Revival Novel Quotes

You see, that’s the thing about a girl, Her kisses leave you breathless Her eyes become your world But it never seems to matter where she stops, lingers or starts She’ll sometimes revive it, sometimes break it, but she will always steal your heart

In one way, at least, our lives really are like movies. The main cast consists of your family and friends. The supporting cast is made up of neighbors, co-workers, teachers, and daily acquaintances. There are also bit players: the supermarket checkout girl with the pretty smile, the friendly bartender at the local watering hole, the guys you work out with at the gym three days a week. And there are thousands of extras --those people who flow through every life like water through a sieve, seen once and never again. The teenager browsing a graphic novel at Barnes & Noble, the one you had to slip past (murmuring "Excuse me") in order to get to the magazines. The woman in the next lane at a stoplight, taking a moment to freshen her lipstick. The mother wiping ice cream off her toddler's face in a roadside restaurant where you stopped for a quick bite. The vendor who sold you a bag of peanuts at a baseball game. But sometimes a person who fits none of these categories comes into your life. This is the joker who pops out of the deck at odd intervals over the years, often during a moment of crisis. In the movies this sort of character is known as the fifth business, or the chase agent. When he turns up in a film, you know he's there because the screenwriter put him there. But who is screenwriting our lives? Fate or coincidence? I want to believe it's the latter. I want that with all my heart and soul.

Paths cross all the time in this world of ours, sometimes in the strangest places- Charles Jacobs

If you walk the night road too often, sooner or later, you'll run into ghosts.

To know ourselves we must live our lives to the bitter end, until the moment we drop into the grave. And even then, there must be someone to gather us up, revive us, and tell of us to ourselves and to others as in a last judgment. It is this that I have done these past years; that I wish I had not done yet will continue to do. Because it is no longer a question of others’ destinies, but of my own. Salvatore Satta The Day of Judgment

Decisions are difficult for many reasons, some reaching down into the very socket of being. John Gardner, in his novel Grendel, tells of a wise man who sums up his meditation on life’s mysteries in two simple but terrible postulates: “Things fade: alternatives exclude.” Of the first postulate, death, I have already spoken. The second, “alternatives exclude,” is an important key to understanding why decision is difficult. Decision invariably involves renunciation: for every yes there must be a no, each decision eliminating or killing other options (the root of the word decide means “slay,” as in homicide or suicide). Thus, Thelma clung to the infinitesimal chance that she might once again revive her relationship with her lover, renunciation of that possibility signifying diminishment and death.

What Kant took to be the necessary schemata of reality,' says a modern Freudian, 'are really only the necessary schemata of repression.' And an experimental psychologist adds that 'a sense of time can only exist where there is submission to reality.' To see everything as out of mere succession is to behave like a man drugged or insane. Literature and history, as we know them, are not like that; they must submit, be repressed. It is characteristic of the stage we are now at, I think, that the question of how far this submission ought to go--or, to put it the other way, how far one may cultivate fictional patterns or paradigms--is one which is debated, under various forms, by existentialist philosophers, by novelists and anti-novelists, by all who condemn the myths of historiography. It is a debate of fundamental interest, I think, and I shall discuss it in my fifth talk. Certainly, it seems, there must, even when we have achieved a modern degree of clerical scepticism, be some submission to the fictive patterns. For one thing, a systematic submission of this kind is almost another way of describing what we call 'form.' 'An inter-connexion of parts all mutually implied'; a duration (rather than a space) organizing the moment in terms of the end, giving meaning to the interval between tick and tock because we humanly do not want it to be an indeterminate interval between the tick of birth and the tock of death. That is a way of speaking in temporal terms of literary form. One thinks again of the Bible: of a beginning and an end (denied by the physicist Aristotle to the world) but humanly acceptable (and allowed by him to plots). Revelation, which epitomizes the Bible, puts our fate into a book, and calls it the book of life, which is the holy city. Revelation answers the command, 'write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter'--'what is past and passing and to come'--and the command to make these things interdependent. Our novels do likewise. Biology and cultural adaptation require it; the End is a fact of life and a fact of the imagination, working out from the middle, the human crisis. As the theologians say, we 'live from the End,' even if the world should be endless. We need ends and kairoi and the pleroma, even now when the history of the world has so terribly and so untidily expanded its endless successiveness. We re-create the horizons we have abolished, the structures that have collapsed; and we do so in terms of the old patterns, adapting them to our new worlds. Ends, for example, become a matter of images, figures for what does not exist except humanly. Our stories must recognize mere successiveness but not be merely successive; Ulysses, for example, may be said to unite the irreducible chronos of Dublin with the irreducible kairoi of Homer. In the middest, we look for a fullness of time, for beginning, middle, and end in concord. For concord or consonance really is the root of the matter, even in a world which thinks it can only be a fiction. The theologians revive typology, and are followed by the literary critics. We seek to repeat the performance of the New Testament, a book which rewrites and requites another book and achieves harmony with it rather than questioning its truth. One of the seminal remarks of modern literary thought was Eliot's observation that in the timeless order of literature this process is continued. Thus we secularize the principle which recurs from the New Testament through Alexandrian allegory and Renaissance Neo-Platonism to our own time. We achieve our secular concords of past and present and future, modifying the past and allowing for the future without falsifying our own moment of crisis. We need, and provide, fictions of concord.

