Ros Quotes

There are only two emotions: love and fear. All positive emotions come from love, all negative emotions from fear. From love flows happiness, contentment, peace, and joy. From fear comes anger, hate, anxiety and guilt. It's true that there are only two primary emotions, love and fear. But it's more accurate to say that there is only love or fear, for we cannot feel these two emotions together, at exactly the same time. They're opposites. If we're in fear, we are not in a place of love. When we're in a place of love, we cannot be in a place of fear.

GUIL: I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder then a man talking nonsense not to himself. ROS: Or just as mad. GUIL: Or just as mad. ROS: And he does both. GUIL: So there you are. ROS: Stark raving sane.

Ros was dead. He had loved heroin more than it loved him. I was shocked beyond imagining; he was the first of my friends to fall.

ROS: Why don't you go and have a look? GUIL: Pragmatism?! - is that all you have to offer?

GUIL: It [Hamlet's madness] really boils down to symptoms. Pregnant replies, mystic allusions, mistaken identities, arguing his father is his mother, that sort of thing; intimations of suicide, forgoing of exercise, loss of mirth, hints of claustrophobia not to say delusions of imprisonment; invocations of camels, chameleons, capons, whales, weasels, hawks, handsaws -- riddles, quibbles and evasions; amnesia, paranoia, myopia; day-dreaming, hallucinations; stabbing his elders, abusing his parents, insulting his lover, and appearing hatless in public -- knock-kneed, droop-stockinged and sighing like a love-sick schoolboy, which at his age is coming on a bit strong. ROS: And talking to himself. GUIL: And talking to himself.

Cool lips touched hers, and a refreshingly icy breeze swept over her, cooling her more. "Do that again," she mumbled. "Feels nice." She was rewarded by more cooling kisses against her closed eyelids and hot brow. "I'll be fine in a few minutes. I'm stronger than I look." "I know, min ros. I know." Wynter's husky voice whispered in her ear. "Tomorrow, you'll be ready to fight Frost Giants barehanded, but for now, just rest.

Yeterince uzun süre baktığımız şeyden nefret edemeyiz, onu küçük göremeyiz. Günümüzde bütün politik şiddet ve rezalet kimsenin kimseye bakmamasından kaynaklanıyor.

Ali was a lucky, lucky girl having those two big hot men at her disposal. Not that Roslyn wasn't content with her one surly man, but still...two. Some people were enjoying their apocalypse a little too much.

Într-o zi un copil a găsit un măr frumos, rumen, cu coaja netedă. Era convins că este un măr perfect. Când a muşcat însă, în interiorul mărului era un vierme. - Cum ai putut să strici un măr atât de frumos! i-a strigat copilul. Viermele s-a oprit pentru o clipă din ros şi s-a mutat în alt măr. Chiar dacă ar fi înţeles că nu este bine ceea ce face, viermele nu s-ar fi schimbat, ar fi schimbat doar mărul. Când îi spui omului că trebuie să se schimbe, nu o va face. Te va privi cu neîncredere şi îşi va căuta alţi prieteni.

ROS (mournfully): Not even England. I don't believe in it anyway. GUIL: What? ROS: England. GUIL: Just a conspiracy of cartographers, you mean.

When on the eve of glory, whilst brooding over the prospects of a bright and happy future, whilst meditating upon the risky right of justice, there we remain, wanderers on the cloudy surface of mental woe, disappointment and danger, inhabitants of the grim sphere of anticipated imagery, partakers of the poisonous dregs of concocted injustice. Yet such is life.

I am a vicious and unrepentant killer who should be locked up. With him, my idiot boyfriend.

It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you're stuck with me.

La humanitat és una cosa espectacular, tan preparada per estimar sense conviccions, sense complexos.

Holy Moses! Take a look! Flesh decayed in every nook! Some rare bits of brain lie here, Mortal loads of beef and beer.

Hur mycket oftare blir man inte stucken av en ros än bränd av en nässla.

Maybe nobody went to see the Rolling Stones here in 1964,' said Ros. 'The dead shark was just too much fun.

ROS: I want to go home. Which way did we come in? I've lost my sense of direction. GUIL: The only beginning is birth and the only end is death - if you can't count on that, what can you count on?

Do you think she’ll want to later? Rosalind, I mean, not Aunt Claire. I mean, I’m sure Aunt Claire could do football drills if she wanted to, but I’d rather have Ros—I mean…” Tommy had trailed off into an embarrassed silence. Skye

You changed Iggy’s color?” she asked, heading over to his cage, where, sure enough, the tiny imp had yet another new look. His neatly trimmed, gold, sparkly fur was now a much poofier ice blue with tiny crimps. “Huh, I figured he’d be pink and purple,” Sophie admitted, pointing to Ro’s colorful pigtails. Ro tossed her head, swishing her hair in the process. “Uh, no, I’m not sharing my fabulous style with anyone—much less a creature who spent the last hour eating his own toenails. But I thought it was only right to save your imp from being sparkle-fied—and I was going to be nice and turn him your favorite color. But apparently your favorite color is teal—and yeah, yeah, we all know why. But, um, do you realize how many of the nastiest little microbes are in that color?" She shuddered. "I couldn't do that to you—or the little dude. So I went with a nice ice blue. The kind of color you can't help but love. Classic. Reliable—

Lucas motions to Ro’s ears, where the blood is spattering down to his shoulders. “Let’s just get this done before our heads explode.” Ro considers him for a long moment, then hands him Tima’s map.

