“
If you ramble enough, people will think what you’re saying is true, right?
”
”
Tara Sivec (Love and Lists (Chocoholics, #1))
“
Do not listen to the mad ramblings of a broken man. He means none of what he says and only half of what he doesn’t.
”
”
Marie Hall (Kingdom Series Collection #1-3 (Kingdom, #1-3))
“
Of course, if you...if you don't want to," he says into the silence, sliding his gaze away from me, "I can accept that. I won't bring it up again. I know I'm not....I know what I'm like. That I'm infuriating. And selfish. And cruel. I know I'm not perfect the way my brother is, and I manage to disappoint my parents every time. It's okay if you don't choose me, really—I never expected to be the first choice. I wouldn't blame you‚—"
"I do choose you."
He doesn't seem to hear me at first. He's still talking, rambling really, the words flowing out like rainwater. "I can't always say pretty things, and sometimes I tease you when really I just want you to look my way, and—wait." He stops. Even his breath freezes in his throat. "What...did you just say? Say it again."
"I choose you," I say quietly, glad for the shadows concealing my flushed cheeks. For the support of the wall behind me.
"You will always be my first choice, Julius Gong.
”
”
Ann Liang (I Hope This Doesn't Find You)
“
Everything you wanted to say required a context. If you gave the full context, people thought you a rambling old fool. If you didn’t give the context, people thought you a laconic old fool.
”
”
Julian Barnes (Staring at the Sun)
“
Nell's husband has short-man syndrome. Eddie is one of those deadly dull people who is so upbeat that I suspect he would subconsciously like to go through the neighborhood, house by house, with a machine gun. He seems oblivious to the effect that his long, rambling monologues have on people - he doesn't notice the blank faces, the fingers flexing like those of people buried alive, the ocular tics. You could write down his words verbatim, show them to him, and he'd probably say, 'I know someone just like that!' Then he'd tell you about that person until your teeth hurt. His hostage-taking is passive-aggressive.
”
”
Anne Lamott (Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith)
“
The time of minor poets is coming. Good-by Whitman, Dickinson, Frost. Welcome you whose fame will never reach beyond your closest family, and perhaps one or two good friends gathered after dinner over a jug of fierce red wine… While the children are falling asleep and complaining about the noise you’re making as you rummage through the closets for your old poems, afraid your wife might’ve thrown them out with last spring’s cleaning.
It’s snowing, says someone who has peeked into the dark night, and then he, too, turns toward you as you prepare yourself to read, in a manner somewhat theatrical and with a face turning red, the long rambling love poem whose final stanza (unknown to you) is hopelessly missing.
”
”
Charles Simic (The World Doesn't End)
“
Jenna had tried to cheer me up that morning, saying, "At least you have it with a hot guy."
"Archer isn't hot anymore," I'd fired back. "He tried to kill me, and his girlfriend is Satan."
But I have to admit that as we stood beside each other on the cellar steps and listened to the Vandy ramble on about what we were supposed to do down there, I couldn't help but sneak sideways glances at him and notice that, homicidal tendencies and evil girlfriends aside, he was still hot. As usual,his tie was loose and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up. He was watching the Vandy with this bored, vaguely amused look, arms crossed over his chest.
That pose did most excellent things for his chest and arms.How unfair was it that Elodie of all people got that as a boyfriend? I mean, where is the justice when-"
"Miss Mercer!" the Vandy barked, and I jumped high enough to nearly lose my balance.
I clutched the banister next to me, and Archer caught my other elbow.
Then he winked, and I immediately turned my attention back to the Vandy like she was the most fascinating person I'd ever seen.
"Do you need me to repeat anything, Miss Mercer?" she sneered.
"N-no. I got it," I stammered.
She stared at me for a minute. I think she was trying to come up with a witty put-down.But the Vandy,like most mean people, was dumb, so in the end, she just sort of growled and pushed between me and Archer to stalk up the stairs.
"One hour!" she called over her shoulder.
The ancient door didn't so much as creak as scream in pain as she pushed it closed.
”
”
Rachel Hawkins (Hex Hall (Hex Hall, #1))
“
I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty other occasions in the course of the day besides my dinner. I want a form for setting out upon a pleasant walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a friendly meeting, or a solved problem. Why have none for books, those spiritual repasts - a grace before Milton - a grace before Shakespeare - a devotional exercise proper to be said before reading the Fairy Queen?
”
”
Charles Lamb (Essays of Elia and Last Essays of Elia)
“
When you speak, be sure of what you are speaking. Don't be rambling full of words that have no integrity or truth. Nobody wants to confide in you when they doubt what you say. If you are filled with untruths, those characteristics make it hard for anyone to believe in you.
”
”
Amaka Imani Nkosazana (Sweet Destiny)
“
The Author To Her Book
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
”
”
Anne Bradstreet (The Works of Anne Bradstreet (John Harvard Library))
“
Someone is getting excited. Somebody somewhere is shaking with excitement because something tremendous is about to happen to this person. This person has dressed for the occasion. This person has hoped and dreamed and now it is really happening and this person can hardly believe it. But believing is not an issue here, the time for faith and fantasy is over, it is really really happening. It involves stepping forward and bowing. Possibly there is some kneeling, such as when one is knighted. One is almost never knighted. But this person may kneel and receive a tap on each shoulder with a sword. Or, more likely, this person will be in a car or a store or under a vinyl canopy when it happens. Or online or on the phone. It could be an e-mail re: your knighthood. Or a long, laughing, rambling phone message in which every person this person has ever known is talking on a speakerphone and they are all saying, You have passed the test, it was all just a test, we were only kidding, real life is so much better than that. This person is laughing out loud with relief and playing the message back to get the address of the place where every person this person has ever known is waiting to hug this person and bring her into the fold of life. It is really exciting, and it’s not just a dream, it’s real.
”
”
Miranda July
“
I’m just saying, Ave, you might dress in jeans and a T-shirt and never wear your hair down and talk about how you’re a football-loving tomboy, but you’re also very much an attractive woman, and any man would be blind not to see it, and maybe that’s a weird thing for one friend to say to another, and now I think I might be rambling because I’m embarrassed that I said it. But whatever. It’s the truth.
”
”
Melissa Tagg (Three Little Words (Walker Family, #0.5))
“
a few of the principles by which I live: A good gag is worth any amount of time, money and effort; never draw to fill an inside straight; always keep score in games, never in love; never say 'Muskrat Ramble'; always keep them guessing; never listen to the same conversation twice; and (this is the hard part) listen to no one.
”
”
Annie Dillard
“
Oh, stick a sock in it already,” he interrupted me with an irritated tone you’d use to scold a child. “You always ramble on so? No wonder your dates went right for your throat. Can’t say as I blame them.
”
”
Jeaniene Frost (Halfway to the Grave (Night Huntress, #1))
“
What I'm saying is, where have all the real people gone? Where are the recognizably-human beings? Of course, it's silly of me to look them on TV commercials, no one watches ads for their true-to-life portrayals. If the ads were full of real people, they wouldn't be able to sell anything. Which is the point of this rambling column.
Real people just don't sell.
”
”
Jessica Zafra (Womenagerie and Other Tales from the Front)
“
...Again I say it, therefore walk, and be merry;
walk, and be healthy; walk, and be your own master! walk, to enjoy, to observe, to
improve, as no riders can! walk, and you are the best peripatetic impersonation of
holiday enjoyment that is to be met with on the surface of this work-a-day world!
”
”
Wilkie Collins (Rambles beyond Railways or, Notes in Cornwall Taken A-Foot)
“
My sister thinks that she's the only one who can take poison, but I am poison,' he whispers, eyes half-closed, talking to himself. 'Poison in my blood. I poison everything I touch.'
That's such a strange thing to hear him say. Everyone adores him.
And yet, I recall him running away at thirteen, sure so many things were his fault.
”
”
Holly Black (The Stolen Heir (The Stolen Heir Duology, #1))
“
This person has hoped and dreamed and now it is really happening and this person can hardly believe it. But believing is not an issue here, the time for faith and fantasy is over, it is really really happening. It involves stepping forward and bowing. Possibly there is some kneeling, such as when one is knighted. One is almost never knighted. But this person may kneel and receive a tap on each shoulder with a sword. Or, more likely, this person will be in a car or a store or under a vinyl canopy when it happens. Or online or on the phone. It could be an e-mail re: your knighthood. Or a long, laughing, rambling phone message in which every person this person has ever known is talking on a speakerphone and they are all saying, You have passed the test, it was all just a test, we were only kidding, real life is so much better than that.
”
”
Miranda July (No One Belongs Here More Than You)
“
He closes the door with a determined click, and I hear him call to a flight attendant, and I sink down onto the toilet seat, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands as I listen to him through the door.
"I'm sorry to bother you but my wife," he says, and then pauses. With the last word he says, my heart begins to hammer. "The one who now got sick? She's started her... cycle? And I'm wondering if you keep any, or rather if you have... something? You see this all happened a bit fast and she packed in a hurry, and before that we were in Vegas. I have no idea why she came with me but I really really don't want to screw this up. And now she needs something. Can she, uh," he stutters, finally saying simply, "borrow quelque chose?" I cover my mouth as he continues to ramble, and I would given anything in this moment to see the expression of the flight attendant on the other side of this door. "I meant use," he continues. "Not to borrow because I don't think they work that way."
I hear a woman's voice ask, "Do you know if she needs tampons or pads?"
Oh God. Oh God. This can't be happening.
"Um..." I hear him sigh and then say, "I have no idea but I'll give you a hundred dollars to end this conversation and give me both.
”
”
Christina Lauren (Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1))
“
To say a few words with great meaning is better than to ramble on with nothing of value.” I
”
”
Judith McCoy Miller (A Hidden Truth (Home to Amana Book #1))
“
Sometimes to ignore doesn't mean you are oblivious to the rambles of others. it just means what others say are just rambles.
”
”
Janna Cachola
“
You never told me your name," he says, his voice so hauntingly familiar it causes a rush of heat to blanket my skin.
I sigh,staring blankly down the hall when I say, "Psycho Girl-Psycho Horseback Singing Girl..." I shrug. "I've heard it both ways."
He squints.His hand reaching for my shoulder,then falling away the instant he catches the look of reproach on my face.
"Look," I say,knowing I need to stop him before he can go any further.His kindness will only distract me at a time when I need to stay focused. "I've had a really bad day.And if my calculations are right,I have three hundred and eight more,give or take, before I get to graduate and get the heck out of this place. So,why don't you just call me whatever you want. Everyone else does.It's not like it matters..." My cheeks go hot,my eyes start to sting, and I know I'm rambling like a lunatic,but I cant seem to stop,can't seem to care.The world's most socially inept Seeker-that's me in a nutshell.
"Don't let them reduce you to that," he says,his gaze instense, his voice surprising me with its sincerity, its urgency. "Don't let them define how you see yourself,or your place here. And if you ever need someone to talk to,I'm not hard to find.I'm either in class, reading in the library,or eating lunch in the North hallway."
The second he says it,my gaze flies down the length of him.Slipping past a gray V-neck tee and dark denim jeans,not the least bit surprised when I land on the same heavy,black, thick-soled shoes I spied earlier.
Then before he can say anything more, I'm gone. Trying to ignore the comforting stream of kindness and love that swarms all around me.
