may be what we hunger for in vain at home.

Just as I dress and go out to visit the professor and exchange a few more or less insincere compliments with him, without really wanting to at all, so it is with the majority of men day by day and hour by hour in their daily lives and affairs. Without really wanting to at all, they pay calls and carry on conversations, sit out their hours at desks and on office chairs; and it is all compulsory, mechanical and against the grain, and it could all be done or left undone just as well by machines; and indeed it is this never-ceasing machinery that prevents their being, like me, the critics of their own lives and recognizing the stupidity and shallowness, the hopeless tragedy and waste of the lives they lead, and the awful ambiguity grinning over it all. And they are right, right a thousand times to live as they do, playing their games and pursuing their business, instead of resisting the dreary machine and staring into the void as I do, who have left the track. Let no one think that I blame other men, though now and then in these pages I scorn and even deride them, or that I accuse them of the responsibility of my personal misery. But now that I have come so far, and standing as I do on the extreme verge of life where the ground falls away before me into bottomless darkness, I should do wrong and I should lie if I pretended to myself or to others that that machine still revolved for me and that I was still obedient to the eternal child's play of that charming world.

A moment later, her hand comes up, running over his cheek. Her fingers push into his hair, then slip over his nape to his shoulder. He goes very still, afraid that if he moves it will startle her into pulling back. She has never touched him this way, as though things could be easy between them. “You must stop,” she says, he voice little more than a whisper. Her expression is fond. He frowns in puzzlement. Her hand has dipped down to his chest, and even a she speaks, she opens her palm over his heart. He has barely moved. “Stop what?” “Being kind to me. I can’t bear it.” He tenses. She withdraws her hand, letting it fall to the coverlet. The blue stone in the ring he gave her glints up at him. “I’m not…I am not good at pretending. Not like you.” If she is speaking of her coldness toward him, she is fae better than she believes. “We can stop. We can call a truce.” “For now,” she says. “Then today, my lady, speak freely,” he tells her with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “You can deny me tomorrow.” She looks up at him, he lashes falling low. She seems to be half in a dream. “Is it exhausting to be charming all the time? Or is it just the way you’re made?” His grin fades. He thinks of the magic leaching out of him. He can control his charm, sort of. More or less. And he can resist using it. He will. “Have you ever wondered if anyone truly loved you?” she asks in that same fond, unfocused voice. Her words are a kick to the stomach, the more because he can tell she doesn’t mean to be cruel. And because he hadn’t thought of it. He sometimes wondered if gancanagh blood meant Folk liked him a little better than they might have otherwise, but he was too vain to think of it affecting Oriana or his sisters.

