Side Profile Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Side Profile. Here they are! All 100 of them:

Aren't the clouds beautiful? They look like big balls of cotton... I could just lie here all day, and watch them drift by... If you use your imagination, you can see lots of things in the cloud formations... What do you think you see, Linus?" "Well, those clouds up there look like the map of the British Honduras on the Caribbean... That cloud up there looks a little like the profile of Thomas Eakins, the famous painter and sculptor... And that group of clouds over there gives me the impression of the stoning of Stephen... I can see the apostle Paul standing there to one side..." "Uh huh... That's very good... What do you see in the clouds, Charlie Brown?" "Well, I was going to say I saw a ducky and a horsie, but I changed my mind!
Charles M. Schulz (The Complete Peanuts, Vol. 5: 1959-1960)
I. Don't trace out your profile-- forget your side view-- all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren't.
Antonio Machado
Ayden and Blake stared each other down. "Oh. My. God," Luna blurted from Ayden's back seat. "It's a love triangle." We all looked at her like she'd sprouted an alien from her head. "it's just like in a book. Two guys after one girl and-" I groaned. "That's ridiculous, Luna, this is not a love triangle." "Says the girl in the middle of a love triangle. Luna ignored my protests and prattled on. "Not one Hexy Boy but two. I've got to call Danica. Oooo," she squealed and clapped her hands,"We could have teams. Team Ayden and Team Blake. With T-shirt and buttons and-" "I could make a website," Lucian offered. "No!" My voice pitched with panic. "No teams. No shirts. No-" "I'll get you some headshots," Blake said, turning his profile towards Luna and Lucian. "I've been told the left is my best side. What do you think?" "Aurora's right," Ayden said. "This is buts. Blake you can follow us-" "Dude, you know no one would pick Team Ayden. You're just jealous." "That's not true. My team would be way bigger than yours." "Dare to dream, little man, dare to dream." "Care to make a wager on it?" "Absolutely." "Fine. How about-" "You two shut up!" I shoved myself out of the car.
A. Kirk (Demons at Deadnight (Divinicus Nex Chronicles, #1))
Her heart aches for her daughter. She is doing the only thing a mother can do under tragic circumstances. She sits by her daughter’s side and listens as the younger woman pours her heart out.
Mark M. Bello (Betrayal In Black (Zachary Blake Legal Thriller, #4))
Here,” I heard him say from my side. Looking down, my gaze found something wrapped in wax paper. It was a square, about three or four inches long. “What’s this?” I asked him, my eyes jumping to his profile. “A granola bar,” he answered without looking at me, typing on his keyboard. “You are hungry. Eat it.
Elena Armas (The Spanish Love Deception (Spanish Love Deception, #1))
Her profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,—or from one of our elder poets,—in a paragraph of to-day’s newspaper.
George Eliot (Middlemarch)
Bei Ye didn’t respond. All this while, he only let Chen Nian gaze at his side profile, stubbornly refusing to let her look into his eyes. But Chen Nian knew. Last night, he hugged her the entire time, his tears falling onto her eyes as his body was wracked with silent sobs. He had stopped at several intervals, but it wasn’t long before his tears would begin to flow once more.
Jiu Yue Xi (少年的你,如此美丽)
What kind of things did you have in mind, kid?' Clyde said this with a smile that exposed a slight lewdness: the young man who laughed at seals and bought balloons had reversed his profile, and the new side, which showed a harsher angle, was the one Grady was never able to defend herself against: its brashness so attracted, so crippled her, she was left desiring only to appease.
Truman Capote (Summer Crossing)
A profile was visible against the dull monochrome of cloud around her; and it was as though side shadows from the features of Sappho and Mrs. Siddons had converged upwards from the tomb to form an image like neither but suggesting both.
Thomas Hardy (The Return of the Native)
For the real movements of a life are gradual, then sudden; they resist becoming anecdotes, they pulse like quasars from long-dead stars to reach the vivid planet of the present, they drift like fog over the ship until the spread sails are merely panels of gray in grayer air and surround becomes object, as in those perceptual tests where figure and ground reverse, the kissing couple in profile turn into the outlines of the mortuary urn that holds their own ashes. Time wears down resolve--then suddenly violence, something irrevocable flashes out of nowhere, there are thrashing fins and roiled, blood-streaked water, death floats up on its side, eyes bulging.
Edmund White (A Boy’s Own Story (The Edmund Trilogy, #1))
Every year, on the anniversary of 9/11, and in various places around the United States, I see the words 'Never Forget.' I understand that sentiment. I completely agree with honoring those who lost their lives. We must never forget them, and we must always be vigilant. But there is another side to this, too. It means we never forget to see my people as a potential threat. We haven't stopped racially profiling... these feelings of loss and fear and anger and tragedy affect all of us, regardless of the colour of our skin.
Tan France (Naturally Tan)
... there are few if any issues where all the truth and all the right and all the angels are on one side.
John F. Kennedy (Profiles in Courage)
And that damned man in the White House doesn’t help things any. He represents the type of political hatred I’m talking about. Guys like him play to the worst fears of white men. Are you having a bad time of it right now? Lost your job? Having difficulty making ends meet? It’s not my fault or your fault. It’s the black man’s fault. It’s the Muslims’ fault. Blame a Mexican immigrant. Man’s got everyone lining up, taking sides, white people versus people of color, different religions arguing their way is the right way. This is a bad time in America. It’s an especially terrible time for a black woman to be taking on a white cop or the white establishment.