You changed Iggy’s color?” she asked, heading over to his cage, where, sure enough, the tiny imp had yet another new look. His neatly trimmed, gold, sparkly fur was now a much poofier ice blue with tiny crimps. “Huh, I figured he’d be pink and purple,” Sophie admitted, pointing to Ro’s colorful pigtails. Ro tossed her head, swishing her hair in the process. “Uh, no, I’m not sharing my fabulous style with anyone—much less a creature who spent the last hour eating his own toenails.

It’s… fine. There’s nothing you can do. But it’s nice to be around you. Like I haven’t lost a decade of my life.” And despite being a wreck himself after tonight’s events, Ros still flashed Shane a little smile and winked. “If it helps, I was eleven ten years ago, so we wouldn’t have been a match.

Iggy’s fur and Ro’s hair were now deep shades of purple, blue, and gray, with each color fading into the next in an ombré effect. It reminded Sophie of the night sky, right before the stars appear—and it was definitely an improvement from the weird mermaid-tiger thing Iggy had going on before. But… Keefe’s final gift was gone. Just like him.

Have you ever visited that portion of Erin's plot that offers its sympathetic soil for the minute survey and scrutinous examination of those in political power, whose decision has wisely been the means before now of converting the stern and prejudiced, and reaching the hand of slight aid to share its strength in augmenting its agricultural richness?

I bet if cancer of the penis was more prevalent there’d be a cure for this fucker. I bet if dicks were being amputated or dropping off left, right and centre there’d have been a cure decades ago. There’d be a whole fucking government dick department dedicated to it.

No matter how big the challenge, you can really only do the next little bit of it.

I imagine sometimes I am a young Human child, just learning to write. Do they feel that they have acquired a sort of magic?

ROS My name is Guildenstern, and this is Rosencrantz. Guil confers briefly with him. (Without embarrassment.) I’m sorry—his name’s Guildenstern, and I’m Rosencrantz.

Quentin flicked a quick glance back at her again. Poppy. This girl had the wrong name. She should have been Rose. Great face, lots of prickles.

One day you will realise that you don’t belong here, Ros. Even though we, and generations before us, were born and raised in Africa, we can never call ourselves Africans.

GUIL (hevesen megragadja) MIT GONDOLSZ, KI VAGY TE? ROS Szónoki kérdés. Gém, meccs!

Scarlett lived by the (thankfully) ancient medical creed: If it tastes awful and smells worse, it’s probably good for you. Julia wasn’t so sure about that. She lived by the edict: If it tastes awful and smells worse, leave it the hell alone. On the other hand, if it tasted good and smelled better, you either ate it, squirted it on your neck or fucked it. It hadn’t led her wrong so far.

He kissed her then. Not tentative. Not polite. This was no first-kiss kiss. It was demanding. Dirty. And it went on and on. Deep, open-mouthed, head-twisting, tongue-fucking, rock’n’roll kissing.

The most significant trust-related challenge for people with autism is trusting other people. Most of us are neurologically hardwired with the ability to predict the behavior of others—to read body language intuitively and make subconscious judgments based on how relaxed a person’s body is, on how a person looks at other people, or by the social context. But that is often more difficult for people with autism. Ros Blackburn explains that she lives every day trying to understand people’s intentions when they approach her. “Because I find it so difficult to predict the behavior of other people,” Ros explains, “what they do often comes across as very sudden and threatening to me.

Dagen svalnar. Dagen svalnar mot kvällen... Drick värmen ur min hand, min hand har samma blod som våren. Tag min hand, tag min vita arm, tag mina smala axlars längtan... Det vore underligt att känna, en enda natt, en natt som denna, ditt tunga huvud mot mitt bröst. Du kastade din kärleks röda ros i mitt vita sköte - jag håller fast i mina heta händer din kärleks röda ros som vissnar snart... O du härskare med kalla ögon, jag tar emot den krona du räcker mig, som böjer ned mitt huvud mot mitt hjärta... Jag såg min herre för första gången i dag, darrande kände jag genast igen honom. Nu känner jag ren hans tunga hand på min lätta arm... Var är mitt klingande jungfruskratt, min kvinnofrihet med högburet huvud? Nu känner jag ren hans fasta grepp om min skälvande kropp, nu hör jag verklighetens hårda klang mot mina sköra sköra drömmar. Du sökte en blomma och fann en frukt. Du sökte en källa och fann ett hav. Du sökte en kvinna och fann en själ - du är besviken.

engaged in nothing more than watching the sky move. I imagine it is the hand of a Human painter moving across it, perfecting the colors and the shapes endlessly. I think this feeling is what Humans in history have attributed to God. A misprocessing, but from here on my bed, an understandable,

Любовта вероятно е най-сериозната от всички илюзии, болест, която ни сграбчва отвътре, но не можем да се лишим от нея. Докато вървях, се чудех дали има заместител на човешката любов. Дали човек може да усети същата радост, разгръщайки се напълно в обичта към литературата, музиката или поезията? Дали човек може да пламти в същия огън? Можеше ли да не е във вечно очакване? Представях си как единствено сътворението може да носи такава радост.

Människorna där du bor”, sa den lilla prinsen,”odlar femtusen rosor i samma trädgård - men de hittar ändå inte vad de söker.” ”De hittar det inte”, upprepade jag. ”Och ändå hade de kunnat hitta det i en enkel ros eller lite vatten.” ”Ja, det är sant”, svarade jag. Och den lille prinsen sa: ”Men ögonen är blinda, man måste leta med hjärtat...