Elizabeth’s concern that Ian might insult them, either intentionally or otherwise, soon gave way to admiration and then to helpless amusement as he sat for the next half-hour, charming them all with an occasional lazy smile or interjecting a gallant compliment, while they spent the entire time debating whether to sell the chocolates being donated by Gunther’s for $5 or $6 per box. Despite Ian’s outwardly bland demeanor, Elizabeth waited uneasily for him to say he’d buy the damned cartload of chocolates for $10 apiece, if it would get them on to the next problem, which she knew was what he was dying to say. But she needn’t have worried, for he continued to positively exude pleasant interest. Four times, the committee paused to solicit his advice; four times, he smilingly made excellent suggestions; four times, they ignored what he suggested. And four times, he seemed not to mind in the least or even notice. Making a mental note to thank him profusely for his incredible forbearance, Elizabeth kept her attention on her guests and the discussion, until she inadvertently glanced in his direction, and her breath caught. Seated on the opposite side of the gathering from her, he was now leaning back in his chair, his left ankle propped atop his right knee, and despite his apparent absorption in the topic being discussed, his heavy-lidded gaze was roving meaningfully over her breasts. One look at the smile tugging at his lips and Elizabeth realized that he wanted her to know it. Obviously he’d decided that both she and he were wasting their time with the committee, and he was playing an amusing game designed to either divert her or discomfit her entirely, she wasn’t certain which. Elizabeth drew a deep breath, ready to blast a warning look at him, and his gaze lifted slowly from her gently heaving bosom, traveled lazily up her throat, paused at her lips, and then lifted to her narrowed eyes. Her quelling glance earned her nothing but a slight, challenging lift of his brows and a decidedly sensual smile, before his gaze reversed and began a lazy trip downward again. Lady Wiltshire’s voice rose, and she said for the second time, “Lady Thornton, what do you think?” Elizabeth snapped her gaze from her provoking husband to Lady Wiltshire. “I-I agree,” she said without the slightest idea of what she was agreeing with. For the next five minutes, she resisted the tug of Ian’s caressing gaze, firmly refusing to even glance his way, but when the committee reembarked on the chocolate issue again, she stole a look at him. The moment she did, he captured her gaze, holding it, while he, with an outward appearance of a man in thoughtful contemplation of some weighty problem, absently rubbed his forefinger against his mouth, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair. Elizabeth’s body responded to the caress he was offering her as if his lips were actually on hers, and she drew a long, steadying breath as he deliberately let his eyes slide to her breasts again. He knew exactly what his gaze was doing to her, and Elizabeth was thoroughly irate at her inability to ignore its effect. The committee departed on schedule a half-hour later amid reminders that the next meeting would be held at Lady Wiltshire’s house. Before the door closed behind them, Elizabeth rounded on her grinning, impenitent husband in the drawing room. “You wretch!” she exclaimed. “How could you?” she demanded, but in the midst of her indignant protest, Ian shoved his hands into her hair, turned her face up, and smothered her words with a ravenous kiss. “I haven’t forgiven you,” she warned him in bed an hour later, her cheek against his chest. Laughter, rich and deep, rumbled beneath her ear. “No?” “Absolutely not. I’ll repay you if it’s the last thing I do.” “I think you already have,” he said huskily, deliberately misunderstanding her meaning.

recalled Stephen Crocker, a graduate student on the UCLA team who had driven up with his best friend and colleague, Vint Cerf. So they decided to meet regularly, rotating among their sites. The polite and deferential Crocker, with his big face and bigger smile, had just the right personality to be the coordinator of what became one of the digital age’s archetypical collaborative processes. Unlike Kleinrock, Crocker rarely used the pronoun I; he was more interested in distributing credit than claiming it. His sensitivity toward others gave him an intuitive feel for how to coordinate a group without trying to centralize control or authority, which was well suited to the network model they were trying to invent. Months passed, and the graduate students kept meeting and sharing ideas while they waited for some Powerful Official to descend upon them and give them marching orders. They assumed that at some point the authorities from the East Coast would appear with the rules and regulations and protocols engraved on tablets to be obeyed by the mere managers of the host computer sites. “We were nothing more than a self-appointed bunch of graduate students, and I was convinced that a corps of authority figures or grownups from Washington or Cambridge would descend at any moment and tell us what the rules were,” Crocker recalled. But this was a new age. The network was supposed to be distributed, and so was the authority over it. Its invention and rules would be user-generated. The process would be open. Though it was funded partly to facilitate military command and control, it would do so by being resistant to centralized command and control. The colonels had ceded authority to the hackers and academics. So after an especially fun gathering in Utah in early April 1967, this gaggle of graduate students, having named itself the Network Working Group, decided that it would be useful to write down some of what they had conjured up.95 And Crocker, who with his polite lack of pretense could charm a herd of hackers into consensus, was tapped for the task. He was anxious to find an approach that did not seem presumptuous. “I realized that the mere act of writing down what we were talking about could be seen as a presumption of authority and someone was going to come and yell at us—presumably some adult out of the east.