Mark M. Bello (Betrayal In Black (Zachary Blake Legal Thriller, #4))
And that damned man in the White House doesn’t help things any. He represents the type of political hatred I’m talking about. Guys like him play to the worst fears of white men. Are you having a bad time of it right now? Lost your job? Having difficulty making ends meet? It’s not my fault or your fault. It’s the black man’s fault. It’s the Muslims’ fault. Blame a Mexican immigrant. Man’s got everyone lining up, taking sides, white people versus people of color, different religions arguing their way is the right way. This is a bad time in America. It’s an especially terrible time for a black woman to be taking on a white cop or the white establishment.
Mark M. Bello (Betrayal In Black (Zachary Blake Legal Thriller, #4))
THE ART OF DRAWING YOU In a bed by the Gulf of Corinth, a woman contemplates by firelight the profile of her sleeping lover. On the wall, his shadow flickers. The lover, who lies by her side, will leave. At dawn he will leave to war, to death. And his shadow, his traveling companion, will leave with him and with him will die. It is still dark. The woman takes coal out of the embers and draws on the wall the outline of his shadow. Those lines will not leave. They will not embrace her, and she knows it. But they will not leave.
Eduardo Galeano (Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone)
Never an insider, Murray used her outsider status to make herself a thorn in the side of segregation and political oppression.
Walter Isaacson (Profiles in Leadership: Historians on the Elusive Quality of Greatness)
A profile used to mean a picture of somebody's nose seen from the side, she wrote. Now it means the picture of somebody's nose seen from the bottom.
Margaret Atwood (Bodily Harm)
Aaron flexed his legs and leaned his elbows on his knees. “More than that. He turned me into his own personal project. He had this kid with potential for becoming everything he had dreamed of, right at home. And he had the tools and the experience to make that possible. There was no room for failure. He worked hard on turning me into this flawless football machine, which he had carefully assembled together since the moment my legs were strong enough to run after a ball and my hands were large enough to hold one.” Aaron paused. He was facing the gloomy street in front of us, and I could see how his profile turned hard. “We both worked on that. And for the longest time, I thrived in it.” I found myself shifting closer to him until my arm and shoulder were completely flush against him. “How did that change?” I asked, letting my body lean a little on Aaron’s side. “When did you stop enjoying playing?
Elena Armas (The Spanish Love Deception (Spanish Love Deception, #1))
Today everyone on our side knows that criminality is not the result of the Algerian's congenital nature nor the configuration of his nervous system. The war in Algeria and wars of national liberation bring out the true protagonists. We have demonstrated that in the colonial situation the colonized are confronted with themselves. They tend to use each other as a screen. Each prevents his neighbor from seeing the national enemy. And when exhausted after a sixteen-hour day of hard work the colonized subject collapses on his mat and a child on the other side of the canvas partition cries and prevents him from sleeping, it just so happens it's a little Algerian. When he goes to beg for a little semolina or a little oil from the shopkeeper to whom he already owes several hundred francs and his request is turned down, he is overwhelmed by an intense hatred and desire to kill—and the shopkeeper happens to be an Algerian. When, after weeks of keeping a low profile, he finds himself cornered one day by the kaid demanding "his taxes," he is not even allowed the opportunity to direct his hatred against the European administrator; before him stands the kaid who excites his hatred—and he happens to be an Algerian.
Frantz Fanon (The Wretched of the Earth)
Zane Hollander stood in profile a few feet away. Sophie's breath caught. Up close, he looked like he'd been carved from the most glorious, most gorgeous stone on the planet. His blond hair was straight, on the longer side and sticking up in GQ messiness. Square jaw, high cheekbones, perfect nose. Then he turned and pierced her with ice-blue eyes that knocked her off-balance. Literally. She tripped over her own feet and face-planted right into the sand.
Robin Bielman (Keeping Mr. Right Now (Kisses in the Sand, #1))
Quickly, I too bent and bowed in the short pants and corky white helmet with my overheated face and great nose. My face can be like the clang of a bell, and because I am hard of hearing on the right side I have a way of swinging the left into position, listening in profile and fixing my eyes on some object to help my concentration. So I did. I waited for him to say more, sweating boisterously, for I was confounded down to the ground. I couldn't believe it; I was so sure that I had left the world
Saul Bellow (Henderson the Rain King)
For a moment, disconnected by the stitch in his side, he listened not to the sense but to the interplay of the two flexible voices, one masculine and light, one mellow and feminine, unreeling their story, faintly affronted amid mounting hysteria. He opened his eyes. He knew, because his memories of Francis Crawford went back further than those of anyone there, that Lymond was rather drunk, although he could still disguise it. The quick-wittedness, the invention, the faultless comedy timing were present at the price of a little concentration which had closed his outer consciousness for the moment. Jerott, no longer laughing, sat in the shadows and watched the dazzling performance and both the players, blond and brown, artist and acolyte. Acolyte. But Philippa was a child no longer: he had known that since that single evening in Lyon. The severe, clear-skinned profile turned towards Francis might have belonged to any great lady. The brown and brilliant gaze only quizzed him at intervals: she seemed able, Jerott saw, to sense by instinct the course of his fantasy; and as with Lymond, what she was doing at present occupied all her awareness. Then Francis surged to his feet, leaving his robe, and launched into Jason’s querulous tour de force, fractured by interruptions and a mounting fury of incoherent resentment, and finally disintegrating in chaos.
Dorothy Dunnett (Checkmate (The Lymond Chronicles, #6))
The term '20/20 vision' implies good if not perfect sight. May the advent of 2020 - a new year, a new decade - see a lifting of the fog which has recently blurred the edges of what can be described as 'acceptable political discourse', and in the process refocus voter attention on the clear need to demand from elected representatives, a display of basic decency and decorum in public life - both of which have been seriously lacking in the behaviour of some high profile politicians on both sides of the pond, on an eye-watering number of occasions. That indeed would be a sight for sore eyes.