”
”
Alyson Noel (Fated (Soul Seekers, #1))
“
I try to shape a tight laugh, and it dies in my throat. "This is new to me, Wes. Sharing. Having someone I can share with. And I really appreciate your help -- That sounds lame. I've never had someone like... This is a mess. There's finally something good in my life and I'm already making a mess of it." My cheeks go hot, and I have to clench my teeth to stop the rambling.
"Hey," he says, knocking his shoe playfully against mine. "It's the same for me, you know?" This is all new to me. And I'm not going anywhere. It takes at least three assassination attempts to scare me off. And even then, if there are baked goods involved, I might come back." He hoists himself up from the bench. "But on that note, I retreat to tend my wounded pride." He says it with a smile, and somehow I'm smiling, too. How does he do that, untangle things so easily?
”
”
Victoria Schwab (The Archived (The Archived, #1))
“
I have felt alone all my life. I was always too smart, or working too hard, or too full of doubt to fit in with everyone else. But when I’m with you, I never feel alone, Will. Never. I feel seen, and I feel listened to, and I feel important and cared for. When I first met you, I told myself I had to be insane to think that someone like you would be interested in someone like me. But it didn’t stop me from falling in love with you, because loving you is as easy and as natural as breathing for me. This may shock you, but my love doesn’t come with conditions or requirements. It absolutely doesn’t require physical exam, that is for sure. It just is, Will. And it’s unstoppable, because, believe me, I’ve tried to stop it. So I guess what I’m trying to say in my usual inarticulate, rambly, too-wordy way, is that I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.
”
”
Sarah Mayberry (Her Favorite Temptation (Mathews Sisters, #1))
“
After incoherent rambling, I will say that I amuse my leisure hours by cultivating that stubborn unimaginative state of mind which refuses to dream, imagine or conjecture about any situation's reality except the present.
”
”
Sylvia Plath (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath)
“
His were always lighthearted notes from the places they'd visited, scrawled in the limited space on the back of the cards, whereas hers tended to be longer and slightly rambling, unrestricted by the confines of paper. But sitting there with the cursor blinking at him, he wasn't sure what to say. There was something too immediate about an e-mail, the idea that she might get it in mere moments, that just one click of the mouse would make it appear on her screen in an instant, like magic. He realized how much he preferred the safety of a letter, the physicality of it, the distance it had to cross on its way from here to there, which felt honest and somehow more real.
”
”
Jennifer E. Smith (The Geography of You and Me)
“
My lords, for more than half an hour you've not stopped questioning me about some fantastic story or other; one could in fact say that you're babbling, or rambling. By babbling, I mean, that you're talking nonsense; by rambling, that you're saying nothing at all.
”
”
Benvenuto Cellini (The Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini)
“
He says, “It’s like we get so set in our ways, so entrenched in those grooves, we stop seeing our loved ones for who they are. But tonight, right now, I see you again, like the first time we met, when the sound of your voice and your smell was this new country. I’m rambling now.
”
”
Blake Crouch (Dark Matter)
“
We saw no bugs or reptiles to speak of, and so I was thinking of saying in print, in a general way, that there were none at all; but one night after I had gone to bed, the Reverend came into my room carrying something, and asked, "Is this your boot?" I said it was, and he said he had met a spider going off with it. Next morning he stated that just at dawn the same spider raised his window and was coming in to get a shirt, but saw him and fled. I inquired, "Did he get the shirt?" "No." "How did you know it was a shirt he was after?" "I could see it in his eye.
”
”
Mark Twain (Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion)
“
The best description of this book is found within the title. The full title of this book is:
"This is the story my great-grandfather told my father, who then told my grandfather, who then told me about how The Mythical Mr. Boo, Charles Manseur Fizzlebush Grissham III, better known as Mr. Fizzlebush, and Orafoura are all in fact me and Dora J. Arod, who sometimes shares my pen, paper, thoughts, mind, body, and soul, because Dora J. Arod is my pseudonym, as he/it incorporates both my first and middle name, and is also a palindrome that can be read forwards or backwards no matter if you are an upright man in the eyes of God or you are upside down in a tank of water wearing purple goggles and grape jelly discussing how best to spread your time between your work, your wife, and the toasted bread being eaten by the man you are talking to who goes by the name of Dendrite McDowell, who is only wearing a towel on his head and has an hourglass obscuring his “time machine”--or the thing that he says can keep him young forever by producing young versions of himself the way I avert disaster in that I ramble and bumble like a bee until I pollinate my way through flowery situations that might otherwise have ended up being more than less than, but not equal to two short parallel lines stacked on top of each other that mathematicians use to balance equations like a tightrope walker running on a wire stretched between two white stretched limos parked on a long cloud that looks like Salt Lake City minus the sodium and Mormons, but with a dash of pepper and Protestants, who may or may not be spiritual descendents of Mr. Maynot, who didn’t come over to America in the Mayflower, but only because he was “Too lazy to get off the sofa,” and therefore impacted this continent centuries before the first television was ever thrown out of a speeding vehicle at a man who looked exactly like my great-grandfather, who happens to look exactly like the clone science has yet to allow me to create
”
”
Jarod Kintz (This is the story my great-grandfather told my father, who then told my grandfather, who then told me about how The Mythical Mr. Boo, Charles Manseur Fizzlebush Grissham III, better known as Mr. Fizzlebush, and Orafoura are all in fact me...)
“
Isn't one of the first lessons of good elocution that there's nothing one can say in any rambling, sprawling rant that can't, through some effort, be said shorter and better with a little careful editing? Or that, in writing, there's nothing you can describe in any page-filling paragraph that can't be captured better in just a sentence or two? Perhaps even nothing in any sentence which cannot better be refined in a single, spot-on word? Does it not follow, then, that there's likely nothing one can say in any word - in saying anything at all - that, ultimately, isn't better left unsaid?
(attrib: F.L. Vanderson)
”
”
Mort W. Lumsden (Citations: A Brief Anthology)
“
I don't even like the word ‘indoors’. It doesn’t make sense. According to you right now, by stepping through the doorway I’d be indoors. Yet I wouldn’t actually be standing in the doorway. If it’s supposed to refer to being inside a building, then they shouldn’t have used the word ‘door,’ since last time I checked, doors don’t make up every square inch of a building! And I’d assume that now, since I’m not indoors, you’d say I’m ‘out of doors’, right? But, shouldn’t out of doors just be everywhere that’s not directly under a door? You know what, from now on I insist that everyone refer to being in a building as being ‘under-roof’.
”
”
Natalie Bina (Vermilion Departure)
“
This may shock you, but my love doesn’t come with conditions or requirements. It absolutely doesn’t require physical exam, that is for sure. It just is, Will. And it’s unstoppable, because, believe me, I’ve tried to stop it. So I guess what I’m trying to say in my usual inarticulate, rambly, too-wordy way, is that I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.
”
”
Sarah Mayberry (Her Favorite Temptation (Matthews Sisters, #1))
“
As I will be saying over and over again in this rambling volume, I am not dismayed by ultimate mysteries. What is the difference between something and nothing? Why is there something rather than nothing? Should the something of which the universe is fundamentally composed be regarded as like atoms or be regarded as more like a mind? Or is the substratum best thought of as something neutral: material when structured one way, mental when structured another way? I have no desire even to try to answer such questions. I find nothing absurd about the notion that the external world is the mind of God, nor do I find it repulsive to suppose that God can create a world of substance, utterly unlike ideas in God’s mind or anybody’s mind, that can exist whether God thinks about it or not. How can I, a mere mortal slightly above an ape in intelligence, know what it means to say that something is “created” by God, or “thought” by God? One can play endless metaphysical games with such phrases,3 but I can no more grasp what is behind such questions than my cat can understand what is behind the clatter I make while I type this paragraph.
”
”
Martin Gardner (The Whys of a Philosophical Scrivener)
“
I Pray For This Girl
Oh yes! For the young girl
Who just landed on Mother Earth!
The one about to turn five with a smile
Or the other one who just turned nine
She is not only mine
My Mother’s, Grandmother’s
Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter
She is like a flower
Very fragile, yet so gorgeous
An Angel whose wings are invisible
I speak life to this young or older girl
She might not have a say
But expects the world to be a better place
Whether affluent or impoverished
No matter her state of mind
Her background must not determine
How she is treated
She needs to live, she has to thrive!
Lord God Almighty
Sanctify her unique journey
Save her from the claws of the enemy
Shield her against any brutality
Restore her if pain becomes a reality
Embrace her should joy pass swiftly
When emptiness fills her heart severely
May you be her sanctuary!
Dear Father, please give her
The honour to grow without being frightened
Hope whenever she feels forsaken
Contentment even after her heart was broken
Comfort when she is shaken
Courage when malice creeps in
Calm when she needs peace
Strength when she is weak
Freedom to climb on a mountain peak
And wisdom to tackle any season
Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling
My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble
Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble
Grant her power to wisely triumph
On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl
I may have never met her
I may not know her name
I may not be in her shoes
I may not see her cries
Yet, I grasp her plight
Wherever she is
King of Kings
Be with her
Each and every day
I pray for this girl
”
”
Gift Gugu Mona (From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman)
“
Ren moved just a smidgen closer to me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then…waited. When I opened my eyes, he was still staring at me. He really was waiting for permission. There was nothing, and I mean nothing I wanted more in the world at that moment than to be kissed by this gorgeous man. But, I ruined it. For some reason, I fixated on the word permission.
I nervously rambled, “What…umm…what do you mean you want my permission?”
He looked at me curiously, which made me feel even more panicky. To say I had no experience with kissing would be an understatement. Not only had I never kissed a boy before, I’d never even met a guy I wanted to kiss until Ren. So, instead of kissing him like I wanted to, I got flustered and started coming up with reasons to not do it.
I babbled, “Girls need to be swept off their feet, and asking permission is just…just…old-fashioned. It’s not spontaneous enough. It doesn’t scream passion. It screams old fogy. If you have to ask, then the answer is…no.”
What an idiot! I thought to myself. I just told this beautiful, kind, blue-eyed, hunk of a prince that he was an old fogy.
Ren looked at me for a long moment, long enough for me to see the hurt in his eyes before he cleared his face of expression. He stood up quickly, formally bowed to me, and avowed softly, “I won’t ask you again, Kelsey. I apologize for being so forward.”
Then he changed into a tiger and quickly ran off into the jungle, leaving me alone to berate myself for my foolishness.
I shouted, “Ren, wait!” But it was too late. He was gone.
I can’t believe I insulted him like that! He must hate me! How could I do that to him? I knew I only said those things because I was nervous, but that was no excuse. What did he mean he would never ask me again? I hope he asks me again.
I replayed my words over and over again in my mind and thought of all the things I could have said that would have given me a better result. Things like, “I thought you’d never ask” or “I was just about to ask you the same question.”
I could have just grabbed the man and kissed him first. Even just a simple “Yes” would have done the trick. I could have said dramatically, “As you wish,” “Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time,” or “You had me at hello.” He’d never seen the movies, so why not? But, no, I had to go on and on about “permission.”
Ren left me alone the rest of the day, which gave my plenty of time to kick myself.
”
”
Colleen Houck (Tiger's Curse (The Tiger Saga, #1))
“
He was doing his academic rambling thing again. "You'll let me run some calculations on you, Lady Manami, won't you?"