While he’d previously had the look of a pirate about him that she’d found rather appealing, she now found him to be devastatingly handsome—not simply because he’d been born far too attractive, but because she believed she saw genuine niceness residing in his very soul. When he suddenly lifted a finger to push a damp strand of hair off her cheek, his touch caused any reasonable thoughts she still retained to flee from her mind, and everything surrounding her disappeared except Bram. “You’re very beautiful.” Just like that, the world returned in a flash. “Thank you,” she said before she stepped back from him and felt a sliver of temper—not at him, but at herself—begin flowing through her veins. She’d known he was infatuated with her, as most of her admirers were. And yet, instead of nipping that immediately in the bud, she’d allowed herself to believe he was different, different because his touch sent her pulse racing and his smile turned her knees a little weak, which, in actuality, did make him a touch different, although . . . “Forgive me, Lucetta, but have I done something to upset you?” Lucetta caught Bram’s eye. “To be perfectly honest, I’m more upset with myself.” Bram’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” “I should have addressed the misconceptions I’m certain you’re holding about me straightaway, and yet . . . I’ve let matters fester too long.” “You do recall that we only met a few hours ago, don’t you?” “Indeed, but I’m quite certain you’ve been harboring misconceptions about me from the moment you saw me step foot on stage, which I’m going to assume was a year or two ago.” The furrow deepened. “I’m still not sure what you’re trying to say.” “I’m not a lady who enjoys being told I’m beautiful, nor am I a lady who enjoys being pampered, catered to, or treated as if I’m fragile. I’m also nothing like any of the characters I’ve ever played on stage.” “You’re exactly like the character in The Lady in the Tower,” he argued. “Charming, demure, and delightful.” Resisting a sigh, she moved to a fallen tree lying off the path and took a seat. “I would never be content to remain a prisoner in a tower, waiting for my very own prince charming to rescue me, which is exactly what Serena Seamore, my character, does. I’ve been on my own, Bram, for a very long time, and I’m quite capable, thank you very much, of taking care of myself.” She held up her hand when it looked as if he wanted to argue. “What you need to remember is that I’m an actress. Playing a part is what I do, and I’m successful because I can play parts very, very well. I’ve also been given an unusual face, expressive if you will, and that expressiveness allows me to convince people I’m someone I’m not.” “Your face is lovely, not unusual.” Lucetta waved away his compliment. “I’m not getting through to you, am I.” “Of course you are.” Lucetta drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “I’m afraid I’m not the lady you think you hold in high esteem.” “I don’t think I hold you in high esteem, I know I do.” “Oh . . . dear,” she muttered before she squared her shoulders. “I’m peculiar.” “I highly doubt that.” “Oh,

Spellbinders are characterized by pathological egotism. Such a person is forced by some internal causes to make an early choice between two possibilities: the first is forcing other people to think and experience things in a manner similar to his own; the second is a feeling of being lonely and different, a pathological misfit in social life. Sometimes the choice is either snake-charming or suicide. Triumphant repression of selfcritical or unpleasant concepts from the field of consciousness gradually gives rise to the phenomena of conversive thinking (twisted thinking), or paralogistics (twisted logic), paramoralisms (twisted morality), and the use of reversion blockades (Big Lies). They stream so profusely from the mind and mouth of the spellbinder that they flood the average person’s mind. Everything becomes subordinated to the spellbinder’s over-compensatory conviction that they are exceptional, sometimes even messianic. An ideology emerges from this conviction, true in part, whose value is supposedly superior. However, if we analyze the exact functions of such an ideology in the spellbinder’s personality, we perceive that it is nothing other than a means of self-charming, useful for repressing those tormenting selfcritical associations into the subconscious. The ideology’s instrumental role in influencing other people also serves the spellbinder’s needs. The spellbinder believes that he will always find converts to his ideology, and most often, they are right. However, they feel shock (or even paramoral indignation) when it turns out that their influence extends to only a limited minority, while most people’s attitude to their activities remains critical, pained and disturbed. The spellbinder is thus confronted with a choice: either withdraw back into his void or strengthen his position by improving the ef ectiveness of his activities. The spellbinder places on a high moral plane anyone who has succumbed to his influence and incorporated the experiential method he imposes. He showers such people with attention and property, if possible. Critics are met with “moral” outrage. It can even be proclaimed that the compliant minority is in fact the moral majority, since it professes the best ideology and honors a leader whose qualities are above average. Such activity is always necessarily characterized by the inability to foresee its final results, something obvious from the psychological point of view because its substratum contains pathological phenomena, and both spellbinding and self-charming make it impossible to perceive reality accurately enough to foresee results logically. However, spellbinders nurture great optimism and harbor visions of future triumphs similar to those they enjoyed over their own crippled souls. It is also possible for optimism to be a pathological symptom. In a healthy society, the activities of spellbinders meet with criticism effective enough to stifle them quickly. However, when they are preceded by conditions operating destructively upon common sense and social order; such as social injustice, cultural backwardness, or intellectually limited rulers sometimes manifesting pathological traits, spellbinders’ activities have led entire societies into large-scale human tragedy. Such an individual fishes an environment or society for people amenable to his influence, deepening their psychological weaknesses until they finally join together in a ponerogenic union. On the other hand, people who have maintained their healthy critical faculties intact, based upon their own common sense and moral criteria, attempt to counteract the spellbinders’ activities and their results. In the resulting polarization of social attitudes, each side justifies itself by means of moral categories. That is why such commonsense resistance is always accompanied by some feeling of helplessness and deficiency of criteria.