Alex Morritt (Impromptu Scribe)
Why does a little girl lose her emotional equilibrium in a moment of parental discipline, or a megastar musician forget who she is because of one criticism? Or why, when a text message or the subject line of an e-mail says, “We need to talk” (or for us pastors, “About your sermon”) are we struck with a sudden feeling of doom? Why do we spend hours in the gym or in front of the mirror or online meticulously editing our social media profiles? Why is the perfect “selfie” such a large part of how we present ourselves to the world? Why do we live in constant disequilibrium about what our real or imagined critics might say about us?
Scott Sauls (Jesus Outside the Lines: A Way Forward for Those Who Are Tired of Taking Sides)
Pay close attention. Listen carefully. Let's look at what happens when fear is in charge. With fear in charge, you can never fully relax, let your guard down, be your true self. You can't open up because you are afraid of how people will respond if they were to meet the real you. When fear is in charge, you simply cannot take that chance. Fear will not allow honesty, fear despises spontaneity, and fear refuses to believe in you. Fear may mean well, but it ruins everything by overprotecting you, insisting that you stay hidden and keep a low profile, that your time is coming....sometime later. Fear is bold, but insists that you be timid. Take a chance and there will be hell to pay: fear will call on its dear friend, shame, to meet you on the other side of your risk taking, to tell you what you should not have done. Fear will trip you, tackle you, smother you, do whatever it takes to cause you to hesitate, to stop you. In this way fear is fearless.
Thom Rutledge (Embracing Fear: How to Turn What Scares Us into Our Greatest Gift)
She's probably just tired of seeing you miserable.Like we all are," I add. "I'm sure...I'm sure she's as crazy about you as ever." "Hmm." He watches me put away my own shoes and empty the contents of my pockets. "What about you?" he asks, after a minute. "What about me?" St. Clair examines his watch. "Sideburns. You'll be seeing him next month." He's reestablishing...what? The boundary line? That he's taken, and I'm spoken for? Except I'm not. Not really. But I can't bear to say this now that he's mentioned Ellie. "Yeah,I can't wait to see him again. He's a funny guy, you'd like him.I'm gonna see his band play at Christmas. Toph's a great guy, you'd really like him. Oh. I already said that,didn't I? But you would. He's really...funny." Shut up,Anna. Shut.Up. St. Clair unbuckles and rebuckles and unbuckles his watchband. "I'm beat," I say. And it's the truth. As always, our conversation has exhausted me. I crawl into bed and wonder what he'll do.Lie on my floor? Go back to his room? But he places his watch on my desk and climbs onto my bed. He slides up next to me. He's on top of the covers, and I'm underneath. We're still fully dressed,minus our shoes, and the whole situation is beyond awkward. He hops up.I'm sure he's about to leave,and I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed,but...he flips off my light.My room is pitch-black. He shuffles back toward my bed and smacks into it. "Oof," he says. "Hey,there's a bed there." "Thanks for the warning." "No problem." "It's freezing in here.Do you have a fan on or something?" "It's the wind.My window won't shut all the way.I have a towel stuffed under it, but it doesn't really help." He pats his way around the bed and slides back in. "Ow," he says. "Yes?" "My belt.Would it be weird..." I'm thankful he can't see my blush. "Of course not." And I listen to the slap of leather as he pulls it out of his belt loops.He lays it gently on my hardwood floor. "Um," he says. "Would it be weird-" "Yes." "Oh,piss off.I'm not talking trousers. I only want under the blankets. That breeze is horrible." He slides underneath,and now we're lying side by side. In my narrow bed. Funny,but I never imagined my first sleepover with a guy being,well,a sleepover. "All we need now are Sixteen Candles and a game of Truth or Dare." He coughs. "Wh-what?" "The movie,pervert.I was just thinking it's been a while since I've had a sleepover." A pause. "Oh." "..." "..." "St. Clair?" "Yeah?" "Your elbow is murdering my back." "Bollocks.Sorry." He shifts,and then shifts again,and then again,until we're comfortable.One of his legs rests against mine.Despite the two layers of pants between us,I feel naked and vulnerable. He shifts again and now my entire leg, from calf to thigh, rests against his. I smell his hair. Mmm. NO! I swallow,and it's so loud.He coughs again. I'm trying not to squirm. After what feels like hours but is surely only minutes,his breath slows and his body relaxes.I finally begin to relax, too. I want to memorize his scent and the touch of his skin-one of his arms, now against mine-and the solidness os his body.No matter what happens,I'll remember this for the rest of my life. I study his profile.His lips,his nose, his eyelashes.He's so beautiful.
Stephanie Perkins (Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss, #1))
At Padovani Beach the dance hall is open every day. And in that huge rectangular box with its entire side open to the sea, the poor young people of the neighborhood dance until evening. Often I used to await there a a moment of exceptional beauty. During the day the hall is protected by sloping wooden awnings. When the sun goes down they are raised. Then the hall is filled with an odd green light born of the double shell of the sky and the sea. When one is seated far from the windows, one sees only the sky and, silhouetted against it, the faces of the dancers passing in succession. Sometimes a waltz is being played, and against the green background the black profiles whirl obstinately like those cut-out silhouettes that are attached to a phonograph's turntable. Night comes rapidly after this, and with it the lights. But I am unable to relate the thrill and secrecy that subtle instant holds for me. I recall at least a magnificent tall girl who had danced all afternoon. She was wearing a jasmine garland on her right blue dress, wet with perspiration from the small of her back to her legs. She was laughing as she danced and throwing back her head. As she passed the tables, she left behind her a mingled scent of flowers and flesh. When evening came, I could no longer see her body pressed tight to her partner, but against her body alternating spots of white jasmine and black hair, and when she would throw back her swelling breast I would hear her laugh and see her partner's profile suddenly plunge forward. I owe to such evenings the idea I have of innocence. In any case, I learn not to separate these creatures bursting with violent energy from the sky where their desires whirl.