"Will they hurt?"
"Well, there are some who find the mere presence of advanced mathematical equations painful, but I don't think that you'll be materially damaged in any physical manner. Oh! Can I ask how the relative densities affect buoyancy? I mean to say, do kitsune bob something fierce?
”
”
Gail Carriger (Reticence (The Custard Protocol, #4))
“
I'm still trying to figure out what "okay" is, particularly whether there exists a normal version of myself beneath the disorder, in the way a person with cancer is a healthy person first and foremost. In the language of cancer, people describe a thing that "invades" them so that they can then "battle" the cancer. No one ever says that a person is cancer, or that they have become cancer, but they do say that a person is manic-depressive or schizophrenic, once those illnesses have taken hold. In my peer education courses I was taught to say that I am a person with schizoaffective disorder. "Person-first language" suggests that there is a person in there somewhere without the delusion and the rambling and the catatonia.
But what if there isn't? What happens if I see my disordered mind as a fundamental part of who I am?
”
”
Esmé Weijun Wang (The Collected Schizophrenias: Essays)
“
The Dead Man Walking
They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ....
— A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
”
”
Thomas Hardy (Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses)
“
Did you ever notice? Darkness seems to make people speak in short sentences.
“YES,” she said. “And when the lights come on, we open up and ramble and say absolutely nothing. But in bed in the dark we’re urged on by the monkey waiting in our sleep.”
“What monkey?”
“We become documentary. We become newsreels telling what we think is the truth. Our listener is really no more than a fragment of the dark. The true audience is darkness itself. We unwrap our lives to it, trying to appease the monkey.
”
”
Don Dellillo
“
She rambled on and on about how my attending a new private school was going to be a “stressful time of tremendous personal growth” and how my best “coping mechanism” would be to “communicate” my “thoughts and feelings.” I was absolutely ECSTATIC because you can communicate with a NEW CELL PHONE! Right?! I kind of zoned out on most of what my mom was saying because I was DAYDREAMING about all of the cool ring tones, music, and movies I was going to download. It was going to be LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT!
”
”
Rachel Renée Russell (Tales from a Not-So-Fabulous Life (Dork Diaries, #1))
“
Between land and sea the mist was like a veil
This is a simile. Such links as "like" or "as" are typical of the simile: one object is like another object.
If you go on to say the mist was like the veil of a bride, this is a sustained simile with elements of mild poetry; but if you say, the mist was like the veil of a fat bride whose father was even fatter and wore a wig, this is a rambling simile, marred by an illogical continuation, of the kind Homer used for purposes of epic narration and Gogol used for grotesque dream-effects.
”
”
Vladimir Nabokov (Lectures on Russian Literature)
“
My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of condition,’ I remarked. ‘Somebody’s love comes short in her case, obviously; whose, I may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn’t say.’ ‘I should guess it was her own,’ said Heathcliff. ‘She degenerates into a mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me uncommonly early. You’d hardly credit it, but the very morrow of our wedding she was weeping to go home. However, she’ll suit this house so much the better for not being over nice, and I’ll take care she does not disgrace me by rambling abroad.
”
”
Emily Brontë (Wuthering Heights)
“
Yes. That’s what I want from you,” he says, with a self-satisfied nod. “And in exchange, I’ll get Adrienne out of the cave. And I’ll help you, because I think I might like you, even if you are without honor.” He shrugs. “You seem interesting. In a tragic sort of way. I’m sure you’ll be entertaining.” I open my mouth to reply, to offer some sort of retort in my defense, but nothing comes out. “And, before you reject my offer,” he continues, rambling on. “You’d do well to remember that you don’t really have any other options. You’re naked. You have a little blade.
”
”
Elisha Kemp (Burn the Stars (Dying Gods, #2))
“
I often paint a detailed picture in my mind of what I would like the end of my life to look like. I think of saying goodbye to Clara and other people I love, then I picture an empty house, perhaps a large, rambling rural mansion somewhere near the marshes where I grew up; I imagine a bath upstairs, which I can fill with warm water; and I think of music playing all through this big house, Crescent, maybe, or Ascension, filling the spaces not taken up by my solitude, reaching me in the bath, so that when I slip across the one-way border, I do so to the accompaniment of modal harmonies heard from far away.
”
”
Teju Cole (Open City)
“
I...I haven’t done a lot of this.” His cheeks flushed pink and my eyes widened. “I mean, I’ve done some stuff, but not a lot. I haven’t...had sex.”
For the longest moment I couldn’t respond. All I could do was stare at him. “You’re a virgin?”
One side of his lips kicked up. “Yeah. You sound surprised.”
“I am. I thought... I don’t know. You were with...Paige. I just assumed you had sex before.”
“That would be a negative,” he replied, picking up my hand. “You’re looking at me like you don’t understand how it’s possible.”
He could really read minds.
“It’s gotten close, but I just never— I haven’t wanted to go that far.” He shrugged a bare shoulder.
“I haven’t done it, either,” I blurted out. “I mean, that’s super obvious since...you’re the first boy I’ve kissed, but yeah, I don’t even know...what I’m saying and I’m just going to shut up.”
Rider chuckled. “Don’t. I love it when you ramble.”
“Only you would enjoy that.” I curled my fingers through his. “Do you want to...go that far with me?”
His lashes swept up and his eyes, with their greenish flecks, met mine. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Someday.”
Warmth swept across my cheeks as I whispered, “I...I want that, too. Someday.”
The dimple in his right cheek appeared. “Then we’re on the same page.
”
”
Jennifer L. Armentrout (The Problem with Forever)
“
Oh shit, I wouldn’t use that towel if I were you,” Gavin mumbles.
I ignore him scrubbing every inch of my face, hoping that maybe I can rub away the memory of the words my mother spoke to me.
“Seriously dude, give me that thing,” Gavin says, Interrupting my thoughts. I pull the towel away and glare at his reflection in the mirror. He’s standing behind me with a look of disgust on his face and his hand out. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I just found out that my mom was a slut and has no idea who my dad is and all you’re worried about is your precious towel?” I ramble, my voice getting that hysterical squeak to it. “What’s wrong? Is this one of Charlotte’s ‘good’ towels, reserved for guests or some shit? Fuck, are you pussy whipped.”
Gavin shakes his head at me and tries reaching over my shoulder to take the towel. I snatch it away and turn to face him. “What is your fucking deal? It’s a Goddamn towel!” I yell. “Yeah, it’s a jizz towel, dude.”
I look at him in confusion, glancing down at the towel and back up at him when what he said finally sinks in. He’s biting his lip and I can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s trying to think of a way to run out of here as fast as he can. “Hey, what are you guys doing in the bathroom?” Charlotte asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “Oh, my God! Did you just use that towel, Tyler?” I quickly throw the towel away from me like it’s on fire and it lands in the toilet. “Dammit, don’t throw it in the toilet, you’ll ruin it!” Charlotte scolds. “I’m pretty sure you ruined it by putting jizz on it!” I scream. “Why the fuck would you leave a jizz towel on the sink where anyone could use it?” “I’d never use it. I knew it was a jizz towel,” Gavin replies with a shrug. “Oh, my God! I scrubbed my fucking face with a towel that had your dry, crusty jizz on it!” I can’t believe this is happening right now. My mom had a foursome, my dad isn’t my dad and now I have jizz face. Moving as fast as I can, I jump into the shower and turn on the water, not even caring that I’m fully clothed. “Do you want us to leave so you can take your clothes off?” Charlotte asks, as the water rains down on me, soaking my t-shirt and jeans. “I am NOT taking my clothes off. There could be trace particles of jizz on them! I’m going to have to burn these clothes!” I complain. I keep my face under the scalding hot water, taking in large mouthfuls, swishing and then spitting on the shower floor. “Eeew, don’t spit in our shower!” Charlotte scolds. “I HAVE GAVIN’S JIZZ ON MY FACE! I WILL SPIT WHEREVER THE FUCK I WANT!
”
”
Tara Sivec (Passion and Ponies (Chocoholics, #2))
“
As well as this, there were of course many sceptics and detractors, not only of Shah but of his students and his would-be or wanna-be students. They’d say things like “You’ve been studying for – what? – 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 years. And where has it got got you, eh? Eh? Nowhere.” And there really was no answer to that, other than to simply try to show a good example, and hope that some might sense subtle signs of progress having been made. But no: they wanted to see Gandalf with his whizz-bangs. Unlike Rabia, we couldn’t magically produce an onion out of thin air – an incontrovertible act – and later retort: “What? Do you think that God is a greengrocer, or something?
”
”
H.M. Forester (Secret Friends: The Ramblings of a Madman in Search of a Soul)
“
The day the mountains move has come. Or so I say, though no one will believe me. The mountains were merely asleep for a while. But in ages past, they had moved, as if they were on fire. If you don’t believe me, that’s fine with me. All I ask is that you believe this and only this, That at this very moment, women are awakening from their deep slumber. If I could but write entirely in the first person, I, who am a woman. If I could write entirely in the first person, I, I. —Yosano Akiko These are the first lines from Yosano Akiko’s longer poem Sozorogoto (Rambling Thoughts), which were first published in the inaugural issue of the feminist magazine Seit (Bluestocking), in September 1911.
”
”
Ruth Ozeki (A Tale for the Time Being)
“
As the year began, I wrote a tally of my good fortunes, a practice I highly recommend. If you start small and build out, it can clarify the magnitude of your blessings. You start with elemental things, like: A heart that beats. Eyes that see. Blood that flows. Lungs that breathe unimpeded by gunk. A mental windshield not too splattered with bugs. Failing to note the absences will cut any proper list of good fortunes in half. The bones that aren’t broken, the illnesses or hates you don’t have, the aches you don’t feel. Like many things that are unswervingly good—oxygen, say, and water—health is likewise transparent and easy to miss when you have it. Then you get to the meaty stuff. A wife you love. A house that isn’t falling down.
”
”
Neil King Jr. (American Ramble: A Walk of Memory and Renewal)
“
How was your trip? Did you have fun?”
“It was work, Ma. I wasn’t partying it up in Vegas,” I tell her with a chuckle.
“Well, you were in Vegas. Why wouldn’t you try to have some fun while you were there? You think I don’t know what you do in your free time?” I can see her in my head rolling her eyes. “I know how you and your brothers act when you’re single.”
“Yeah, Ma, but I’m not single anymore,” I declare, smiling.
“You guys are such man-whores. I swear—it’s a wonder one of you didn’t end up on that show 16 and Pregnant,” she says, completely missing what I just said.
“Ma, stop talking for a second and listen to me,” I say, waiting for her to stop rambling.
“I swear—Trojan owes me royalties for all the condoms I bought for you boys.