If you can’t accept a person’s flaws, don’t get into a relationship with him/her. Love is unconditional and relationships are not about changing/fixing someone to fit your mold.

How hard it must be, to be a Born woman,” Mais.ie says philosophically. “Imagine playing a game where the main rule was that you had to lose every time.

It is an all-too-Human failing,” Cook.ie went on, “to wish to improve the object of desire, then to shrink from the creature one creates.

To be Human, seems to me, is to be in pain all the time, and to believe that the pain has been put into you by someone else. Yes, Humans seem to me now more programmed than I am.

The typewriter paradox,” Cook.ie says, smiling. “How much of a machine can be replaced before it’s no longer the same machine?

People don't get married just to have sex with each other. Not in the last 100 years or so. Even in England.

Touching without looking had been incredibly arousing. Looking without touching was unreasonable torture.

Interestingly one aspect of a designed tool is that it will inevitably be used in ways which were not anticipated by the designer.

We will discover nothing if we bind ourselves to accepted wisdoms. Questioning is necessary for discovery.

Облякох си светли дрехи, за да прикрия по-сполучливо черната си душа.

Quentin wasn’t stupid, despite living what his father called ‘a lifestyle unworthy of yourself’.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a sure-fire way to impress this girl, who was as cute as hell but wound tighter than one of his father’s antique clocks.

As an ex-footballer, sometimes surfer and wannabe rock star, Quentin had been fucked by cheerleaders, surfer girls and groupies, but he had never, ever been fucked like that.

I was struggling to reconcile my scientific research about canine cognition with a set of ideas about the reasons for dogs’ success in human society, which had become widely accepted by the time Ros, Sam, and I brought Xephos home in 2012. These ideas purportedly explained the underpinnings of relationships like the one we were now embarking on with this furry little member of the family.

Speak! Irene! Wife! Woman! Do not sit in silence and allow the blood that now boils in my veins to ooze through cavities of unrestrained passion and trickle down to drench me with its crimson hue!

GUIL And a syllogism: One, he has never known anything like it. Two, he has never known anything to write home about. Three, it is nothing to write home about. . . . Home . . . What’s the first thing you remember? ROS Oh, let’s see . . . The first thing that comes into my head, you mean? GUIL No—the first thing you remember. ROS Ah. (Pause.) No, it’s no good, it’s gone. It was a long time ago.

GULL (musing) : The law of probability, it has been oddly asserted, is something to do with the proposition that if six monkeys (he has surprised himself) ... if six monkeys were .. . ROS: Game? GULL: Were they? ROS: Are you? GULL (understanding): Game. (Flips a coin.) The law of averages, if I have got this right, means that if six monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as they would land on their

Oh I bet you’re sweet as under all that posh.’ And he looked at her in a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn’t talking about the way she might move on the dance floor. If he mentioned honey pots she was going to pour her vodka shot over him. ‘You’ll never know,

Birkaç hafta, birkaç ay mutlu olmak neden mümkün olmasın?... belki de daha fazlası... Her şey sınırı fazla zorlamamaya bağlı ve bu sabah her şeye erişebilirim gibi geliyor bana. Buna neredeyse eminim. En koyu karamsarlıktan umuda nasıl geçildiğini görmek ilginç." Sayfa 99

[Harriet Tubman] also looked out for other African-Americans in town, opening the first home in the country for elderly and indigent blacks. When Dorothy and Ros were small, the elderly Tubman rode a bicycle up and down South Street, stopping to ask for food donations. If she had specific needs, she sat on the back porch and waited for the lady of the house, with whom she would chat and ask for bedding or clothing for her residents. One of Ros's nieces said, "Mother had coffee with Harriet and would always leave a ham or turkey for her for the holiday.

And about Ro’s bizarre reaction to Bo—which they still hadn’t gotten the details on. Keefe had tried everything he could think of to pry the secret out of her. He’d even been tormenting her with an epic poem he’d written—The Ballad of Bo and Ro. But the princess still hadn’t cracked.

How should words presume themselves as bandages and slings when the world limps onward, and you've darkened it? And words be damned, for if we're 'gentle men' then what hope does the world have? Words are lost. They've plucked their eyes out rather than see this, have jumped from clifftops.

She’d never met someone so young who was so damn cocky. Most twenty-year-old guys she knew were either gauche or monosyllabic in her presence, but not Spike. There was a directness, a confidence in his inky-blue eyes that a lot of men never mastered. Cleary Spike was getting laid far too easily.

Yeah, because Dex never feels left out.” “Okay, but Dex is… sensitive.” “You were going to say ‘pouty,’ weren’t you?” Ro asked. “Hey, don’t dis the Dexinator!” Keefe told her. “He’s my hero. Master elixir maker, ultimate gadget manipulator, and he scored a Foster kiss before Fitzy.” Ro’s eyes widened. “He did?

- Ja se osećam krivim zato što je neko bolestan. Ravik je ostao na stepenicama da stoji. - Ta niste valjda i vi već načeti? - Zar to nije svako? On se smeškao. - To zavisi od stepena promene. Oni koji najbolje umeju da potiskuju, ti su najugroženiji. Ko sve ispljune, nema čega mnogo da se plaši. - To ću da zapamtim - rekao sam. - Šta je s Beti? -Moramo je otvoriti. Pre toga se ne može mnogo reći. - Jeste li svršili sa svim ispitivanjima? - Da. - Hoćete li vi operisati Beti? - Da. - Do viđenja, Ravik. - Ja se sada zovem Rezenburg. Moje stvarno ime. - A ja još uvek Ros. Ne moje stvarno ime. On se smejao i brzo otišao.