Albert Camus (Summer in Algiers)
I smile at my friends, but Mer and Rashmi and Josh are distracted, arguing about something that happened over dinner. St. Clair sees me and smiles back. "Good?" I nod.He looks pleased and ducks into the row after me. I always sit four rows up from the center, and we have perfectseats tonight.The chairs are classic red. The movie begins,and the title screen flashes up. "Ugh,we have to sit through the credits?" Rashmi asks. They roll first,like in all old films. I read them happily. I love credits. I love everything about movies. The theater is dark except for the flicker of blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation,Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself,and St. Clair laughs. It's odd,but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness.By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side. By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest,but I decline and he takes it.His arm is close to mine,slightly elevated. I glance at his hands.Mine are tiny compared to his large,knuckly boy hands. And,suddenly,I want to touch him. Not a push,or a shove,or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin,connect his freckles with invisible lines,brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he's as aware of me as I am of him. I can't concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don't know what about. How long have I not been paying attention? St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine.It stays there. I'm paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural.How can he not notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye,I see the profile of his chin and nose,and-oh,dear God-the curve of his lips. There.He glanced at me. I know he did. I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Really Interested in this movie.St. Clair stiffens but doesn't move his leg.Is he holding his breath? I think he is.I'm holding mine. I exhale and cringe-it's so loud and unnatural. Again.Another glance. This time I turn, automatically,just as he's turning away. It's a dance,and now there's a feeling in the air like one of us should say something.Focus,Anna. Focus. "Do you like it?" I whisper. He pauses. "The film?" I'm thankful the shadows hide my blush. "I like it very much," he says. I risk a glance,and St. Clair stares back. Deeply.He has not looked at me like this before.I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later. I know he is smiling,and my heart races.
Stephanie Perkins (Anna and the French Kiss (Anna and the French Kiss, #1))
stared at the herd, and they stared back. One of them stood in profile to the house, half a ton of horse. The scars scrawled across his side looked like they might be a decade old, not a few hours, but for all that, they were quite distinct, in silver relief against his fine white hair. Hacked there in the horse’s flesh were the words FUCK YOU. They whinnied together, the pack of them. It sounded like laughter.
Joe Hill (Full Throttle)
On one side sat a group of mostly nonwhite Americans who believed (or knew from personal experience) that institutional racism is still a deathly serious problem in this country, as evidenced by everything from profiling to mass incarceration to sentencing disparities to a massive wealth gap. On the other side sat an increasingly impatient population of white conservatives that was being squeezed economically (although not nearly as much as black citizens), felt its cultural primacy eroding, and had become hypersensitive to any accusation of racism. These conservatives blamed everything from the welfare state to affirmative action for breeding urban despair and disrespect toward authority—in other words, these conservatives saw themselves as victims of malevolent systems and threatening trends but thought that nonwhite Americans were fully responsible for their own despair.
Matt Taibbi (I Can't Breathe: A Killing on Bay Street)
blood sugar values go down, blood pressure drops, chronic pain decreases or disappears, lipid profiles improve, inflammatory markers improve, energy increases, weight decreases, sleep is improved, IBS [irritable bowel syndrome] symptoms are lessened, etc. Medication is adjusted downward, or even eliminated, which reduces the side-effects for patients and the costs to society. The results we achieve with our patients are impressive and durable.
Gary Taubes (The Case for Keto: The Truth About Low-Carb, High-Fat Eating)
That concludes the official message. I’m adding this last part because I know the two of you won’t be satisfied if I don’t.” Gwen turned so that both Martin and Phillip could see her in profile. She took a deep breath, put the hood up on her cloak. She looked from side to side in an exaggerated pantomime of fear, then said, “Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi; you’re my only hope.” With that, she bent at the waist, mimed putting a card into a slot, then disappeared.