”
”
Aurora Rose Reynolds (Until Nico (Until, #4))
“
In his rambling rhetoric, Hitler sought to undermine the very legitimacy of the charge against him. “High treason is the only crime that is punishable only if it fails,” he noted, stating a truism as though it somehow annulled the law. In a self-conscious display of manly courage, Hitler took “sole responsibility” for the putsch—thus emphasizing his role as the soul of the enterprise—but at the same time he denied the commission of a crime. Flatly rejecting his accomplice Colonel Kriebel’s right to take any responsibility for events, Hitler hogged the self-sacrifice halo for himself, saying, in a typical twist of logic, “I confess to the deed but not to high treason, because there’s no charge of high treason against the traitors of 1918.” With
”
”
Peter Ross Range (1924: The Year That Made Hitler)
“
Twenty-Five Ways to Be a Good Listener 1. Be patient. 2. Don’t complete his sentences. 3. Let him finish, even if he seems to be rambling. 4. Don’t interrupt. 5. Face your husband and make eye contact. 6. Lean forward, if you are seated, to show you are interested. 7. Stop what you are doing. 8. Ask good questions and avoid the word “why.” 9. Ask his opinion about something that happened to you. 10. Ask him for his advice on a decision you have to make. 11. Don’t jump to conclusions. 12. Don’t give unsolicited advice. 13. Don’t change the subject until he is finished with a subject. 14. Make verbal responses such as, “I see,” “Really,” “Uh-huh,” to show you’re paying attention. 15. Turn off the TV. 16. Put down the dishcloth, book, hairbrush, etc. 17. Encourage him to tell you more. “What else did he say?” “What did she do next?” 18. When he is telling of a struggle, rephrase and repeat what you heard. “What I hear you saying is that you felt your boss was being unfair when he asked you to take on three more clients with no extra compensation.” 19. Let the telephone ring if he is in the middle of telling you something. 20. Don’t glance at your watch or cross your arms. 21. Don’t ask him to hurry. 22. If a child interrupts, tell him or her to wait until daddy is finished talking. 23. Don’t tell him how he should have handled the situation differently. 24. Don’t act bored. 25. Thank him for sharing with you.
”
”
Sharon Jaynes (Becoming the Woman of His Dreams)
“
I want to be married,” I blurted. “I want you to marry me.”
Fuuuuuuuck.
And so my entire carefully constructed speech was thrown out the window. My grandmother’s antique ring was in a box in the dresser—nowhere near me—and my plan to kneel and do everything right just evaporated.
In the circle of my arms, Chloe grew very still. “What did you just say?”
I had completely botched the plan, but it was too late to turn back now.
“I know we have only been together for a little over a year,” I explained, quickly. “Maybe it’s too soon? I understand if it’s too soon. It’s just that how you feel about the way we kiss? I feel that way about everything we do together. I love it. I love to be inside you, I love working with you, I love watching you work, I love fighting with you, and I love just sitting on the couch and laughing with you. I’m lost when I’m not with you, Chloe. I can’t think of anything, or anyone, who is more important to me, every second. And so for me, that means we’re already sort of married in my head. I guess I wanted to make it official somehow. Maybe I sound like an idiot?” I looked over at her, feeling my heart try to jackhammer its way up my throat. “I never expected to feel this way about someone.”
She stared at me, eyes wide and lips parted as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I stood and ran over to the dresser, pulling the box from the drawer and carrying it over to her. When I opened the box and let her see my grandmother’s antique diamond and sapphire ring, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“I want to be married,” I said again. Her silence was unnerving, and fuck, I’d completely botched this with my rambling nonsense. “Married to you, I mean.”
Her eyes filled with tears and she held them, unblinking. “You. Are such. An ass.”
Well, that was unexpected. I knew it might be too soon, but an ass? Really? I narrowed my eyes. “A simple ‘It’s too soon’ would have sufficed, Chloe. Jesus. I lay my heart out on the—”
She pushed off the bed and ran over to one of her bags, rummaging through it and pulling out a small blue fabric bag. She carried it back to me with the ribbon hooked over her long index finger, and dangled the bag in my face.
I ask her to marry me and she brings me a souvenir from New York? What the fuck is that? “What the fuck is that?” I asked.
“You tell me, genius.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Mills. It’s a bag. For all I know you have a granola bar, or your tampons, in there.”
“It’s a ring, dummy. For you.”
My heart was pounding so hard and fast I half wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. “A ring for me?”
She pulled a small box out of the bag and showed it to me. It was smooth platinum, with a line of coarse titanium running through the middle.
“You were going to propose to me?” I asked, still completely confused. “Do women even do that?”
She punched me, hard, in the arm. “Yes, you chauvinist. And you totally stole my thunder.”
“So, is that a yes?” I asked, my bewilderment deepening. “You’ll marry me?”
“You tell me!” she yelled, but she was smiling.
“Technically you haven’t asked yet.”
“Goddamnit, Bennett! You haven’t, either!”
“Will you marry me?” I asked, laughing.
“Will you marry me?”
With a growl, I took the box and dropped it on the floor, flipping her onto her back.
”
”
Christina Lauren (Beautiful Bitch (Beautiful Bastard, #1.5))
“
As to Flush, he should thank you too, but at the present moment he is quite absorbed in finding a cool place in this room to lie down in, having sacrificed his usual favorite place at my feet, his head upon them, oppressed by the torrid necessity of a thermometer above 70. To Flopsy’s acquaintance he would aspire gladly, only hoping that Flopsy does not ‘delight to bark and bite,’ like dogs in general, because if he does Flush would as soon be acquainted with a cat, he says, for he does not pretend to be a hero. Poor Flush! ‘the bright summer days on which I am ever likely to take him out for a ramble over hill and meadow’ are never likely to shine! But he follows, or rather leaps into my wheeled chair, and forswears merrier company even now, to be near me. I am a good deal better, it is right to say, and look forward to a possible prospect of being better still, though I may be shut out from climbing the Brocken otherwise than in a vision.
”
”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
“
MARY: It’s called a Schloss. That’s what small castles are called in Styria, Laura told me.
CATHERINE: Yes, but do you think our English readers are going to know that? Or our American readers? I’m hoping for some American sales, if the deal with Collier & Son comes through, and there are no Schlosses in America—just teepees and department stores.
BEATRICE: The slaughter of the native population is a shameful stain on American history. Clarence says—
CATHERINE: For goodness’ sake, how are we going to sell to readers in the United States if you go on about the slaughter of the native Americans? Who’s going to want to read about that?
BEATRICE: Those who do not want to read about it are exactly those who should be made aware, Catherine. This may be a story of our adventures, but we must not shy away from confronting the difficult issues of the times. Literature exists to educate as well as entertain, after all.
DIANA: You all went from Schlosses to teepees to a political discussion, and you think I ramble?
”
”
Theodora Goss (European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman (The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club, #2))
“
Love Minus Zero / No Limit"
My love she speaks like silence
Without ideals or violence
She doesn't have to say she's faithful
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire
People carry roses
And make promises by the hours
My love she laughs like the flowers
Valentines can't buy her
In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love she speaks softly
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all
The cloak and dagger dangles
Madams light the candles
In ceremonies of the horsemen
Even a pawn must hold a grudge
Statues made of match-sticks
Crumble into one another
My love winks, she does not bother
She knows too much to argue or to judge
The bridge at midnight trembles
The country doctor rambles
Bankers' nieces seek perfection
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring
The wind howls like a hammer
The night blows rainy
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing
Bringing It All Back Home (1965)
”
”
Bob Dylan
“
When Jamie left for basic training I knew exactly what I had to do. Of course, I knew what it feels like to be in basic training. I knew the best thing I could do for her was to write her letters. A lot of letters. What’s funny is that when you write a letter you can feel like you’ve written so much, but that same letter can take two seconds to read.
I remember getting letters when I was in basic, and I’d read them and think, “Man, that’s it? I read it too fast.”
Contact from back home is so crucial. It means so much. I remembered how I felt. I remembered telling Brandi, “I don’t care what you say. Just ramble. Ramble about your day.”
She never grasped that. It was always just this one-page letter and then it was done. So after I got Jamie’s address, I wrote to her every day. Every night after I put the kids to bed, I would write. I would tell her about everything that had happened--what I did, what the kids did, something funny one of them said. I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her.
”
”
Noah Galloway (Living with No Excuses: The Remarkable Rebirth of an American Soldier)
“
Angel From Montgomery"
I am an old woman named after my mother
My old man is another child that's grown old
If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire
This old house would have burnt down a long time ago
Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go
When I was a young girl well, I had me a cowboy
He weren't much to look at, just a free rambling man
But that was a long time and no matter how I try
The years just flow by like a broken down dam
Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go
There's flies in the kitchen, I can hear 'em there buzzing
And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say
Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go
John Prine, John Prine (1971)
”
”
John Prine (John Prine)
“
The bag circles the table several times. Each time Maya passes it to her neighbor, saying nothing. Finally the discussion is done. Maya looks troubled. She’s embarrassed, I’m guessing, that she hasn’t participated. Samantha reads from her notebook a list of enforcement mechanisms that the group has brainstormed. “Rule Number 1,” she says. “If you break the laws, you miss recess.…” “Wait!” interrupts Maya. “I have an idea!” “Go ahead,” says Samantha, a little impatiently. But Maya, who like many sensitive introverts seems attuned to the subtlest cues for disapproval, notices the sharpness in Samantha’s voice. She opens her mouth to speak, but lowers her eyes, only managing something rambling and unintelligible. No one can hear her. No one tries. The cool girl in the group—light-years ahead of the rest in her slinkiness and fashion-forward clothes—sighs dramatically. Maya peters off in confusion, and the cool girl says, “OK, Samantha, you can keep reading the rules now.” [...] Maya, for her part, sits curled up at the periphery of the group, writing her name over and over again in her notebook, in big block letters, as if to reassert her identity. At least to herself.
”
”
Susan Cain (Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking)
“
He could tell Fleming he was a musician but he could not communicate what the music said to him or said to the people he played it for. The music told itself, it made some obscure connection for which there were no words. The music was its own story, but a man could dip into the vast reservoir of folk and blues lines and phrases and images and construct his own story: though upon performing it and without it losing any relevance to his own life it now belonged to the audience as well. It was something he could not fathom. The old songs with juryrigged verses like bodies cobbled up out of bones from a thousand skeletons. Songs about death and lost love and rambling down the line because sometimes down the line was the only place left. Songs that treated the most desperate of loss with a dark sardonic humour. "I'm going where the climate suits my clothes", the song said, not saying the frustration and despair that created it, saying that in the sheer lonesomeness of the sound, in the old man's driving banjo. There was an eerie timelessness about it that said it could have been written a thousand years ago, or it could have been an unfinished song about events that had not yet played themselves out.
”
”
William Gay (Provinces of Night)
“
Because I see that the mobs are always growing, the number of errors are always increasing and Satan's rage and ruin have no end, I wish to confess with this work my faith before God and the whole world, point by point. I am doing this, lest certain people cite me or my writings, while I am alive or after I am dead, to support their errors, as those fanatics, the Sacramentarians and the Anabaptists, have begun to do. I will remain in this confession until my death (God help me!), will depart from this world in it, and appear before the Judgment Seat of our Lord Jesus Christ. So that no one will say after my death, ``If Luther was alive, he would teach and believe this article differently, because he did not think it through sufficiently,'' I state the following, once and for all: I, by God's grace, I have diligently examined these articles in the light of passages throughout the Scriptures. I have worked on them repeatedly and you can be sure that I want to defend them, in the same way that I have just defended the
Sacrament of the Altar.