The news from Delhi brings tears to everyone’s eyes. Neither Nadir Shah nor Abdali, neither the Marathas, nor the Jats, nor the Sikhs caused so much havoc as is reported to have been caused by the ill-begotten Ghulam Qadir, the grandson of Najibuddaulah, and his ruffianly gangs of Rohillas. This villain insulted and deposed Shah Alam II before putting out his eyes. May Allah burn his carcass in the fires of gehennum! Only Allah knows how long murder and looting will go on in Delhi! They will have to revive the dead to find victims and bring back some loot to be able to loot again. Delhi is said to have become like a living skeleton. Burnt in flames till every building was reduced to ashes How fair a city was the heart that love put to the fire !

Dear March, most Awaited is your arrival, You are the inspiration for revival!! Winter’s farewell! Spring’s knocking… Tiptoeing Beauty, elegance and new beginnings.. I leave my old behind, embrace myself afresh and new.. To step into a brand novel chapter and year of life’s hue.. Sunflowers turn their course towards sun.. Courage and magic enriches new vigour, initiatives are marked done.. You choose, you pick up the best, happy and grateful.. Why linger on with dented, stale and awful? Your time and journey are solely yours.. Possess and empower them with open hearts and doors… Power, blessings, happiness, Surety, agreements are waiting your hug. Run and welcome them all, whisper aloud- Yes and find luck!! -Dr Radhika Vijay (Originals)

Instead, the battle is joined at the level of pure abstraction. The issue, the newest Right tells us, is freedom itself, not the doings of the subprime lenders or the ways the bond-rating agencies were compromised over the course of the last decade. Details like that may have crashed the economy, but to the renascent Right they are almost completely irrelevant. What matters is a given politician’s disposition toward free markets and, by extension, toward the common people of the land, whose faithful vicar the market is. Now, there is nothing really novel about the idea that free markets are the very essence of freedom. What is new is the glorification of this idea at the precise moment when free-market theory has proven itself to be a philosophy of ruination and fraud. The revival of the Right is as extraordinary as it would be if the public had demanded dozens of new nuclear power plants in the days after the Three Mile Island disaster; if we had reacted to Watergate by making Richard Nixon a national hero.

What do you have in here?” [the Archbishop] asked, pointing to one of the little bottles. “Quinine, Vladika,” answered the father confused. “Preparation against fever… How often must one take it per day and for how many days?” “Three, four times a day, depending on the gravity of the illness. One should take it until the fever breaks down.” “Therefore, in order to get rid of such a disease that, in fact, is a just trifle, one has to take this medicine three or four times a day and pay the doctor a few visits. Do the same with the Great Medicine that our Lord gave us. The Apostles and the first Christians would commune daily, spending their time in love and continuous praying. And we, the haters, the flatterers, always ready to trip someone, come to our Heavenly Doctor once a year and want immediate cure from all diseases, distresses and sufferings inherited from our ancestors; we want nature, which deteriorated over thousands of years, to instantly revive and we want ourselves to become new people. [Chapter IX]