Scott Meyer (Spell or High Water (Magic 2.0, #2))
Subject: Some boat Alex, I know Fox Mulder. My mom watched The X-Files. She says it was because she liked the creepy store lines. I think she liked David Duchovny. She tried Californication, but I don't think her heart was in it. I think she was just sticking it to my grandmother, who has decided it's the work of the devil. She says that about most current music,too, but God help anyone who gets between her and American Idol. The fuzzy whale was very nice, it a little hard to identify. The profile of the guy between you and the whale in the third pic was very familiar, if a little fuzzy. I won't ask. No,no. I have to ask. I won't ask. My mother loves his wife's suits. I Googled. There are sharks off the coast of the Vineyard. Great big white ones. I believe you about the turtle. Did I mention that there are sharks there? I go to Surf City for a week every summer with my cousins. I eat too much ice cream. I play miniature golf-badly. I don't complain about sand in my hot dog buns or sheets. I even spend enough time on the beach to get sand in more uncomfortable places. I do not swim. I mean, I could if I wanted to but I figure that if we were meant to share the water with sharks, we would have a few extra rows of teeth, too. I'll save you some cannoli. -Ella Subject: Shh Fiorella, Yes,Fiorella. I looked it up. It means Flower. Which, when paired with MArino, means Flower of the Sea. What shark would dare to touch you? I won't touch the uncomfortable sand mention, hard as it is to resist. I also will not think of you in a bikini (Note to self: Do not think of Ella in a bikini under any circumstanes. Note from self: Are you f-ing kidding me?). Okay. Two pieces of info for you. One: Our host has an excellent wine cellar and my mother is European. Meaning she doesn't begrudge me the occasional glass. Or four. Two: Our hostess says to thank yur mother very much. Most people say nasty things about her suits. Three: We have a house kinda near Surf City. Maybe I'll be there when your there. You'd better burn this after reading. -Alexai Subect: Happy Thanksgiving Alexei, Consider it burned. Don't worry. I'm not showing your e-mails to anybody. Matter of national security, of course. Well,I got to sit at the adult table. In between my great-great-aunt Jo, who is ninety-three and deaf, and her daughter, JoJo, who had to repeat everyone's conversations across me. Loudly. The food was great,even my uncle Ricky's cranberry lasagna. In fact, it would have been a perfectly good TG if the Eagles han't been playing the Jets.My cousin Joey (other side of the family) lives in Hoboken. His sister married a Philly guy. It started out as a lively across-the-table debate: Jets v. Iggles. It ended up with Joey flinging himself across the table at his brother-in-law and my grandmother saying loud prayers to Saint Bridget. At least I think it was Saint Bridget. Hard to tell. She was speaking Italian. She caught me trying to freeze a half-dozen cannoli. She yelled at me. Apparently, the shells get really soggy when they defrost. I guess you'll have to come have a fresh one when you get back. -F/E
Melissa Jensen (The Fine Art of Truth or Dare)
They stood there, lined up along the wall, gazing at the wonder of a sunset that blazed across the heavens. Where the sun was sinking, the skies ran with molten crimson that spread above the mountains like watercolor, changing to orange and pink, lavender and gold. A cool fire of platinum rimmed the profile of Gabriel Mountain and the dark, swelling ridges on either side. He put one arm around Dooley's shoulders and the other around Cynthia's waist. The fullness of his heart was inexpressible. All is safely gathered in . . . He knew it could not always be this way. . . No, nothing ever remained the same. If he had learned anything in life, he had learned that such moments were fragile beyond knowing. Ere the winter storms begin . . .
Jan Karon (These High, Green Hills (Mitford Years, #3))
had often heard it said that people took grief differently. He wasn’t sure he agreed. They might outwardly react in different ways, but when you got right down to it, what grief did was tear your life in half. Life before your loss and life after your loss. There was always a disconnect. Some people let it all hang out, some people rammed it into a hole deep inside and rolled a heavy stone over it, some people pretended it wasn’t happening. But speak to them years later and they were always able to date memories in terms of their loss. ‘Your dad was still alive then,’ or ‘That was after our Margaret died.’ It was as precise as BC and AD. Come to think of it, that had been about grief and loss too, whatever your views on the authenticity of Jesus as the son of God. In his role as a profiler, he mostly got to meet people when they were on the wrong side of the chasm of grief.
Val McDermid (Fever Of The Bone (Tony Hill & Carol Jordan, #6))
Our relationship quickly grew. I was living in Long Beach at the time; Chris was in San Diego. Conservatively speaking, that’s a two-hour drive. But Chris drove it often. He’d get off work, hop in his pickup, and be at my condo before dark. And not just on the weekends: he often rose before the sun to get to work in Coronado Beach. We’d go out to eat, maybe take in a movie, play miniature golf, bowl, see friends--the usual date stuff. But our most fun was just hanging out together. I pinned a picture of Chris up near my desk. (It’s the profile picture on his Facebook page, if you’re interested.) Under it, I taped a quote that went along the lines of: Life is not about the number of breaths you take; it’s the moments that take your breath away. Chris was all about those breathtaking moments--riding broncs in the rodeo, jumping out of planes. He worked hard and played hard--but was just as likely to relax completely, sitting comfortably on the couch with a beer or whatever as he took it easy. It was a paradox; I loved both sides.
Taya Kyle (American Wife: Love, War, Faith, and Renewal)
Nikolas Mikkelsen. I’ve never strayed, never not loved you, never not wanted to be by your side. My only fault is wanting you too much, wanting you beyond this life, which is something you can’t control or give me. I realise that now. It was too much to ask of you.” Nikolas sighed. The intense focus on his profile didn’t waver. He shrugged. That usually worked. He twitched his nose then muttered, exasperated, “I suppose I could try.” He sensed a shift in something, possibly the fabric of the universe but it could have just been Ben’s position on the couch. “I will defeat death for you, Ben, if I can. That seems like a small request in comparison to the things I would do for you.” He turned his head as well and they were facing each other at last. “I have also never strayed, never not loved you, never not wanted to be by your side.” He made a tiny movement with his hand and then brought it up to rest on Ben’s thigh. The ring, replaced on his finger, was still heavy, but in a different way now. It was his anchor, his tether, his gravity.
John Wiltshire (Enduring Night (More Heat Than the Sun, #7))
Wessex Heights There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand, Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly, I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be. In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend – Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend: Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I, But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky. In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways – Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days: They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things – Men with a frigid sneer, and women with tart disparagings. Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was, And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this, Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis. I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the moon, Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune; I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now passed For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast. There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the night, There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a shroud of white, There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near, I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear. As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers, I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers; Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know; Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go. So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west, Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest, Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me, And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.