No, I'm not drunk or impulsive. I know what I am saying and understand fully what this will mean for me as I stand before the Lord Jesus Christ on the Last Day. No one should think that I am joking or rambling. I'm serious! By God's grace, I know Satan very well. If Satan can turn God's Word upside down and pervert the Scriptures, what will he do with my words -- or the words of others?" - Martin Luther
”
”
Martin Luther
“
I Pray For This Girl
Oh yes! For the young girl
Who just landed on Mother Earth!
The one about to turn five with a smile
Or the other one who just turned nine
She is not only mine
My Mother’s, Grandmother’s
Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter
She is like a flower
Very fragile, yet so gorgeous
An Angel whose wings are invisible
I speak life to this young or older girl
She might not have a say
But expects the world to be a better place
Whether affluent or impoverished
No matter her state of mind
Her background must not determine
How she is treated
She needs to live, she has to thrive!
Lord God Almighty
Sanctify her unique journey
Save her from the claws of the enemy
Shield her against any brutality
Restore her if pain becomes a reality
Embrace her should joy pass swiftly
When emptiness fills her heart severely
May you be her sanctuary!
Dear Father, please give her
The honour to grow without being frightened
Hope whenever she feels forsaken
Contentment even after her heart was broken
Comfort when she is shaken
Courage when malice creeps in
Calm when she needs peace
Strength when she is weak
Freedom to climb on a mountain peak
And wisdom to tackle any season
Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling
My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble
Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble
Grant her power to tactfully triumph
On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl
I may have never met her
I may not know her name
I may not be in her shoes
I may not see her cries
Yet, I grasp her plight
Wherever she is
King of Kings
Be with her
Each and every day
I pray for this girl
”
”
Gift Gugu Mona (From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman)
“
sighed. “I can’t say that you weren’t expected.” “I’m just going to be walking around here and taking some measurements. It says here… you own eighty acres? That is one of the most gorgeous mansions I have ever seen,” he rambled on. “It must have cost you millions. I could never afford such a beauty. Well, heck, for that matter I couldn’t afford the millions of dollars in taxes a house like this would assess, let alone such a pricey property. Do you have an accountant?” Zo opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, “For an estate this size, I would definitely have one.” “I do have an accountant,” she cut in, with frustration. “Furthermore, I have invested a lot of money bringing this mansion up to speed. You can see my investment is great.” “Of course, it would be. The fact of the matter is, Mrs. Kane, a lot of people are in over their heads in property. You still have to pay up, or we take the place. Well, I’ll get busy now. Pay no mind to me.” He walked on, taking notes. “Clairrrrre!” Zo called as soon as she entered the house. “Bring your cell phone!” Two worry-filled months went by and many calls were made to lawyers, before Zoey finally picked one that made her feel confident. And then the letter came with the totals and the due date. “There is no way we can pay this, Mom, even if we sold off some of our treasures, because a lot of them are contracted to museums anyway. I am feeling awfully poor all of a sudden, and insecure.” “Yes, and I did some research, thinking I’d be forced to sell. It’s unlikely that anyone else around here can afford this place. It looks like they are going to get it all; they aren’t just charging for this year. What we have here is a value about equal to a little country. And all the new construction sites for housing developments suddenly popping up on this side of the river, does not help. Value is going up.” Zo put her head in her hands. “Ohhh, oh, oh, oh!” “Yeah, bring out the ice-cream and cake. I need comforting,” sighed Claire. The cell phone rang. “Yes, tonight? You guys have become pretty good to us, haven’t you?! You know, Bob, Mom and I thought we were just going to pig out on ice cream and cake. We found out we are losing this estate and are going to be poor again and we are bummed out.” There was a long pause. “No, that’s okay, I understand. Yeah, okay, bye.” “Well?” Zo ask dryly. “He was appropriately sorry, and he got off the phone fast, saying he remembered he had other business to take care of. Do you want to cry? I do…” “I’ll get the cake and dish the ice cream. You make our tea and we’ll cry together.” A pitter patter began to drum on the window. “Rain again. It seems softer though, dear.” “I thought you said this was going to be a softer rain!” It started to pour. “At least this is not a thunder storm… What was that?” “Thunder,” replied Claire, unmoved and resigned. An hour had gone by when there was a rapping at the door. “People rarely use the doorbell, ever notice that?” Zo asked on the way to the door. She opened it to reveal two wet guys holding a pizza, salad, soft drink, and giant chocolate chip cookies in a plastic container. In a plastic
”
”
Zoey Kane (The Riddles of Hillgate (Z & C Mysteries #1))
“
I Pray For This Girl
Oh yes! For the young girl
Who just landed on Mother Earth!
The one about to turn five with a smile
Or the other one who just turned nine
She is not only mine
My Mother’s, Grandmother’s
Neighbour’s or friend’s daughter
She is like a flower
Very fragile, yet so gorgeous
An Angel whose wings are invisible
I speak life to this young or older girl
She might not have a say
But expects the world to be a better place
Whether affluent or impoverished
No matter her state of mind
Her background must not determine
How she is treated
Like others, she needs to live
Indeed, she has to thrive!
Lord God Almighty
Sanctify her unique journey
Save her from the claws of the enemy
Shield her against any brutality
Restore her if pain becomes a reality
Embrace her should joy pass swiftly
When emptiness fills her heart severely
May you be her sanctuary!
Dear Father, please give her
The honour to grow without being frightened
Hope whenever she feels forsaken
Contentment even after her heart was broken
Comfort when she is shaken
Courage when malice creeps in
Calm when she needs peace
Strength when she is weak
Freedom to climb on a mountain peak
And wisdom to tackle any season
Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling
My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble
Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble
Grant her power to wisely triumph
On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl
I may have never met her
I may not know her name
I may not be in her shoes
I may not see her cries
Yet, I grasp her plight
Wherever she is
King of Kings
Be with her
Each and every day
I pray for this girl
”
”
Gift Gugu Mona (From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman)
“
I'm unaccustomed to being cooped up all day-I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk."
"Not on your life," Fletcher growled.
From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap.
"You don't need to think you're going to give us the slip so easily," Fletcher said again.
"My dear good man"-Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone-"just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I'm going to slip to?"
Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off.
"Oh,yes-in a round gown and evening slippers," Heather jeered. "But I wasn't suggesting you let me ramble on my own-Martha can come with me."
That was Martha's cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush.
Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. "Look you-we're under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you."
Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. "I'll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me."
Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn't the startling information contained in Fletcher's outburst. "Come on, Heather-follow up."
As if she'd heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on. "But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying-or at least to helping you comply with them."
Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh.
"All right," Fletcher's frustration had reached breaking point. "If you must know, we're to keep you safe from all harm. We're not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We're to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when he grabbed you."
From the change in Fletcher's tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn't work.
"So now you see," Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, "that it's entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble."
"Hmm." Heather's tone was tellingly mild.
Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land.
"If, as you say, your orders are to-do correct me if I'm wrong-keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me-if you don't wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup." She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, "A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution."
Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth.
A fraught moment passed on, then, "Oh, very well! Martha-go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more."
"Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha-we don't want to waste the light."
Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent.
The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.
”
”
Stephanie Laurens (Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (Cynster, #16; The Cynster Sisters Trilogy, #1))
“
On this account I feel always, on a Saturday night, as though I also were released from some yoke of labour, had some wages to receive, and some luxury of repose to enjoy. For the sake, therefore, of witnessing, upon as large a scale as possible, a spectacle with which my sympathy was so entire, I used after, on Saturday nights, after I had taken opium, to wander forth, without much regarding the direction or the sistance, to all the markets, and other parts of London, to which the poor resort on a Saturday night, for laying out their wages. Many a family party, consisting of a man, his wife, and sometimes one or two of his children, have I listened to, as they stood consulting on their ways and means, or the strength of their exchequer, or the price of household articles. Gradually I became familiar with their wishes, their difficulties, and their opinions. Sometimes there might be heard murmers of discontent: but far oftener expressions on the countenance, or uttered in words, of patience, hope, and tranquillity. And taken generally, I must say, that, in this point at least, the poor are far more philosophic than the rich - that they show a more ready and cheerful submission to what they consider as irremediable evils, or irreparable losses. Whenever I saw occasion, or could do it without appearing to be intrusive, I joined their parties; and gave my opinion upon the matter in discussion, which, if not always judicious, was always received indulgently. If wages were a little higher, or expected to be so, or the quartern loaf a little lower, or it was reported that onions and butter were expected to fall, I was glad: yet, if the contrary were true, I drew from opium some means of consoling myself. For opium (like the bee, that extracts its materials indiscriminately from roses and from the soot of chimneys) can overrule all feelings into a compliance with the master key. Some of these rambles lead me to great distances: for an opium-eater is too happy to observe the motion of time.
”
”
Thomas de Quincey (Confessions of an English Opium Eater and Analects From John Paul Richter)
“
Tom often met Winterborne for a quick lunch at one of the cook shops or chop houses between their respective offices. It was on one of these occasions that Winterborne revealed West Ravenel had just become engaged to marry Phoebe, Lady Clare, a young widow with two small sons, Justin and Stephen.
“I suspected he would,” Tom said, pleased by the revelation. “I went to Jenner’s Club with him the night before last, and she was all he wanted to talk about.”
“I heard about that,” Winterborne commented. “It seems you and Ravenel encountered a bit of trouble.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Lady Clare’s former suitor came to the table with a pistol in hand. It wasn’t nearly as interesting as it sounds. He was soon disarmed and hauled off by a night porter.” He leaned back in his seat as the barmaid set plates of chilled crab salad and celery in front of them. “But before that happened, Ravenel was rambling on about Lady Clare, and how he wasn’t good enough for her because of his disreputable past, and how he was worried about setting a bad example for her children.”
Winterborne’s black eyes were keen with interest. “What did you say?”
Tom shrugged. “The match is to his advantage, and what else matters? Lady Clare is wealthy, beautiful, and the daughter of a duke. As for her sons … no matter what example you set, children insist on turning out how they will.” Tom took a swallow of ale before continuing. “Scruples always complicate a decision unnecessarily. They’re like those extra body parts none of us need.”
Winterborne paused in the act of lifting a forkful of dressed crab to his lips. “What extra body parts?”
“Things like the appendix. Male nipples. The external ears.”
“I need my ears.”
“Only the inner parts. The outer ear structure is superfluous in humans.”
Winterborne looked sardonic. “I need them to hold up my hat.”
Tom grinned and shrugged, conceding the point. “In any case, Ravenel has managed to win the hand of a fine woman. Good for him.”
They lifted their glasses and clinked them in a toast.
”
”
Lisa Kleypas (Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels, #6))
“
You should buy a potted plant.”
I laugh at that as I sit on the wooden picnic table at the park in the dark, listening to Jack ramble through the speakerphone beside me. “A plant.”
“Seriously, hear me out—you get a plant. You nurture it, keep it alive, and wham-bam, that’s how you know you’re ready for this whole thing.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a real thing. I saw it in that movie 28 Days.”
“The zombie one?”
“Nah, man, the Sandra Bullock one. You’re thinking about 28 Days Later.”
“You steal your advice from Sandra Bullock movies?”
“Oh, don’t you fucking judge me. It’s a hell of a lot better than that shit you keep making. And besides, it’s good advice.”
“Buy a plant.”
“Yes.”
“Did you buy one?”
“What?”
“A plant,” I say. “Did you buy yourself a plant to prove you’re ready for a relationship?”