Originally, I firmly believed that I would never date a woman with bipolar disorder. Having children with such a woman would increase the likelihood of my children having the illness. I didn’t want that for them, so I wrote off bipolar women. Then I met Delilah, and my prejudice got turned upside-down. She suffered just like me, and I couldn’t have imagined, let alone comprehended, how much that would mean to me. I could feel her suffering, and it pressed against me. One by one, my neurons started to light up and fire to each other. When she was manic, I was enamored by her charm, and when she was depressed, I found her more beautiful than ever. She was a magnet, and I was her polar opposite.

A part of me thinks I should just go and leave you alone. But there’s a part of me that’s desperate to know…” “To know what?” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. If she wanted charming, he was sure he could figure out how to live up to it. He’d research it if he needed to. “To know how good we could be.” Olivia blushed as she ate more of her dinner. “I think we know how good we can be,” she muttered. Unable to resist, he ran his knuckle down her check and along her jaw. “I means how good we could be out of bed, Liv. We know how good we are in it.

Berserker A warrior driven by emotion. Particularly anger. Gains bonuses related to critical hits, as well as resistant to many mental status effects such as Charm and Fear. Only class that can access the 'Undying Rage' ultimate, which prevents death for ten seconds upon activation.

How come I'm not married?" He raised his palms as if confessing a crime. "I guess I just haven't found the right person yet. After all, it takes a special woman to appreciate someone like me. I'm handsome, charming, well educated. And who could resist a guy who wears shit-covered boots and sticks their hands up cows' asses all day?

All trembling in my arms Aminta lay, Defending of the bliss I strove to take; Raising my rapture by her kind delay, Her force so charming was and weak. The soft resistance did betray the grant, While I pressed on the heaven of my desires; Her rising breasts with nimbler motions pant; Her dying eyes assume new fires. Now to the height of languishment she grows, And still her looks new charms put on; Now the last mystery of Love she knows, We sigh, and kiss: I waked, and all was done. 'Twas but a dream, yet by my heart I knew, Which still was panting, part of it was true: Oh how I strove the rest to have believed; Ashamed and angry to be undeceived!

He wants us to resist being charmed by the glitter of city lights and the potpourri of neon signs—some of the things the world uses to distract us. In its place, He wants us to seek only Jesus' dazzling light that shines in the deep niches of a believer's heart.

Though rarely acknowledged as such, LBJ is arguably the patriarch of our contemporary environmental movement, as Theodore Roosevelt was of an earlier environmental crusade. LBJ put plenty of laws on the books: Clean Air, Water Quality, and Clean Water Restoration Acts and Amendments, Solid Waste Disposal Act, Motor Vehicle Pollution Control Act, Aircraft Noise Abatement Act, and Highway Beautification Act. The 1968 Wild and Scenic Rivers Act protects more than two hundred rivers in thirty-eight states;19 the 1968 Trail System Act established more than twelve hundred recreation, scenic, and historic trails covering fifty-four thousand miles.20 These laws are critical to the quality of the water we drink and swim in, the air we breathe, and the trails we hike. Even more sweeping than those laws is LBJ’s articulation of the underlying principle for a “new conservation” that inspires both today’s environmentalists and the opponents who resist their efforts: The air we breathe, our water, our soil and wildlife, are being blighted by the poisons and chemicals which are the by-products of technology and industry. . . . The same society which receives the rewards of technology, must, as a cooperating whole, take responsibility for control. To deal with these new problems will require a new conservation. We must not only protect the countryside and save it from destruction, we must restore what has been destroyed and salvage the beauty and charm of our cities.21