Thomas Hardy
Rivers perhaps are the only physical features of the world that are at their best from the air. Mountain ranges, no longer seen in profile, dwarf to anthills; seas lose their horizons; lakes have no longer depth but look like bright pennies on the earth's surface; forests become a thin impermanent film, a moss on the top of a wet stone, easily rubbed off. But rivers, which from the ground one usually sees only in cross sections, like a small sample of ribbon -- rivers stretch out serenely ahead as far as the eye can reach. Rivers are seen in their true stature. They tumble down mountain sides; they meander through flat farm lands. Valleys trail them; cities ride them; farms cling to them; roads and railroad tracks run after them -- and they remain, permanent, possessive. Next to them, man's gleaming cement roads which he has built with such care look fragile as paper streamers thrown over the hills, easily blown away. Even the railroads seem only scratched in with pen-knife. But rivers have carved their way over the earth's face for centuries and they will stay.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh (North to the Orient)
I only have the story in two parts from Miss Throckmorton-Jones. The first time she spoke she was under the influence of laudanum. Today she was under the influence of what I can only describe as the most formidable temper I’ve ever seen. However, while I may not have the complete story, I certainly have the gist of it, and if half what I’ve heard is true, then it’s obvious that you are completely without either a heart or a conscience! My own heart breaks when I imagine Elizabeth enduring what she has for nearly two years. When I think of how forgiving of you she has been-“ “What did the woman tell you?” Ian interrupted shortly, turning and walking over to the window. His apparent lack of concern so enraged the vicar that he surged to his feet and stalked over to Ian’s side, glowering at his profile. “She told me you ruined Elizabeth Cameron’s reputation beyond recall,” he snapped bitterly. “She told me that you convinced that innocent girl-who’d never been away from her country home until a few weeks before meeting you-that she should meet you in a secluded cottage, and later in a greenhouse. She told me that the scene was witnessed by individuals who made great haste to spread the gossip, and that it was all over the city in a matter of days. She told me Elizabeth’s fiancé heard of it and withdrew his offer because of you. When he did that, society assumed Elizabeth’s character must indeed be of the blackest nature, and she was summarily dropped by the ton. She told me that a few days later Elizabeth’s brother fled England to escape their creditors, who would have been paid off when Elizabeth made an advantageous marriage, and that he’s never returned.” With grim satisfaction the vicar observed the muscle that was beginning to twitch in Ian’s rigid jaw. “She told me the reason for Elizabeth’s going to London in the first place had been the necessity for making such a marriage-and that you destroyed any chance of that ever happening. Which is why that child will now have to marry a man you describe as a lecher three times her age!” Satisfied that his verbal shots were finding their mark, he fired his final, most killing around. “As a result of everything you have done, that brave, beautiful girl has been living in shamed seclusion for nearly two years. Her house, of which she spoke with such love, has been stripped of its valuables by creditors. I congratulate you, Ian. You have made an innocent girl into an impoverished leper! And all because she fell in love with you on sight. Knowing what I now know of you, I can only wonder what she saw in you!
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
She took out a charcoal stick and began to sketch-- on the workbench itself. Of course the moon wouldn't come to her in songs or poems or crystals or whatever... she felt the most centered, the most tranquil, when she was painting or drawing. Lost in her own world or in new ones she imagined. She shouldn't have made a chart; she should have drawn a circle, with the moons going from waxing to waning all the way around... She hummed to herself a little, the way she always did when she painted. Her hair began to glow. A little shading here, a few light strokes in the middle of the full moon for the face that Rapunzel saw there... Circles and shadows and crosshatching... She worked extra hard on the profile of the fatter waxing crescent, where the moon would be now. She knew what it looked like as she felt her hand shape it. Her power surged; her hair began to sparkle. She looked around frantically for something to release her magic on. The first thing she saw was her tea, so she grabbed the red clay cup and wrapped the end of a braid around it. Just like with Pascal, sparks sprayed off her hair and over the object. When they faded they revealed... ... a heavy, crude clay cup. Rapunzel started to slump in disappointment-- and then noticed something. Where the hair had touched the sides, the cup was now shiny black, like onyx or obsidian.
Liz Braswell (What Once Was Mine)
Now, all of a sudden, she had an overwhelming urge to talk to Finn. She turned and, out of habit, walked over to the shed, not even thinking about the fact that he had been banned from his home-away-from-home. One push opened the door and Megan’s entire world came to a screeching stop. Standing on the easel directly across from her was her own image. Finn’s painting of her. Completed to the last eyelash. It took her breath away. Slowly Megan approached the painting. It was unlike anything else Finn had ever painted. He hadn’t painted her profile or her shoulder or her hands or her ear. It was the only painting in the room that was a full, face-forward portrait, and it was amazing how much it looked like her. Only softer somehow. Prettier. More open. Her lips were pulled up on one side in a sort of knowing smile. Her skin practically glowed, and the smattering of freckles across her nose actually looked sweet to her. But it was the eyes that killed her. They swirled with at least five shades of green and had delicate gold flecks painted subtly through them. Was this what she really looked like to Finn? Did he really think she was this…beautiful? Megan reached out and touched the edge of the canvas. The paint was completely dry. When had he had time to finish this? She remembered suddenly that he had been grounded for the past few days. He must have been sneaking out here all week to work on it. And he had finished it. He had actually finished a painting. Of her.
Kate Brian (Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys)
But if you, like poor old Rolling Stone’s nonprofessional, have come to a point on the Trail where you’ve started fearing your own cynicism every bit as much as you fear your credulity and the salesmen who feed on it, you’re apt to find your thoughts returning again and again to a certain dark and box-sized cell in a certain Hilton half a world and three careers away, to the torture and fear and offer of reprieve and a certain Young Voter named McCain’s refusal to violate a Code. There were no techs’ cameras in that box, no aides or consultants, no paradoxes or gray areas; nothing to sell. There was just one guy and whatever in his character sustained him. This is a huge deal. In your mind, that Hoa Lo box becomes sort of a dressing room with a star on the door, the private place behind the stage where one imagines “the real John McCain” still lives. And but now the paradox here is that this box that makes McCain “real” is: impenetrable. Nobody gets in or out. That’s why, however many behind-the-scenes pencils get put on the case, be apprised that a “profile” of John McCain is going to be just that: one side, exterior, split and diffracted by so many lenses there’s way more than one man to see. Salesman or leader or neither or both: the final paradox—the really tiny central one, way down deep inside all the other campaign puzzles’ spinning cubes and squares and boxes that layer McCain—is that whether he’s “for real” depends now less on what’s in his heart than on what might be in yours. Try to stay awake.