Ro’s grin was equal parts gleeful and vicious. “How about if I’m right, I get to shave your head?” “Keefe,” Sophie warned. He smirked. “Okay. And if Foster knocks the vial back at you, you have to get a tattoo that says Sparkles Rule! It can be tiny. But it has to be somewhere we can see it.” “GUYS!” Sophie shouted as they both said, “Deal!

Жените не са като мъжете, те могат да обичат всяка форма. По-малко са склонни към отвращение. Привличането за тях започва от вътрешното и когато същността на един мъж ги трогне, формата става вторична и дори, така е при мен, формата ти може да бъде израз на твоята вътрешна красота. За мъжете е по-тежко,. Те все боят. Красотата толкова ги успокоява, че липсата на вътрешна същност не ги отблъсква.

Îmi imaginez întregul cosmos alcătuit din suspensii eteroclite. O portocală s-ar întâlni cu o ecuaţie, un copac cu un fluture, un rinocer cu o dansatoare de flamenco, iar eu, de fapt quarcurile mele care dansează, risipite, m-aş bucura de aceste întâlniri întâmplătoare. Fără gravitaţia corpurilor nu există oboseală. Articulaţiile ar rămâne suple. Am vedea venerabili bătrâni îndrăgostindu-se de un fetus care ar oscila nehotărât, încă androgin. Posibilităţile întâlnirilor s-ar înmulţi la infinit. Totul ar putea fi pus în ecuaţie. Aş putea scrie o lucrare care ar lua în derâdere principiile sociale, politice şi relaţionale cele mai elementare: "Plutirea corpurilor". Aventura, adevărata aventură! Orice problemă psihologică ar fi pusă sub semnul întrebării. Monstruosul egocentrism ar exploda. Însăşi imposibilitatea de a stabili o relaţie mai lungă de o miime de secundă ar face orice legătură la fel de uşoară ca fulgul de albatros. Fiinţele ar afla în sfârşit că nu există singurătate, datorie, destin, trecut şi viitor. O suspensie de sentimente şi de dorinţe, sexele s-ar bucura să fie mereu înconjurate de spaţiu. Filosofii s-ar exprima cu simplitate, ceea ce nu este specialitatea lor. Ah! Acea simplitate pe care puţini o cunosc, atât filosofii cât şi ceilalţi, şi la care eu aspir! Ar fi într-un fel Edenul matematic. Iată cu ce îmi petrec timpul. Acest gen de visare mă încântă la culme. Mi se întâmplă să-mi petrec şapte sau opt ore pe terasa mea, orientată spre sud, cu vederea care dă spre portul din Genova, fără să fac vreo mişcare, în afară de acel du-te-vino al braţului în direcţia unei sticle de coniac.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand they’ve gone into full Fitzphie eye-staring mode—so that’s our cue!” Keefe announced, fumbling for his home crystal. He hooked his arm around Ro’s, but she locked her knees. “Nope, I have one more question for Pretty Boy, first.” Sophie and Keefe groaned. Fitz crossed his arms and tilted his chin up. “Okay, hit me with it.” Ro flashed all of her pointed teeth. “If Sophie can’t find out who her genetic parents are, does that change anything for you?” He frowned. “Why wouldn’t she be able to?” “Doesn’t matter,” Ro told him. “Just answer the question.” “But… the question makes no sense!” Fitz argued. “It’s not like the information doesn’t exist. If we needed to, we could pull it right out of Forkle’s brain.” He glanced at Sophie. “Wait—should we just do that?” “It’s plan Z,” Keefe told him.

As promised, I hope this painting finds you well. Such a beautiful picture deserves an equally beautiful frame, and while I cannot claim to be perfect, I tried my best to craft something deserving of the honor. I found this wood from a felled tree in the grove, where we so often met, and where I fell utterly and entirely in love with you. Please do not feel sorry for me. I am happy to have known you at all. Happy to have helped you in some small way in your journey. You certainly inspired me in mine. And so, I wanted to thank you, dearest Ros, you brilliant, beautiful girl, for being true to who you are. What a list you created! I can only imagine what more you will do and see and become. I do wish I could have withheld my affection only if it meant that you and I could maintain a comfortable friendship.

Okay, so you have two choices,” he told her. “You can tell me what brought on the Foster Funk. Or I can guess—and I have some pretty interesting theories.” “So do I,” Ro added, snatching the box of Prattles away from Keefe and pouring half the candy into her mouth at once. “Three seconds to decide,” Keefe warned. “Then it’s guessing time!” “It’s not a big deal,” Sophie told him over the sound of Ro’s crunching.

Poppy Devine did not deserve cancer. Poppy was sweet and industrious and careful and measured and always, always did the right thing. If anyone deserved cancer it was Julia. Julia was loud and opinionated and disagreeable. Rude, some might even say. She went out with bad men, took unnecessary risks, pushed people to their limits, swore like a sailor and flipped the bird more than any female in the history of the world. It should be her number coming up in the cancer lottery.

Look,’ she said, sidling a little closer to him in the lift. ‘I understand this wasn’t what you bargained for when some cute girl at the café dared you to jump out of a plane with her. You were in it for thrills and sex and you got breast-cancer girl, her terrifying friend and her flaky mother. That’s above and beyond. And I totally get you’re here because you’d feel like some louse if you left her now, but it’s okay, she’s going to be fine, I’m going to take good care of her.