Here and there, a few drops of this freshness were scattered on a human heart, and gave it youth again, and sympathy with the eternal youth of nature. The artist chanced to be one on whom the reviving influence fell. It made him feel — what he sometimes almost forgot, thrust so early as he had been into the rude struggle of man with man — how youthful he still was. “It seems to me,” he observed, “that I never watched the coming of so beautiful an eve, and never felt anything so very much like happiness as at this moment. After all, what a good world we live in! How good, and beautiful! How young it is, too, with nothing really rotten or age-worn in it! This old house, for example, which sometimes has positively oppressed my breath with its smell of decaying timber! And this garden, where the black mould always clings to my spade, as if I were a sexton delving in a graveyard! Could I keep the feeling that now possesses me, the garden would every day be virgin soil, with the earth’s first freshness in the flavor of its beans and squashes; and the house! — it would be like a bower in Eden, blossoming with the earliest roses that God ever made. Moonlight, and the sentiment in man’s heart responsive to it, are the greatest of renovators and reformers. And all other reform and renovation, I suppose, will prove to be no better than moonshine!

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

they were erasing the Yugoslav past, blaming Yugoslavia for every misfortune, including the war, I reviving that past in the form of the everyday minutiae that had made up our lives, operating a volunteer lost-and-found service, if you will.

I was rain, not only to myself, but to Caspian Marks, too. I wasn’t the kind of gloomy rain that was unwanted and unappreciated, though. Not to him. I was the kind that was necessary when you felt shriveled and dry; in need of something to give you energy and strength to lighten and flourish again. The kind that was like a breath of fresh air. The kind of rain that after, created rainbows. The kind of rain that was crucial—absolutely crucial—in romance movies when the most dramatic kiss of the century was cued to happen. I was Caspian Mark’s rain. I gave him energy and I revived him. I gave him air to breathe. My coldness reminded him that life was not always sunny or ideal, but would still be good, anyway. The rain, I suppose I was.

Self-knowledge and self-cultivation he now sees not as a means to something but as the ends and goals of life itself. The insight was new to Emerson—and thus original in that sense—but it was hardly novel, as he knew. He told his hearers that this point of view revived old Stoic maxims and precepts. Emerson made a little sequence of them, beginning with “Know thyself.” If it was also true, as the Stoics claimed, that the good man differs from God in nothing but in duration, then the result was to “know thyself a man and be a God.” That realization leads in turn to the injunction “Revere thyself.

Figure 11.4: Recovery of Extinguished Threats. a. Through extinction, the ability of learned threats to control defense responses is weakened. Successful extinction results in low levels of defensive responses like freezing. However, the original threat memory can be revived, suggesting that extinction is a form of inhibitory learning that suppresses the original threat memory. Recovery can occur due to the mere passage of time (spontaneous recovery), exposure to the context in which the original memory was formed (renewal), or by exposure to the unconditioned stimulus (reinstatement). b. Spontaneous Recovery occurs when there is a long delay between conditioning and extinction; it is less likely to occur with a short delay. c. Renewal occurs in the training context but not in novel context. d. Reinstatement involves the delivery of the unconditioned stimulus (US) after extinction. If the subsequent test occurs in the same context, then freezing is reinstated. FROM QUIRK AND MUELLER (2008), ADAPTED WITH PERMISSION FROM MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS LTD.: NEUROPSYCHOPHARMACOLOGY (VOL. 33, PP. 56–72, © 2008, AND MYERS AND DAVIS (2007), ADAPTED WITH PERMISSION FROM MACMILLAN PUBLISHERS LTD.: MOLECULAR PSYCHIATRY (VOL. 12, PP. 120–50)), © 2007.