David Foster Wallace (Up, Simba!)
In October 2004, seven Milwaukee police officers sadistically beat Frank Jude Jr. outside an off-duty police party. The Journal Sentinel newspaper in Milwaukee investigated the crime and published photos of Jude taken right after the beating. The officers were convicted, and some reforms were put in place. But the city saw an unexpected side effect. Calls to 911 dropped dramatically—twenty-two thousand less than the previous year. You know what did rise? The number of homicides—eighty-seven in the six months after the photos were published, a seven-year high. That information comes from a 2016 study done by Matthew Desmond, an associate social sciences professor at Harvard University and New York Times bestselling author of Evicted. He told the Journal Sentinel that a case like Jude’s “tears the fabric apart so deeply and delegitimizes the criminal justice system in the eyes of the African-American community that they stop relying on it in significant numbers.” With shootings of unarmed civilians being captured on cell phones and shared on the internet, the distrust of the police is not relegated to that local community. The stories of the high-profile wrongful death cases of Tamir Rice in Cleveland or Eric Brown in New York spread fast across the country. We were in a worse place than we were twenty years earlier, when the vicious police officer beating of Rodney King went unpunished and Los Angeles went up in flames. It meant more and more crimes would go unsolved because the police were just not trusted. Why risk your life telling an organization about a crime when you think that members of that organization are out to get you? And how can that ever change?
Billy Jensen (Chase Darkness with Me: How One True-Crime Writer Started Solving Murders)
Laura stands, in another photograph, wearing a two-piece gown, bodice and skirt, from centuries ago. The scarlet material is trimmed in gold brocade. From her waist the skirt billows outward, broad as a spinnaker, and grazes the floor in a huge circle. It fastens in front by a series of cobalt buttons, and she is about to start closing it, but for the moment it gapes open: a vertical window, eight or ten inches wide, runs from her waist to the floor. The gold brocade lines the opening like a ceremonial decoration, a veneration of what lies within. But nothing lies within. Inside the vast regal tent of the garment is darkness. Because of the lighting and pose, Laura’s body seems to end at the belly, to have no stumps at all. The opening exposes a pure emptiness. It is unclear how she is standing, what keeps her upright. The cavern beneath the skirt is illumined just enough to suggest that she isn’t wearing her prosthetics. She stands on no legs, suspended, magical. And that magic, along with her strong jawline turned in profile, endows her with omnipotence. The cavern is at once a universe and a womb. The vertical opening is a vaginal slit, and to slip through it, to slide the body inside the scarlet walls of the tent, to wait inside while she fastens the skirt and encloses you, swallows you, would be to live out the primal fantasy of entering the vagina not only with the penis but with everything from the skull to the toes: to be ensconced, to be consumed. The photograph’s viewer, not its subject, is at risk of disintegrating, coming apart, deliquescing in the lightless world he has longed for, turning to liquid in the womb. Laura, with her half-body, will remain more than intact, more than whole.
Daniel Bergner (The Other Side of Desire: Four Journeys into the Far Realms of Lust and Longing)
can hardly blame ye for not waiting.” I could see Ian in profile, leaning over the log basket. His long, good-natured face wore a slight frown. “Weel, I didna think it right, especially wi’ me being crippled …” There was a louder snort. “Jenny couldna have a better husband, if you’d lost both legs and your arms as well,” Jamie said gruffly. Ian’s pale skin flushed slightly in embarrassment. Jamie coughed and swung his legs down from the hassock, leaning over to pick up a scrap of kindling that had fallen from the basket. “How did ye come to wed anyway, given your scruples?” he asked, one side of his mouth curling up. “Gracious, man,” Ian protested, “ye think I had any choice in the matter? Up against a Fraser?” He shook his head, grinning at his friend. “She came up to me out in the field one day, while I was tryin’ to mend a wagon that sprang its wheel. I crawled out, all covered wi’ muck, and found her standin’ there looking like a bush covered wi’ butterflies. She looks me up and down and she says—” He paused and scratched his head. “Weel, I don’t know exactly what she said, but it ended with her kissing me, muck notwithstanding, and saying, ‘Fine, then, we’ll be married on St. Martin’s Day.’ ” He spread his hands in comic resignation. “I was still explaining why we couldna do any such thing, when I found myself in front of a priest, saying, ‘I take thee, Janet’… and swearing to a lot of verra improbable statements.” Jamie rocked back in his seat, laughing. “Aye, I ken the feeling,” he said. “Makes ye feel a bit hollow, no?” Ian smiled, embarrassment forgotten. “It does and all. I still get that feeling, ye know, when I see Jenny sudden, standing against the sun on the hill, or holding wee Jamie, not lookin’ at me. I see her, and I think, ‘God, man, she can’t be yours, not really.’ ” He shook his head, brown hair flopping over his brow. “And then she turns and smiles at me …” He looked up at his brother-in-law, grinning. “Weel, ye know yourself. I can see it’s the same wi’ you and your Claire. She’s … something special, no?” Jamie nodded. The smile didn’t leave his face, but altered somehow. “Aye,” he said softly. “Aye, she is that.” Over the port and biscuits, Jamie and
Diana Gabaldon (The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle: Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, An Echo in the Bone)