I’ll let that go,” Ro told him, “if you tell me what it was like in my father’s head.” Fitz let out a relieved breath. “Fluffy.” “Like sinking into a giant marshmallow covered in feathers,” Sophie agreed. Ro choked on her laugh. “Okay, I need to figure out how to blackmail him with that.” “Maybe you can get him to reassign Bo,” Sophie suggested. “Yeah, that’s never going to happen. Once my father gets an idea in his head, he can’t let it go.” “What kind of idea?” Keefe asked. “The kind that involves smooching and weddings and little baby prince and princess BoRos?” “Dude, she is seriously going to stab you,” Fitz warned. “No, I’m thinking I’ll tunnel us deep underground and leave him in a dark little hole for a few days,” Ro corrected. “Just him and some of my favorite bacteria.” “Sounds like the perfect place to add more verses to The Ballad of Bo and Ro,” Keefe noted. “He really doesn’t know when to quit, does he?” Ro asked Sophie. “I’m pretty sure it’s a disease,” Fitz told her. “Coping mechanism,” Keefe argued.

Julia had been angry most of her life. She may have grown up in wealth and privilege but she’d had to fight to be heard and seen. To be validated. To be something other than a piece to be moved around her parents’ Monopoly board. Rage had given her a voice against their manipulations and the guts to walk away. But it had also become ingrained. There were times when she’d contemplated therapy for it. Right now, she was pleased she hadn’t. If anything could kill this cancer it would be the weight of Julia’s wrath.

We’ll make a wellness altar, I think … have some incense burn¬ing, fresh flowers every day and string some lights around it …’ Poppy rolled her head to the side. ‘Still think it’s a good idea?’ Julia blanched at the tackiness of a wellness altar with fairy lights and a water feature, but what the hell, she already had a three-metre girly snake ruining the ambience. ‘Sure,’ she said. If it made Scarlett happy. Poppy laughed. ‘I’m going to remind you of this conversation when your apartment looks like a Chinese brothel.

VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS ASSAULT ON ANOTHER PRODIGY According to numerous reports, Ro stomped on Shayda Adel’s foot to punish Shayda for attempting to trip her. 10 out of 10 Apology required. Technically, Mr. Sencen wasn’t involved in this incident. But since his bodyguard was, it’s going in his file. And for the record, I completely understand Ro’s behavior. But I can’t condone harming another prodigy. I’ve ordered Ro to apologize during orientation. —Magnate Leto LEVEL SIX VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS Update: In an effort to contain the story of the Neverseen’s recent brutal attack on Mr. Vacker and Miss Foster, I’ve asked Mr. Sencen to spread the rumor that Miss Foster and Mr. Vacker are away on a mysterious assignment. Elwin also reports having to repeatedly chase Mr. Sencen away from the Healing Center. —Magnate Leto Second Update: At Ms. Ruewen’s request, I’ve given Mr. Sencen permission to visit Miss Foster in the Healing Center. (Apparently Miss Foster’s morale needs a boost.) Keefe may have untraditional methods, but he does ease Miss Foster’s worries and generally improves her mood. —Magnate Leto

If you go,” Sophie jumped in before she had to suffer through another round of the ogres-versus-goblins debate, “I’m sure Keefe will make you listen to more of The Ballad of Bo and Ro.” Bo’s lips curled back, revealing his pointed teeth. His relationship with Keefe’s ogre-princess bodyguard was equal parts tumultuous and complicated, a fact that Keefe never missed an opportunity to torment the two of them about—generally in the form of an epic poem that kept getting mushier with each new stanza. And Sophie couldn’t blame Keefe for the teasing. Not only did Bo’s and Ro’s names rhyme, but it turned out that they were also secretly married,

The aim is to get the students actively involved in seeking this evidence: their role is not simply to do tasks as decided by teachers, but to actively manage and understand their learning gains. This includes evaluating their own progress, being more responsible for their learning, and being involved with peers in learning together about gains in learning. If students are to become active evaluators of their own progress, teachers must provide the students with appropriate feedback so that they can engage in this task. Van den Bergh, Ros, and Beijaard (2010: 3) describe the task thus: Fostering active learning seems a very challenging and demanding task for teachers, requiring knowledge of students’ learning processes, skills in providing guidance and feedback and classroom management. The need is to engage students in this same challenging and demanding task. The suggestion in this chapter is to start lessons with helping students to understand the intention of the lesson and showing them what success might look like at the end. Many times, teachers look for the interesting beginning to a lesson – for the hook, and the motivating question. Dan Willingham (2009) has provided an excellent argument for not thinking in this way. He advocates starting with what the student is likely to think about. Interesting hooks, demonstrations, fascinating facts, and likewise may seem to be captivating (and often are), but he suggests that there are likely to be other parts of the lesson that are more suitable for the attention-grabber. The place for the attention-grabber is more likely to be at the end of the lesson, because this will help to consolidate what has been learnt. Most importantly,Willingham asks teachers to think long and hard about how to make the connection between the attention-grabber and the point that it is designed to make; preferably, that point will be the main idea from the lesson. Having too many open-ended activities (discovery learning, searching the Internet, preparing PowerPoint presentations) can make it difficult to direct students’ attention to that which matters – because they often love to explore the details, the irrelevancies, and the unimportant while doing these activities. One of Willingham's principles is that any teaching method is most useful when there is plenty of prompt feedback about whether the student is thinking about a problem in the right way. Similarly, he promotes the notion that assignments should be primarily about what the teacher wants the students to think about (not about demonstrating ‘what they know’). Students are very good at ignoring what you say (‘I value connections, deep ideas, your thoughts’) and seeing what you value (corrections to the grammar, comments on referencing, correctness or absence of facts). Thus teachers must develop a scoring rubric for any assignment before they complete the question or prompts, and show the rubric to the students so that they know what the teacher values. Such formative feedback can reinforce the ‘big ideas’ and the important understandings, and help to make the investment of