It’s not just Africa’s movie and music industry that is booming. African literature, led by the Young Lions, or rather, Lionesses, is seeing a revival, too. I mentioned Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and her TED Talk about Africa’s “Single Story.” But Adichie, 37, is best known for writing, and her novels Half of a Yellow Sun (now a film directed by fellow Nigerian novelist Biyi Bandele) and Americanah, winner of the United States’ prestigious National Book Critics Circle Award in 2013, are international best sellers. Adichie is able to write in an authentic African voice and yet still connect with huge numbers of readers in the West. I have been told about other young African women who are taking the literary world by storm such as Zimbabwean NoViolet Bulawayo, who was long-listed for Britain’s Man Booker Prize, and her countrywoman, international trade lawyer Petina Gappah, a finalist for the United Kingdom’s prestigious Orwell Prize in 2010. These talented women are part of a confident, new, global Africa.

There was nothing churchy about this place. Where was the pulpit, the cross, the other religious accoutrements? This was nothing but a big empty room that didn’t even have chairs. When he thought of a revival, he thought of a brightly lighted place with seats for everybody, probably a PA system for the preacher so people in the back could hear him. When he looked at this place, he thought of a hoedown—except for the candelabra, which reminded him of a medieval castle, something from a Vincent Price movie. He wished he hadn’t thought about Vincent Price.

In sum, part I has shown that administrative law revives prerogative legislation, together with the prerogative of suspending and dispensing with law—thus restoring an extralegal regime of making and unmaking law. And lest it be thought that this is improbable, it should be recalled that some leading advocates of administrative law candidly admitted that their project was to return to prerogative power. John Dickinson, for example, observed that “the question of whether or not the king can issue ordinances parallels our modern question as to whether or not an executive body or officer can establish regulations; and the arguments used pro and con have followed much the same lines.”25 Put more theoretically, administrative lawmaking is not a power exercised through law, but a power outside it. Indeed, as will become more fully apparent in part III, it is a power above the law. But even when considered simply as a power outside the law, this extralegal regime revives what once was considered absolute power. Administrative law thus returns to the very sort of power that constitutions developed in order to prohibit. The prerogative to issue law-like commands was the primary point of contention in the English constitutional struggles of the seventeenth century. In response, the English developed a constitution and Americans enacted a constitution that placed all legislative power in the legislature. It therefore is mistaken to assume that American administrative law is a novel mode of governance, which could not have been anticipated or barred by the U.S. Constitution. On the contrary, administrative power revives extralegal rulemaking, interpretation, dispensing, and suspending, and thus almost the entire regime of extralegal lawmaking once associated with absolute prerogative power. It thereby restores what constitutions barred when they located legislative power in their legislatures.

Now and then I try to revive the old blood with Cheryl the way a miser sticks dead batteries in the radio just to see if a miracle has transpired . . .

Revival: A Novel (Stephen King) - Your Highlight on page 75 | location 1013-1015 | Added on Sunday, 7 December 2014 23:00:46 Religion is the theological equivalent of a quick-buck insurance scam, where you pay in your premium year after year, and then, when you need the benefits you paid for so—pardon the pun—so religiously, you discover the company that took your money does not, in fact, exist.

A novel is an interminable effort. You think until you are weary. You write until you are ready to scream. You stop. You rest. But you have to get back to it. You have to pick up the threads, revive your enthusiasm, recapture the mood.

why people tell stories, and why we listen to the good ones with such rapt attention. Stories revive us, challenge us, startle us, and offer us new ways to reflect upon our world and the moment’s most perplexing questions. All of this, by the way, is every bit as true of the memoir as it is of the novel.

Robbing God. Think of the instances in which you have misspent your time, squandering the hours which God gave you to serve Him and save souls, in vain amusements or foolish conversation, in reading novels or doing nothing; cases where you have misapplied your talents and powers of mind; where you have squandered money on your lusts, or spent it for things which you did not need, and which did not contribute to your health, comfort, or usefulness.

Only two newspapers now on the kiosks, both humbly subservient—one, Le Matin, and the other, oddly enough, La Victoire! It wouldn’t be many days before the Nazis would revive others—the old names but new policies. Already they had taken over the radio stations, and had set up loudspeakers in the public squares, to tell the French what they were going to think for the next thousand years.