“No,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need a plant to tell me what I already know,” he says. “I’m wearing a pair of emoji boxers and eating hot Cheetos in my basement apartment. Pretty sure the signs are all there.”
“Emoji boxers?” I laugh. “Talk about a stereotypical internet troll.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says. “This isn’t about me, though. We’re talking about you.”
“I’m tired of talking about me.”
“Holy shit, seriously? Didn’t think that was possible!”
“Funny.”
“Remember that interview you did on The Late Show two years ago?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You were stoned out of your mind, kept referring to yourself in third person.”
“Fuck off.”
“Pretty sure that guy would never be tired of talking about himself.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He laughs. “True.”
“You get on my nerves.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Thank you.”
“Now go buy yourself a plant,” he says. “I was in the middle of a game of Call of Duty when you called, so I’m going to get back to it.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Oh, and Cunning? I’m glad you haven’t drowned yourself in a bottle of whiskey.”
“Why? Would you miss me?”
“More like your fangirls might murder me if I let you destroy yourself,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re crazy. Have you seen some of their fan art? It’s insane.”
“Goodbye, Jack,” I say, pressing the button on my phone to end the call
”
”
J.M. Darhower (Ghosted)
“
She is pissed off all the time,” he mumbled and I remained silent, letting him ramble. “She wants chocolate ice cream, I go in search of chocolate, but the time I get back she’s pissed because she wants strawberry instead. I can’t win.”
He looked me straight in the eyes and I swear his expression was one of desperation.
“It wasn’t like this before. With Liam she was so sweet. But I swear the damn devil has possessed my wife and she might kill me in my sleep one night.”
It was then I laughed.
“What the hell is so funny?” he asked. “I sleep with one eye open and one leg hanging off the bed touching the floor at my side. This way if I have to move fast I feel I’m one step closer.”
He didn’t smile. There was absolutely no humor in his words.
“Weren’t you the one that said you wanted five kids?” I asked.
“I changed my mind. After this one, we’re done. I want Trinity back.”
Again, complete seriousness. Poor guy looked lost. And it was the best damn thing to witness. Within four months of having Liam, Trinity was pregnant again. And this time she was cranky as hell. Everyone noticed it, but she directed all that aggravation toward the man she said was to blame. And the rest of us loved to witness his hell.
“Go home, Chase,” I told him and he looked as if he wanted to argue. “Stop at the store and pick up every flavor of ice cream they got,” I told him. “Tell her she’s beautiful and rub her feet.”
“I do that already,” he whined. “I tell her she’s beautiful, and no other woman has ever looked as amazing as her. I tell her I love her and that she is my world, but she is like the exorcist.”
“Well it’s your job to take it. Let her growl and complain and just take it,” I told him. “Because at the end of the day you just need to remember one thing.” He looked at me like I was about to give him the best piece of advice. I almost felt bad about the fact that I had nothing reassuring to say.
“What?” he asked and I cracked a smile, almost talking myself out of taking the chance at being an asshole. Then I thought about the fact that had the roles been reversed he would have jumped at the chance.
“You are to blame for the state she is in.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “And the rest of us guys are loving that it’s you and not us being tortured.”
“You’re an asshole,” he mumbled as he turned around and walked off toward his truck. I laughed the entire drive home.
”
”
C.A. Harms (Trinity's Trust (Sawyer Brothers #5))
“
She had not wanted to come, and now that she was there, she was still praying for deliverance.
“Aunt Berta!” she said forcefully as the front door of the great, rambling house was swung open. The butler stepped aside, and footmen hurried forward. “Aunt Berta!” she said urgently, and in desperation Elizabeth reached for the maid’s tightly clenched eyelid. She pried it open and looked straight into a frightened brown orb. “Please do not do this to me, Berta. I’m counting on you to act like an aunt, not a timid mouse. They’re almost upon us.”
Berta nodded, swallowed, and straightened in her seat, then she smoothed her black bombazine skirts.
“How do I look?” Elizabeth whispered urgently.
“Dreadful,” said Berta, eyeing the severe, high-necked black linen gown Elizabeth had carefully chosen to wear at this, her first meeting with the prospective husband whom Alexandra had described as a lecherous old roué. To add to her nunlike appearance, Elizabeth’s hair was scraped back off her face, pinned into a bun a la Lucida, and covered with a short veil. Around her neck she wore the only piece of “jewelry” she intended to wear for as long as she was here-a large, ugly iron crucifix she’d borrowed from the family chapel.
“Completely dreadful, milady,” Berta added with more strength to her voice. Ever since Robert’s disappearance, Berta had elected to address Elizabeth as her mistress instead of in the more familiar ways she’d used before.
“Excellent,” Elizabeth said with an encouraging smile. “So do you.”
The footman opened the door and let down the steps, and Elizabeth went first, following by her “aunt.” She let Berta step forward, then she turned and looked up at Aaron, who was atop the coach. Her uncle had permitted her to take six servants from Havenhurst, and Elizabeth had chosen them with care. “Don’t forget,” she warned Aaron needlessly. “Gossip freely about me with any servant who’ll listen to you. You know what to say.”
“Aye,” he said with a devilish grin. “We’ll tell them all what a skinny ogress you are-prim ‘n proper enough to scare the devil himself into leading a holy life.”
Elizabeth nodded and reluctantly turned toward the house. Fate had dealt her this hand, and she had no choice but to play it out as best she could. With head held high and knees shaking violently she walked forward until she drew even with Berta. The butler stood in the doorway, studying Elizabeth with bold interest, giving her the incredible impression that he was actually trying to locate her breasts beneath the shapeless black gown she wore.
”
”
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
“
I’m first up, love,” Arion says as he starts invading my space again. “I thought the only thing holding you back was your fear. Clearly the fear is absent if you’re willing to turn yourself over to the very darkest part of me. It’s amazing you’re in one piece, so clearly you played submissive very well, Violet. It’s because you were ready for me to save you and overcame your fear of me. Now we can be together.”
When I say nothing and simply stare at him like he’s forever losing his mind more and more when we speak, he frowns like he’s genuinely perplexed.
“Arion, no matter what you did, I couldn’t have endured another second of those cries. And you were at Abby’s mercy while in that state. You ripped my throat out and told me to put on some healing potion so you could sit down and watch the fight.”
Apparently, I guess right, because his pupils widen marginally.
“I held your hand when you finished,” he says like he’s defending himself.
“So you could watch the fight.”
“Vance was focused. It’s been ages since he focused. Thing of beauty while it happens,” he says as if that’s important information.
I gesture between us. “That’s sort of the problem. I feel like the conduit for your feelings for them because you have heterosexual body parts with a homosexual mentality. I’m not sure I’m okay with simply being a conduit,” I carefully explain, causing his eyes to widen a little more, as several muffled sounds of amusement spring from somewhere else in the room.
“I’m sorry, love, but you’ve really lost me,” Arion says very seriously, brow crinkling.
“You want this to be a thing between you and me, even though Idun is returning, because you want them back. It looks like you’re getting that without me, so we can be friends,” I suggest, completely rambling.
I don’t think I’m explaining this very well, since they’re all muffling laughter down the hall. Even Vance makes a choked sound of amusement.
Or they’re just really immature about these things…
That’s definitely possible.
Arion scrubs a hand over his face, as someone struggles to cover a surprise laugh with a cough.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be having this conversation right now. It’s inappropriate to do with an audience,” I babble. “But you’re really intense. And I’ve just survived an apocalyptic wolf storm with your mostly naked beta, whose threads are still in my bra because one set of clothes ended up being enough.”
The look of frustrated confusion on his face doubles.
“I could use a small break before we discuss curses, some really confusing relationship statuses, and the somewhat terrifying woman you’ve all loved rising very soon. And those wolves stole my oranges, so I need to go back and get all of them.”
“I’ve already returned them to your cellar,” Emit says from somewhere behind Arion.
“Then I need to go start using them while they’re useable,” I say as I quickly disentangle myself from Arion and attempt to escape. “I’ll return the shirt.”
“Keep it,” he says quietly from behind me, as I finally take in the other three all standing somewhat close together, smirking at me.
“I’ll drive you home,” Damien says with a slow grin.
“I’m not talking to you, and if you’re a smart man, you’ll figure out why,” I state firmly. “Only when you figure it out will we discuss it.”
“I’ll take you—”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now, because I need to get my cool back,” I tell Emit, whose eyes immediately flick away, as his jaw tics.
He’s had multiple opportunities to explain to me why he told Damien I was a monster, and yet didn’t even bother telling me what I was. All this time, I’ve been patiently waiting, refusing to get too angry.
Now…I’m getting sort of freaking angry, because he still hasn’t said one word about it.
“Guess that just leaves me,” Vance says as he puts his hand at the small of my back and starts guiding me out.
”
”
Kristy Cunning (Gypsy Moon (All The Pretty Monsters, #4))
“
Still physically shaken by the bomb blast which so nearly had cut short his career, the Fuehrer raves and rambles, boasts, threatens, and complains. As he meanders through the “conference,” really a solo performance, one idea reappears again and again: the final decision must come in the west and if necessary the other fronts must suffer so that a concentrated, major effort can be made there. No definite plans can be made as yet, says Hitler, but he himself will accept the responsibility for planning and for command; the latter he will exercise from a headquarters some place in the Black Forest or the Vosges. To guarantee secrecy, nobody will be allowed to inform the Commander in Chief West or his staff of these far-reaching plans; the WFSt, that is, Jodl, must form a small operational staff to aid the Fuehrer by furnishing any needed data.7
”
”
Hugh M. Cole (The Ardennes - Battle of the Bulge (World War II from Original Sources))
“
Miss Hendricks, Thank you for your letter telling of my family. For a little while after I heard of Adabelle’s passing, I still received her regular letters. And then I figured I’d have nothing. But your note arrived, and with it, I found hope again. Sometimes I wonder if you are an angel instead of a woman, to step in and take care of my kids, my house, with no tie to us other than your aunt’s kindness to our family. She talked about you. Did you know that? She missed you and your brother, hated the falling out with her sister, although she never mentioned the cause. I think she pretended my family was hers. And that was fine with us, for Clara and I didn’t have anyone, either. I guess she was as close to a grandmother as my children will ever know. Sorry for rambling on so. Not what you expect of a letter from a stranger, I imagine. What I really wrote to say is that I’m due to ship out for the States soon. After a few days of debriefing at a military base, I’ll make my way home. You can bet I’ll be looking for the quickest way. I’d hate to disrupt your life any longer than necessary. Sincerely, Frank Gresham
”
”
Anne Mateer (Wings of a Dream)
“
It was my father and I that were inseparable. His darling girl; that's what he called me. He understood me- his bright, easily bored, passionate, underdog-defending, in-need-of-large-doses-of-physical-activity-and-changes-of-scenery daughter. And more important than understanding me, he liked me. He was most proud when I took the road less traveled by.
It wouldn't be exaggerating to say I lived for the look of delight and surprise in his eyes when I accomplished something out of the ordinary. Beating him at chess. Reading the unabridged version of Anna Karenina when I was ten. Starting a campfire with nothing but a flint and a knife.