Why this girl? Why had this girl crawled right under his skin and made an uncomfortable home there? Why did he want to make things good for her, to see her smile, to make her face and her voice make all those interesting shapes and noises? Why did he want to stay up late with her when he knew she should be sleeping, just to hear her talk about maths and politics and the state of the world? This was not Quentin. Quentin did not like skinny girls. He didn’t like serious girls. And he really hated bossy girls. Quentin loved curvy, fun, uncomplicated girls; girls who laughed at his jokes and took off their bras when they danced on tables. If they wore bras at all. Yet here he was, washing up and mopping and feeling like five kinds of an arsehole over hurting the feelings of some skinny, serious, bossy girl.

He reached for her other hand. “Speaking of helping—hear me out on this, okay? I know you and Keefe have a plan—and I’m not saying it’s a bad one. But I really think I should be the one to go with you when you confront Bronte.” Ro sniffed. “Of course you do.” “Um, reading his thoughts will be way clearer than trying to translate his emotions,” Fitz argued, “and this is the kind of thing we need to be absolutely certain about.” “It is,” Sophie agreed. “But… I’ve been in Bronte’s head. It’s really not a great place for a Telepath.” “But you went in alone,” Fitz reminded her. “Now we’d be taking him on together.” Ro clapped her hands, jumping up and down. “Oh! Oh! This is the part where he’s going to remind you that you’re Cognates!” “Well, we are!” Fitz snapped back, looking like he’d had about all he could stand of Ro’s interruptions. Sophie was equally done with them.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand this is why we’re going to be stuck here for hours,” Ro whined. “Nah, I’m sure the Council already made their decision,” Keefe told her. “They’re just putting on a good show for the Vackers.” “Wanna bet?” Ro’s grin looked dangerous when she added, “I say we’ll be here until sunset—and if I’m right, you have to wear ogre armor to school, instead of your uniform.” Keefe smirked. “No big deal. I would rock that metal diaper. But I say that this hearing will be done in an hour—and if I’m right, you have to call me Lord Hunkyhair from now on.” Sophie shook her head. “You guys are terrible.” “That’s why you love us!” Keefe draped his arm around her shoulders. “You should get in on this, Foster. I’m sure that devious mind of yours can come up with some particularly humiliating ways to punish us if we’re wrong.” She probably could. But no way was she risking having to wear a metal breastplate to Foxfire. Ro’s looked like a medieval corset paired with spiked metal bikini bottoms. “Hard pass,” she told him.

You know what Dex has everyone calling me now?” she asked. “I’m sure you’d be proud of him.” “The Mysterious Lady F?” Ro guessed. “Ugh, I wish. Nope, it’s… Lady Fos-Boss.” The confession was almost worth it when Keefe couldn’t help giving her a quick smirk. “I knew I liked that boy,” Ro announced. “In fact, I even tried out one of his little tricks—see?” She pointed to Sophie’s desk, and it took Sophie a second to figure out what she meant. “You changed Iggy’s color?” she asked, heading over to his cage, where, sure enough, the tiny imp had yet another new look. His neatly trimmed, gold, sparkly fur was now a much poofier ice blue with tiny crimps. “Huh, I figured he’d be pink and purple,” Sophie admitted, pointing to Ro’s colorful pigtails. Ro tossed her head, swishing her hair in the process. “Uh, no, I’m not sharing my fabulous style with anyone—much less a creature who spent the last hour eating his own toenails. But I thought it was only right to save your imp from being sparkle-fied—and I was going to be nice and turn him your favorite color. But apparently your favorite color is teal—and yeah, yeah, we all know why. But, um, do you realize how many of the nastiest little microbes are that color?” She shuddered. “I couldn’t do that to you—or the little dude. So I went with a nice ice blue. The kind of color you can’t help but love. Classic. Reliable—

The last name made Ro unleash an impressive string of ogre curses. “I take it that means you know the guy?” Keefe asked. Sophie could see every one of Ro’s pointed teeth when she said, “I do.” “And?” Keefe pressed. “It’s none of your business,” Ro snapped back. “Pretty sure it is, since Foster’s supposed to trust him with her life,” Keefe argued. Ro muttered a few more creative words under her breath. “Bo’s a loyal Mercadir. That’s not the issue.” “You call him Bo?” Keefe noted as Sophie asked, “Then what’s the issue?” Ro ignored both of them. “Stay here,” she told Keefe, “and don’t even think about leaving until I return.” “Where are you going?” Elwin called as she headed for the exit. “To throttle my father.” The door slammed hard enough to shake the walls, and Sophie, Keefe, and Elwin all shared a look. “Yeah . . . we definitely need to get the story on Bo and Ro,” Keefe decided. Sophie nodded. “Do you think they dated?” “Ohhhhhhhh, now I do! And I’ve been trying to get dirt like that on Ro since she got here!” He cracked his knuckles. “Okay, this is going to call for some epic-level snooping—and if that doesn’t work, I guess I know what my next bet will be!” “No more betting,” Elwin warned. “At least not on my watch. And today’s lesson better be chaos-free or I’m nixing these little sessions.” “Aw, we can’t have that. Foster would miss me too much. Who knew the way to her heart was my mad teaching skills?