When you write, be realistic about the events, simple with the sentences, close to the readers’ feelings with the depth of the details, and narrate them with an abundance of eternal sadness or rampant madness. Ask many questions and leave the answers hidden on the pages. Let the reader think, research, devour your books, and live your imagination. Do not write with perfection, as it is annoying, nor with impoliteness, as this is not literature. Stay away from words that are difficult to pronounce, and look for words that may be turned into a quote that will immortalize your memory. Do not be sad, my friend, if you write and exhaust yourself sincerely in writing your novel and no one buys it. Perhaps it did not find the right reader who would wait for it and revive it again to the world. When the time comes, it will shine.

At this point in our story, I cannot resist lingering for a moment, like a sad and weary wayfarer who has traveled through an arid and wild landscape, and stops to kill a little time lying in the grassy shade of a nice tree near a freshwater spring. Because here we meet a character whose name and memory has the capacity to revive our spirits with peaceful reverence and joyful affection, particularly now, after we have witnessed so much pain and contemplated such manifold and appalling depravity. I absolutely must say a few words about this character, but if any of you would rather not hear them, and instead prefer to continue on with the story, you are welcome to skip to the next chapter.

He thought about doing more reading. It seemed the most comforting activity to do, except for one issue. Unlike a new movie, there was no one to immediately turn and talk to about a book. All books are strays. Books were read at the same time they were unknown at the same time they were revived at the same time they were forgotten. There was no agreed-upon trend of a novel. People found them on their own and all at different stages of life. This was why it was special to have the same favorite authors as a stranger, since both souls were in need of and privately searching for the same thing. A chapter could mean so much. But because Andrei could not share his excitement with anyone without misunderstanding or respectfully feigned interest, he ruled out reading as an activity. And it takes too long to find someone who lived for the same page as you.

Blut und Boden—blood and soil—was the slogan. The ancient German warrier who died in battle was carried off to Valhalla, and that was a glorious death, whereas to die in bed was ignoble and disgraceful. The Führer was reviving all these ancient barbaric emotions, and his marching legions chanted incessantly about blood and iron and war. “Rise up in arms to battle, for to battle we are born!

Brighton Rock certainly raised his profile in the United States, as Viking put a good deal of effort into advance publicity for its new author. The New York Times declared the novel ‘as elegant a nightmare as you will find in a book this season . . . a revival of the Poe manner – modernized with streamlined abnormal psychology and lit by neon’.3 In England, the book was enough of a hit

Sorel's novels deserve to be revived, but Polexander can be left in its watery grave.

When Chapin tested these novel photovoltaics, they converted about five times more solar energy to electricity than the older selenium panels. But they were still terribly inefficient. Chapin estimated the cost of silicon panels that could supply electricity for a typical middle-class home at $1.43 million (about $13 million in today’s dollars). It would be cheaper to cover the entire roof in gold leaf. Daunted by the economics, most researchers gave up on photovoltaics until the oil shocks of the 1970s revived peak-oil fears—and hopes that the sun might be the way to escape them. The numbers seemed so overwhelming, so alluring.

Miss Brooks had a devilish streak of witty sarcasm. Her dialogue was wonderfully “feline,” as critic John Crosby would note: her snappy comeback to the stuffy assertions of her boss, principal Osgood Conklin, bristled with intelligence and fun. She complained about her low pay (and how teachers identified with that!), got her boss in no end of trouble, pursued biologist Philip Boynton to no avail, and became the favorite schoolmarm of her pupils, and of all America. The role was perfect for Eve Arden, a refugee of B movies and the musical comedy stage. Arden was born Eunice Quedens in Mill Valley, Calif., in 1912. In her youth she joined a theatrical touring group and traveled the country in an old Ford. She was cast in Ziegfeld’s Follies revivals in 1934 and 1936, working in the latter with Fanny Brice. She became Eve Arden when producer Lee Shubert suggested a name change: she was reading a novel with a heroine named Eve, and combined this name with the Elizabeth Arden cosmetics on her dressing room table.

If Jucundus will listen to me,” said Aristo, “I could satisfy him that the Christians are actually falling off. They once were numerous in this very place; now there are hardly any. They have been declining for these fifty years; the danger from them is past. Do you want to know how to revive them? Put out an imperial edict, forbid them, denounce them.