But now it seemed our father and daughter skins were growing too small. I still craved his attention and approval, but he gave it more sparingly. Our long, rambling conversations about everything and anything- the speed of light, the Cuban missile crisis, how many minutes on each side to grill a perfect medium-rare steak- had petered out, replaced with the most quotidian of inquiries: Is Gunsmoke on tonight? Is it supposed to snow tomorrow? When's the last time the grass was cut?
”
”
Melanie Gideon (Valley of the Moon)
“
Lerner held that Brigadoon was one of Minnelli’s least vivacious efforts, despite the potential offered by CinemaScope. Only the wedding scene and the chase that follows reveal Minnelli’s unique touch. Before shooting began, Freed rushed to inform Lerner that “Vincente is bubbling over with enthusiasm about Brigadoon.” But, evidently, his heart was not in this film. Early on, Minnelli made a mistake and confessed to Kelly that he really hadn’t liked the Broadway show. As a film, Brigadoon was curiously flat and rambling, lacking in warmth or charm, and the direction lacks Minnelli’s usual vitality and smooth flow. Admittedly, Lerner’s fairy-tale story was too much of a wistful fancy. Two American hunters go astray in the Scottish hills, landing in a remote village that seems to be lost in time. One of the fellows falls in love with a bonnie lass from the past, which naturally leads to some complications. Minnelli thought that it would be better to set the story in 1774, after the revolts against English rule had ended. For research about the look of the cottages, he consulted with the Scottish Tourist Board in Edinburgh. But the resulting set of the old highland village looks artificial, despite the décor, the Scottish costumes, the heather blossoms, and the scenic backdrops. Inexplicably, some of the good songs that made the stage show stand out, such as “Come to Me, Bend to Me,” “My Mother’s Wedding Day,” and “There But for You Go I,” were omitted from the film. Other songs, such as “The Heather on the Hill” and “Almost Like Being in Love,” had some charm, though not enough to sustain the musical as a whole. Moreover, the energy of the stage dances was lost in the transfer to the screen, which was odd, considering that Kelly and Charisse were the dancers. For some reason, their individual numbers were too mechanical. What should have been wistful and lyrical became an exercise in trickery and by-now-predictable style. With the exception of “The Chase,” wherein the wild Scots pursue a fugitive from their village, the ensemble dances were dull. Onstage, Agnes de Mille’s choreography gave the dance a special energetic touch, whereas Kelly’s choreography in the film was mediocre at best and uninspired at worst. It didn’t help that Kelly and Charisse made an odd, unappealing couple. While he looks thin and metallic, she seems too solemn and often just frozen. The rest of the cast was not much better. Van Johnson, as Kelly’s friend, pouts too much. As Scottish villagers, Barry Jones, Hugh Laing, and Jimmy Thompson act peculiarly, to say the least.
”
”
Emanuel Levy (Vincente Minnelli: Hollywood's Dark Dreamer)
“
In this book, when I say “Don’t think,” what I mean is: don’t listen to the chatter. Pay no attention to those rambling, disjointed images and notions that drift across the movie screen of your mind.
”
”
Steven Pressfield (Do the Work)
“
I am an enthusiastic and hard worker, I would like to believe, but often the lack of support or the unnecessary questioning by those around me can cause feelings of self-questioning and lowering of self-esteem, even when I know I am doing my job to the best of my ability, professionally and ethically. This environmental atmosphere can lead to immense self-stress. I'm a harsh critic to myself and the positivity is stifled when there is a lack of external support to appease the self-critic. Things I say to myself: Is that good enough? Clarified enough? I thought I was pretty clear on my thoughts, processes and justifications, so why am I having to justify myself? Is what I'm saying not reasonable?
The explanatory ramble that I often go on feels like an internal friction burn. Like a cramp no one can see.' - Rebecca Cunningham
”
”
Emma Gannon (Sabotage)
“
the more people were listening, the more he tended to forget what he intended to say and go off on tangents. In truth, he had to admit that sometimes he rambled a bit with only a few listeners.
”
”
Robert Jordan (Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time, #11))
“
younger brother, Proteus, would take over the kingdom, and the two of them hated each other. In desperation, Acrisius took a trip to the Oracle of Delphi to get his fortune read. Now, going to the Oracle is usually what we call a bad idea. You had to take a long trip to the city of Delphi and visit this dark cave at the edge of town, where a veiled lady sat on a three-legged stool, inhaling volcanic vapour all day and seeing visions. You would leave an expensive offering with the priests at the door. Then you could ask the Oracle one question. Most likely, she’d answer you with some rambling riddle. Then you’d leave confused, terrified and poorer. But, like I said, Acrisius was desperate. He asked, ‘O Oracle, what’s the deal with me not having any sons? Who’s supposed to take the throne and carry on the family name?’ This time, the Oracle did not speak in riddles. ‘That’s easy,’ she said in a raspy voice. ‘You will never have sons. One day your daughter Danaë will have a son. That boy will kill you and become the next king of Argos. Thank you for your offering. Have a nice day.’ Stunned and angry, Acrisius returned home. When he got to the palace, his daughter came to see him. ‘Father, what’s wrong? What did the Oracle say?’ He stared at Danaë – his beautiful girl with her long dark hair and lovely brown eyes. Many men had asked to marry her. Now all Acrisius could think about was the prophecy. He could never allow Danaë to marry. She could never have a son. She wasn’t his daughter any more. She was his death sentence.
”
”
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Gods)
“
Why do I have no filter around Beckett, why? I'm rambling and rambling and saying things to him that are beyond hideous. Maybe it's because I know he'd never date a girl like me. Professional athletes land supermodels, so my brain must have sorted that out so I say whatever the hell I want.
”
”
Aven Ellis (The Aubrey Rules (Chicago on Ice #1))
“
Two men are travelling together along a road. One of them believes that it leads to a Celestial City, the other that it leads nowhere; but since this is the only road there is, both must travel
it. Neither has been this way before, and therefore neither is able to say what they will find around each next comer. During their journey they meet both with moments of refreshment and delight, and with moments of hardship and danger. All the time one of them thinks of his journey as a pilgrimage to the Celestial City and interprets the pleasant parts as encouragements and the obstacles as trials of his purpose and lessons in endurance, prepared by the king of that city and designed to make of him a worthy citizen of the place when at last he arrives there. The other, however, believes none of this and sees their journey as an unavoidable and aimless ramble. Since he has no choice in the matter, he enjoys the good and endures the bad. But for him there is no Celestial City to be reached, no all-encompassing purpose ordaining their journey; only the road itself and the luck of the road in good weather and in bad.
During the course of the journey the issue between them is not an experimental one. They do not entertain different expectations about the corning details of the road, but only about its ultimate destination. And yet when they do turn the last corner of it will be apparent that one of them has been right all the time and the other wrong. Thus although the issue between them has not been experimental, it has nevertheless from the start been a real issue. They have not merely felt differently about the road; for one was feeling appropriately and the other inappropriately in relation to the actual state of affairs. Their opposed interpretations of the road constituted genuinely rival assertions, though assertions whose assertion-status has the peculiar characteristic of being guaranteed retrospectively by a future crux.
”
”
John Hick
“
He said, ‘You know what’s great about working with wood? You can make it anything you want it to be, but it’s still a chunk of wood.’” Pausing mid-sip, Dolores cocked her head, a puzzled expression on her round face. “What was that old fool rambling on about?” “I think he was trying to say you can’t change your circumstances, but you are responsible for what you make of them.
”
”
Rachael Bloome (The Clause in Christmas (Poppy Creek, #1))
“
Your dream is the mole
behind your ear,
that chip in your
front tooth,
your freckles.
It's the thing that makes
you special,
but not the thing that makes
you great.
The courage in trying,
the passion in living,
and the acknowledgement
and appreciation of
the beauty happening around you does that.
Dreamer,
I am not fit to say much more,
because I don't know much more than that.
If you do,
please write back.
If not,
please accept this
as just a few words
of encouragement.
And if this letter means nothing to you,
if it's just more pointless weight
added to an already heavy life,
feel free to burn it
and use it for firelight
for this
long and often dark
road.
But if you somehow find truth,
comfort,
or anything at all
within this ramble,
keep it close
and use it for firelight
for this
long and often dark
road.
”
”
Jason Reynolds (For Every One)
“
The Secret on How to Write Comedy
In a fashionable context, comedy is a subjective element. Making humans funny is an incredibly difficult job and developing a chunk of comedy is even more difficult. If you are an aspiring comedy writer, there is loads to be found out and Filipino concert in Las Vegas( ticklemecomedy.com) in case you lack that writing skills, there's no way you may produce an excellent comedy piece.
So how do you write stuff that is actually funny and will make everyone roll round in laughter? Are there definitely techniques on how to write comedy or steps with a view to decorate your comedic writing? Maybe these are the questions rambling around your thoughts now. Well, happily, there are some easy strategies on for writing humorous cloth.
Tips on How to Write Comedy
Like all different forms of writing, comedy writing is no one of a kind. It additionally takes exercise to get it right. Some comedic writers might also master the artwork of comedy writing with only a little exercise while a few conflict lots before getting Filipino show in Las Vegas to know it.
With that being said, every person who wants to realize the secret to writing high-quality comedy need to consider some easy pointers. Whether you come to be being funny or no longer, the most essential element is which you have discovered how to excellent write comedic cloth and are capable of produce quality comedy pieces.
To assist you emerge as a very good comedic writer, beneath are some guidelines.
• Choose the type of comedy - One tip on how to write comedic portions is to pick out the type of humor you need to exhibit. There are various forms of comedy along with slapstick, parody, dark humor, edgy humor, own family humor, dry observational humor, and plenty of others. You simply need to select one in your comedy piece and paintings on it. Failure to consciousness on one sort of humor will end result on your audience being careworn.
• Use warfare - Another golden rule is to discover the battle in anything and play on the boundaries. Professional comedic writers say that anger is frequently the middle of all comedy. But this doesn't suggest however that you need to be a raging psycho simply so one can realize the way to write comedy. This virtually approach that you got to have the ability to address a conflict in a humorous manner.
• Carefully choose your words - Successful comedic playwrights realize nicely the way to maximize the comedic impact. Obviously, they are experts in finding the funniest in everything. Choose phrases that sound funny and discover ways to tweak your paintings to give you actual funny piece.
• Know how and whilst to magnify - In comedy, "extra" is generally better. Think approximately conditions that might be funnier if things have been exaggerated a chunk. Something mildly humorous can quickly Las Vegas Filipino shows become hilarious with a little bit of embellishment.
• Timing - In comedy, timing is the whole thing. It is a totally critical component in writing comedy. You want to inject the proper joke inside the proper location and in the right time. This is in which your punch traces ought to appear. This also manner understanding whilst to end. But take word that timing depends significantly at the sort of comedy you're pursuing.
Practice makes best
After being given these few hints on how to write comedy, you need to have a terrific begin composing fine, comedic work. But as the famous adage says "Practice makes best" so preserve to exercise and work at your stuff. You don't always want to be intrinsically humorous to study comedic writing but it'll help.
”
”
Saima Mir
“
I Pray For This Girl
Oh yes! For the young girl
Who just landed on Mother Earth!