They’ll also have an extensive amount of makeup work to tackle during the midterm break—and no, that option is not available to you, so don’t ask and don’t test my patience. I can become very creative with my punishments if you force me to.” “See, but now you’ve got me curious,” Keefe told him. “Uh-uh,” Ro jumped in. “I have to suffer through this stuff with you.” “You do,” Magnate Leto agreed. “And I found an entire room filled with recordings of speeches from the Ancient Councillors that I think you’ll find particularly enjoyable.” Ro grabbed Keefe’s arm and hauled him toward the door. “We’re going to your session, and you’re acing that test and taking lots of notes or I will hang a banner in the middle of this campus—and we both know what I will have that banner say!” “Bo and Ro 4 Eva?” Keefe guessed, because he clearly had a death wish. “That’s it!” Ro picked him up, hefting him over her shoulder and trudging toward the door. “We’ll be back after study hall.” “You’ll be back tomorrow,” Magnate Leto corrected. “Lord Cassius is expecting you both to be home immediately after school—and I wouldn’t recommend disobeying.” “Why not?” Sophie asked. “He was in . . . a mood.” “Goody! Raise your hand if you’re jealous of my life!” Keefe said, twisting in Ro’s grasp to survey the room. “No takers?” “Don’t worry,” Ro told him, patting his back as she carried him into the hall. “I’ll sneak your dad some amoebas tonight.

Tonight would’ve been . . . pretty rough if you hadn’t stopped by.” “I know,” he told her. “For me too.” “Awwwwwww, you guys are SO adorable,” Ro jumped in. “You want to talk about adorable,” Keefe snapped back. “I wrote another verse in The Ballad of Bo and Ro—and just think! Tomorrow, Foster finally gets to meet your long-lost love!” “Do not share that verse,” Ro warned, pretty much guaranteeing that Keefe would be chanting it to her for the rest of the night. But first she told Sophie, “Don’t tell him anything about me.” “Why not?” Sophie had to ask. “Because he doesn’t deserve to know.” Keefe leaned closer to Sophie, stage-whispering. “You realize it’s now your job to pester Bo for all the details Ro’s trying to hide from us.” Ro smirked. “Try it—Bo won’t tell you a thing.” “Wanna bet?” Keefe countered. “Bad idea,” Sophie told him. “You’ve won twice now—that means you’re pretty much guaranteed to lose. Especially since this bet relies on me again.” He grinned. “Exactly, Foster. You’re always the safe bet.” “Not this time,” Ro told him. “We doing this, then?” Keefe asked her. Ro folded her arms. “Fine. If I win, I get one guaranteed dare. I can tell you to do anything I want, and you have to do it.” Keefe raised one eyebrow. “Deal—but only if I get the same thing if I win.” Ro leaned into his face, flashing a deadly smile. “It’s on.” Sophie sighed, laying on the sarcasm nice and thick when she mumbled, “This can only end well.

You know,” I said, “you don’t owe New Fiddleham anything. You don’t need to help them.” “Look,” Charlie said as we clipped past Market Street. He was pointing at a man delicately painting enormous letters onto a broad window as we passed. NONNA SANTORO’S, it read, although the RO’S was still just an outline. “That Italian restaurant?” “Yes,” he smiled. “They will be opening their doors for the first time very soon. Sweet family. I bought my first meal in New Fiddleham from that man. A couple of meatballs from a street cart were about all I could afford at the time. He’s an immigrant, too. He’s going to do well. His red sauce is amazing.” “That’s grand for him, then,” I said. “I like it when doors open,” said Charlie. “Doors are opening in New Fiddleham every day. It is a remarkable time to be alive anywhere, really. Do you think our parents could ever have imagined having machines that could wash dishes, machines that could sew, machines that do laundry? Pretty soon we’ll be taking this trolley ride without any horses. I’ve heard that Glanville has electric streetcars already. Who knows what will be possible fifty years from now, or a hundred. Change isn’t always so bad.” “Your optimism is both baffling and inspiring,” I said. “The sun is rising,” he replied with a little chuckle. I glanced at the sky. It was well past noon. “It’s just something my sister and I used to say,” he clarified. “I think you would like Alina. You often remind me of her. She has a way of refusing to let the world keep her down.” He smiled and his gaze drifted away, following the memory. “Alina found a rolled-up canvas once,” he said, “a year or so after our mother passed away. It was an oil painting—a picture of the sun hanging low over a rippling ocean. She was a beautiful painter, our mother. I could tell that it was one of hers, but I had never seen it before. It felt like a message, like she had sent it, just for us to find. “I said that it was a beautiful sunset, and Alina said no, it was a sunrise. We argued about it, actually. I told her that the sun in the picture was setting because it was obviously a view from our camp near Gelendzhik, overlooking the Black Sea. That would mean the painting was looking to the west. “Alina said that it didn’t matter. Even if the sun is setting on Gelendzhik, that only means that it is rising in Bucharest. Or Vienna. Or Paris. The sun is always rising somewhere. From then on, whenever I felt low, whenever I lost hope and the world felt darkest, Alina would remind me: the sun is rising.” “I think I like Alina already. It’s a heartening philosophy. I only worry that it’s wasted on this city.” “A city is just people,” Charlie said. “A hundred years from now, even if the roads and buildings are still here, this will still be a whole new city. New Fiddleham is dying, every day, but it is also being constantly reborn. Every day, there is new hope. Every day, the sun rises. Every day, there are doors opening.” I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “When we’re through saving the world,” I said, “you can take me out to Nonna Santoro’s. I have it on good authority that the red sauce is amazing.” He blushed pink and a bashful smile spread over his face. “When we’re through saving the world, Miss Rook, I will hold you to that.

Much like Ros’s novels, then, The Room is remarkable for the way it seems to expose the absurd artifices of its form by getting everything about that form so flagrantly wrong. Wiseau’s failure to achieve the clichés he seems to aim for at the level of plot, dialogue, and performance eventually starts to look like aesthetic subversion.

Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel and The Marlowe Papers by Ros Barber—are set several centuries ago.

day fiction, but two of the best books I’ve read recently—Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel and The Marlowe Papers by Ros Barber—are set several centuries ago.

If he needs a side chick, it’s not because you’re not woman enough; it’s because he’s not man enough. He’s not man enough to love you, to respect you, and to honor you as the beautiful, extraordinary woman you are!

Don’t ever change who you are to fit into a relationship. You’re not being true to yourself and eventually you’ll get tired of pretending. And the relationship will fail.

And his fingers were really tracing up her jaw, triggering a new explosion of tingly fireworks as his gaze shifted to her mouth and he leaned closer. Closer. “Uh, not to ruin the smoochy-smoochy time,” Ro interrupted at the absolute last second—making Fitz snarl, “Are you kidding me?” as Sophie tried to decide if she wanted to die of embarrassment or launch the heaviest thing she could find at Ro’s head.

Then they got to endure the ooze all over again—much to Ro’s delight—as he repeated the process with Fitz’s leg. Fitz’s ribs also got a bandage change, along with a thick layer of bright orange balm that smelled very, very fermented. And for the finale, they each got trays filled with dozens of elixirs.

Sandor’s even less happy about it than I am. He threatened to call their queen and ask her to order them back to Gildingham, but Grizel said if he did that, she’d cover all of his weapons in Ro’s flesh-eating bacteria.

Ezekiel 38 tells us of the evil intentions of Russia when it describes how Ros will be led down to Israel as if a hook were put into its jaw. Ros will come down not for the purpose of peace, but plunder. Today, the Russians are the number one player in the Syrian civil war, and they don’t even try to hide the fact that they are there primarily for the gas and oil. Russia’s only warm-water seaport giving access to the Mediterranean and the Middle East is in Syria. That’s why Russia backs the government of Bashar al-Assad.

This isn’t about me. This is about you. This is your time. Your choice. Grab hold of life and run.” [Ro] clenched her fist so hard it shook. “Have some adventures. Meet people. Travel. Whatever you do, you get to decide who you want to be. It’s a gift, so take it.” Seraphina held her breath. The intensity from Ro’s words reverberated in her chest. Ro’s lips opened once more. “But you have to decide. You can’t be a meerkat forever, you know. You have to adventure outside of your safe zone.

Giovanni, in love with her unabashed feminine strength and her reconciliation of love and revolution. I spent nearly every waking moment around Nikki, and I loved her dearly. But sibling relationships are often fraught with petty tortures. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But I had. At the time, I couldn’t understand my mother’s anger. I mean this wasn’t really a woman I was punching. This was Nikki. She could take it. Years would pass before I understood how that blow connected to my mom’s past. My mother came to the United States at the age of three. She was born in Lowe River in the tiny parish of Trelawny, Jamaica, hours away from the tourist traps that line the coast. Its swaths of deep brush and arable land made it great for farming but less appealing for honeymoons and hedonism. Lowe River was quiet, and remote, and it was home for my mother, her older brother Ralph, and my grandparents. My maternal great-grandfather Mas Fred, as he was known, would plant a coconut tree at his home in Mount Horeb, a neighboring area, for each of his kids and grandkids when they were born. My mom always bragged that hers was the tallest and strongest of the bunch. The land that Mas Fred and his wife, Miss Ros, tended had been cared for by our ancestors for generations. And it was home for my mom until her parents earned enough money to bring the family to the States to fulfill my grandfather’s dream of a theology degree from an American university. When my mom first landed in the Bronx, she was just a small child, but she was a survivor and learned quickly. She studied the other kids at school like an anthropologist, trying desperately to fit in. She started with the way she spoke. She diligently listened to the radio from the time she was old enough to turn it on and mimicked what she heard. She’d always pull back enough in her interactions with her classmates to give herself room to quietly observe them, so that when she got home she could practice imitating their accents, their idiosyncrasies, their style. Words like irie became cool. Constable became policeman. Easy-nuh became chill out. The melodic, swooping movement of her Jamaican patois was quickly replaced by the more stable cadences of American English. She jumped into the melting pot with both feet. Joy Thomas entered American University in Washington, D.C., in 1968, a year when she and her adopted homeland were both experiencing

Ro’s currently enduring a week of bed rest—and not happy about it,

The difficulty level of talking from memory reduces sharply with a visual presentation to accompany you. In many cases, the slides (or any other visual support you’re using) can act as a prompt which makes being completely without notes much easier. They act almost as a replacement for the bullet points that you might have had.

The best written and verbal explanations have a rhythm, a personality and a fluidity that complement the precision and relevance of the information they are passing on.