The one about to turn five with a smile
Or the other one who just turned nine
She is not only mine
My Mother’s, Grandmother’s
Neighbours’ or friends’ daughter
She is like a flower
Very fragile, yet so gorgeous
An angel whose wings are invisible
I speak life to this young or older girl
She might not have a say
But expects the world to be a better place
Whether affluent or impoverished
No matter her state of mind
Her background must not determine
How she is treated in life
She needs to live; she has to thrive!
Lord God Almighty
Sanctify her unique journey
Save her from the claws of the enemy
Shield her against any brutality
Restore her, if pain becomes reality
Embrace her, should joy pass swiftly
When emptiness fills her heart severely
May you be her sanctuary!
Dear Father, please give her
Honour to grow without being frightened
Hope whenever she feels forsaken
Contentment even after her heart was broken
Comfort when she is shaken
Courage when malice creeps in
Calm when she needs peace
Strength when she is weak
Freedom to climb to the mountain peak
And wisdom to tackle any season
Guide her steps, keep her from tumbling
My Lord, if she does sometimes stumble
Lift her up, so she can rise and ramble
Grant her power to tactfully triumph
On my knees, I plead meekly for this girl
I may have never met her
I may not know her name
I may not be in her shoes
I may not see her cries
Yet, I grasp her plight
Wherever she is
King of Kings
Be with her
Each and every day
I pray for this girl
”
”
Gift Gugu Mona (From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman)
“
No one has ever said that to me before, and I've certainly never said it to anyone...or imagined that I ever would. I thought love would make me weak. And I was right, because when you said it, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Christ, I'm rambling. What I'm trying to say is... I love you too.
”
”
Jae (Just a Touch Away)
“
No one has ever said that to me before, and I've certainly never said it to anyone...or imagined that I ever would. I thought love would make me weak. And I was right, because when you said it, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Christ, I'm rambling. What I'm trying to say is... I love you too.
”
”
Chencia C. Higgins (D'Vaughn and Kris Plan a Wedding)
“
Each book and each paper, as it turned out, had quite a bit to say. They murmured and rambled; they talked over one another; they stepped on each other's voices.
”
”
Kelly Barnhill (The Girl Who Drank the Moon)
“
... so, any last requests?"
"Huh...did you say something?" I yawned, then looked up at Dasha, feigning utter boredom.
The scowl on her face looks like she figured out her repugnant rambling fell on deaf ears.
Ha hah!
It’s the little things…
”
”
Jacklyn Scott Rogers (The First Twist (Twisted Fates, #1))
“
Sorry, I am rambling. The corner of his mouth lifts. Don't be. I kind of like the sound of your voice.
”
”
Meagan Brandy (Say You Swear (Boys of Avix, #1))
“
Erica acted as though she didn’t even see him, rambling on about hucking off ledges and pulling kangaroo flips in the terrain park, until we were well past him and at the ice rink again. Then she turned to me, fluttered her eyelashes, and announced, “Let’s go ice-skating!” I stared at her, thrown. There weren’t any bodyguards around for her to be acting in front of, and yet “Let’s go ice-skating!” was one of the last things I would have ever expected to hear Erica Hale say, along the lines of “I love scrapbooking,” or “Unicorns are awesome.
”
”
Stuart Gibbs (Spy Ski School (Spy School, #4))
“
He would do better, Mary thought, to say less and think more; but as he rambled on, she understood that would never happen. He would always condemn himself out of his own mouth, and would do so in complete ignorance of the poor impression he made.
”
”
Janice Hadlow (The Other Bennet Sister)
“
She looks up at me with misty eyes. ‘Talking of boys- are you eager about tonight?’ ‘About what?’ I say acting like I don't know what is going to go down, or don’t even know what she’s talking about. I play dumb! Her words are all running past me, faster than how she drives, everything is distorted together. Jenny always talks like that when she gets upset. Her words go into overdrive. I’m holding on to the bedpost, trying not to fall over, or on top of Jenny, I would love to sit down yet, Jenny is hogging up my single bed. She said- ‘I think you should back up with Ray or do him already.’ She throws me a condom from her purse.
I said- ‘Who do you think would be my type then?’ ‘You, Marcel, some worm Bud Lite, and his Star Wars sheets. OMG that would be perfect and she giggles. ‘How romantic,’ she shouted. Though, I was thinking OMG Jenny you’re always right. Like it would be so romantic, yet little did she know I felt that way, already… I never realized how much of a weirdo I am. I have fallen to a complete nerd, on the outside, I have completely changed, but on the inside, I am one too! We all try to be something we're not in high school, even Jenny has everyone fooled.
Nevertheless, the ones that seem the most put together are the ones that are falling apart the most. No one’s life is as good as it seems, and it’s even worse when you’re like Jull’s and Madilyn that have us throwing crap in their faces. I stand here feeling like such an ass hole, not even hearing what Jenny is rambling on about, because it’s nonsense, compared to what I have done in my thoughts.
-White teeth teens are out-
#- Hashtag: (unperfect girls, the charmed life, we want real love)
I go pee one last time, and Jenny flows me in the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tube looking at me as I go. Then after I got up, she went, I was thinking like we didn’t need to do this together, yet how Jenny is we have to do everything together. That is when my sis walks into my room and says- ‘I have to Ba-bath Karly, would I get my stuff Re-ready and help me take a bath?’ I try to close the door saying get mom to bath you, but she wedges her hand in at the last minute and pushes into the bathroom.
”
”
Marcel Ray Duriez (Nevaeh Dreaming of you Play with Me)
“
two are closely interconnected. That the more fully we understand the brevity of our time, the greater is our aperture for understanding the enormous grandeur of it. Smallness, I once heard Pope Francis say from his balcony high above St. Peter’s Square, is the true path to salvation.
”
”
Neil King Jr. (American Ramble: A Walk of Memory and Renewal)
“
I’m still trying to figure out what “okay” is, particularly whether there exists a normal version of myself beneath the disorder, in the way a person with cancer is a healthy person first and foremost. In the language of cancer, people describe a thing that “invades” them so that they can then “battle” the cancer. No one ever says that a person is cancer, or that they have become cancer, but they do say that a person is manic-depressive or schizophrenic, once those illnesses have taken hold. In my peer education courses I was taught to say that I am a person with schizoaffective disorder. “Person-first language” suggests that there is a person in there somewhere without the delusions and the rambling and the catatonia.
”
”
Esmé Weijun Wang (The Collected Schizophrenias: Essays)
“
That I-me-mine self is constructed largely in and by the brain’s medial prefrontal cortex. It’s assisted by the medial temporal lobe, the parietal lobe, and the PCC of which we’ll hear more in Chapter 3. This brain network allows us to do things that other animals cannot. We can compose music and calculate math. We have a sense of time that includes past and future, allowing us to delay gratification to meet our goals. We are able to contemplate the very nature of consciousness, using the brain to think about our thoughts. Yet consciousness is always turned on. Whether we’re focusing on a task using the TPN or listening to the rambling of the demon, the engine is running at 2,000 RPM. There’s no easy way of shutting off our thoughts, of getting outside the self. In his book The Curse of Self, psychologist Mark Leary of Duke University shows the many downsides of this perpetual self-awareness. He shows that it leads to many forms of suffering, including “depression, anxiety, anger, jealousy, and other negative emotions.” He concludes that self-awareness is “single-handedly responsible for many, if not most of the problems that human beings face as individuals and as a species.” We can summarize this state in a single word: “selfing.” Meditation quiets self-awareness and gives us relief from selfing. In experienced meditators, the “self” parts of the prefrontal cortex go offline. The jargon for this is “hypofrontality.” Hypo is the opposite of hyper, and hypofrontality means the shutting down of the brain’s frontal lobes. The inner critic shuts up. The negative self-talk about “who I am” and “what I do” and “what other people think of me” ceases. We quit selfing. This gives us a sense of identity beyond the suffering self and all the roles it plays. Psychologist Robert Kegan is the former head of adult psychology at Harvard University. He calls the transcendence of selfing the “subject-object shift.” In altered states, we get out of the subjective selves we normally think we are. To be objective, you can’t be the object you’re contemplating. So when the brain enters a state of hypofrontality and we’re no longer enmeshed in the local self, we gain perspective on it. We realize we’re more than that. To realize it’s an object we’re observing, we have to step out of the suffering self. We see the demon from a distance as we step into an identity that is vastly greater than the one we previously inhabited. 2.8. When we make the subject-object shift we escape the limitations of the finite self. Kegan believes that making this jump is the most powerful way to facilitate personal transformation. He says that after it makes the subject-object shift, “the self is more about movement through different states of consciousness than about defending and identifying with any one form.
”
”
Dawson Church (Bliss Brain: The Neuroscience of Remodeling Your Brain for Resilience, Creativity, and Joy)
“
I heard you were in a fight,” I speak.
His eyes snap up to look at mine before they go to Haidyn. “Saint…I didn’t…”
“Hit my wife?” I arch a brow, and he swallows. “I guess the footage I saw of you and her in the elevator must have been fake as well?” I look at Haidyn who snorts.
“I…uh, no…I didn’t—” he rambles unable to lie but refusing to tell me the truth.
“Threaten to rape and kill her.” I finish for him. Not caring what else he has to say, I push off the counter and step forward, and he starts screaming, trying to pull away, but he’s not going anywhere.
Devin pushes the cart over to Emerson and removes the syringe as Emerson begins to scream. He knows what’s coming. He’s been through it before. It’s routine for brandings. But this one will be a little different. The Spade brothers pride themselves on being creative. It’s not as if there is a rule book on how to torture and kill people. But if there ever was, we would be the ones to write it.
”
”
Shantel Tessier (Carnage (L.O.R.D.S., #5))
“
He holds the knife above my head. “Are you going to use it on either me or Garrett?” Not that he seems put off by the idea, more curious.
“Why? We both know you would enjoy it.” I wink before punching him in the gut. He bends over, wheezing, and I pluck the blade from his hand and turn to the cans as he laughs breathlessly.
“I’m gonna marry her,” he tells Garrett, but I ignore that, taking it as just another one of his crazy ramblings.
“You have to ask her, genius.” Garrett chuckles.
“Nah, I’ll just put a ring on her finger one day and tell her it happened,” he declares earnestly.
Rolling my eyes, I toss the knife like Rich once taught me. It hits the can and knocks it off. Whooping, I turn to them with a smirk. “Remember that when you piss me off next time.” Stalking around the table, I grab the knife and wander back over as they watch me in shock. Flipping it in the air, showing off, I drop it in Diesel’s hand. “Thanks, crazy.”
I saunter away, their eyes still locked on me. “I think I just came,” I hear Diesel say.
Garrett snorts. “You’re nasty.”
“You telling me you didn’t just get hard?” Diesel asks loudly.
“I ain’t talking about my cock with you,” he replies as I giggle.
”
”
K.A. Knight (Den of Vipers)
“
i’ve watched you from afar and you really are the best person that i have met in my whole life. you possess the ability to make people listen to you without question, even if you don’t often use it. i almost want to be you. does that make any sense? i bet it doesn’t. i’m just rambling on. i’m sorry.
anyway. i hope, when one day we meet again, you will listen to me, and pay attention. i do not have anyone else to whom i could say these things. you might not even be listening now. then again, you do not have to listen if you do not want to. who am i to make you do anything? i’m not, i’m nothing. but you – oh, you – why, i’d listen to you for hours.
”
”
Alice Oseman (Radio Silence)