you'll wonder again, later, why so many psychologists remain so vocal about having more and better training than anyone else in the field when every psychologist you've ever met but one will also have lacked these identification skills entirely when it seems nearly every psychologist you meet has no real ability to detect deception. You will wonder, later, why the assessment training appears to have been reserved for the CIA and the FBI is it because we as a society don't want to imagine that any other professionals will need the skills? And what about attorneys? What about training programs for guardian ad litems or anyone involved in approving care for all the already traumatized and marginalized children? You'll have met enough of those children after they grow up to know that when a small girl experiences repeated rapes in a series of households throughout her childhood, then that little girl is pretty likely to have some sort of "dysfunction" when she grows up. And you won't have any tolerance for the people who point their fingers at her and demand that she be as capable as they are it is, after all, a free country. We all get the same opportunities. You'll want to scream at all those equality people that you can't ignore the rights of this nation's children you can't ignore them and then get pissed when any raped and beaten little girls and boys grow up to be traumatized and perhaps hurtful or addicted adults. No more pointing fingers only a few random traumatized people stand up later as some miraculous example of perfectly acceptable societal success and if every judgmental person imagines that I would be like that I would be the one to break through the barriers then all those judgmental people need to go back in time and prove it, prove to everyone that life is a choice and we all get equal chances. You'll want anyone who talks about equal chances to go back and be born addicted to drugs in complete poverty and then to be dropped into a foster system that's designed for good but exploited by people who lack a conscience by people who rape and molest and whip and beat tiny little six year olds and then you will want all those people to come out of all that still talking about equal chances and their personal tremendous success. Thank you, dear God, for writing my name on the palm of your hand. You will be angry and yet you still won't understand the concept of evil. You'll learn enough to know that it's not politically correct to call anyone evil, especially when many terrible acts might actually stem from a physiological deficit I would never use the word evil, it's not professional but you will certainly come to understand that many of the very worst crimes are committed by people who lack the capacity to feel remorse for what they've done on any level. But when you gain that understanding, you still will not have learned that these individuals are more likable than most people that they aren't cool and distant that they aren't just a select few creepy murderers or high-profile con artists you won't know how to look for a lack of conscience in noncriminal and quite normal looking populations no clinical professors will have warned you about people who exude charm and talk excessively about protecting the family or protecting the community or protecting our way of life and you won't know that these types would ever stick around to raise kids you will have falsely believed that if they can't form real attachments, they won't bother with raising children and besides most of them will end up in prison you will not know that your assumptions are completely erroneous you won't understand that many who lack a conscience keep their kids close and tight for their own purposes.
H.G. Beverly (The Other Side of Charm: Your Memoir)
It’s not all about hitting. There’s an art to it. A talent. You need power but also smarts. When to hit and where. You have to outthink your opponent. It’s not all about size. Determination and experience play a part.” “Like in business,” she said. “The skill set translates.” She wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t it hurt when you get hit?” “Some. But boxing is what I knew. Without it, I would have just been some kid on the streets.” “You’re saying hitting people kept you from being bad?” “Something like that. Put down your glass.” She set it on the desk. He did the same, then stepped in front of her. “Hit me,” he said. She tucked both hands behind her back. “I couldn’t.” The amusement was back. “Do you actually think you can hurt me?” She eyed his broad chest. “Probably not. And I might hurt myself.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket, then unfastened his tie. In one of those easy, sexy gestures, he pulled it free of his collar and tossed it over a chair. “Raise your hands and make a fist,” he said. “Thumbs out.” Feeling a little foolish, she did as he requested. He stood in front of her again, this time angled, his left side toward her. “Hit me,” he said. “Put your weight behind it. You can’t hurt me.” “Are you challenging me?” He grinned. “Think you can take me?” Not on her best day, but she was willing to make the effort. She punched him in the arm. Not hard, but not lightly. He frowned. “Anytime now.” “Funny.” “Try again. This time hit me like you mean it or I’ll call you a girl.” “I am a girl.” She punched harder this time and felt the impact back to her shoulder. Duncan didn’t even blink. “Maybe I’d do better at tennis,” she murmured. “It’s all about knowing what to do.” He moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You want to bend your knees and keep your chin down. As you start the punch, think about a corkscrew.” He demonstrated in slow motion. “That will give you power,” he said. “It’s a jab. A good jab can make a boxer’s career. Lean into the punch.” She was sure his words were making sense, but it was difficult to think with him standing so close. She was aware of his body just inches from hers, of the strength and heat he radiated. The need to simply relax into his arms was powerful. Still, she did her best to pay attention, and when he stepped in front of her again so she could demonstrate, she did her best to remember what he’d said. This time, she felt the impact all the way up her arm. There was a jarring sensation, but also the knowledge that she’d hit a lot harder. “Did I bruise you?” she asked, almost hoping he would say yes, or at least rub his arm. “No, but that was better. Did you feel the difference?” “Yes, but I still wouldn’t want to be a boxer.” “Probably for the best. You’d get your nose broken.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “I wouldn’t want that.” She leaned closer. “Have you had your nose broken?” “A couple of times.” She peered at his handsome face. “I can’t tell.” “I was lucky.” She put her hand on his chin to turn his head. He looked away, giving her a view of his profile. There was a small bump on his nose. Nothing she would have noticed. “You couldn’t just play tennis?” she asked. He laughed, then captured her hand in his and faced her. They were standing close together, his fingers rubbing hers. She shivered slightly, but not from cold. His eyes darkened as he seemed to loom over her. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He swallowed. “Annie.” The word was more breath than sound. She heard the wanting in his voice and felt an answering hunger burning inside her. There were a thousand reasons she should run and not a single reason to stay. She knew that she was the one at risk, knew that he wasn’t looking for anything permanent. But the temptation was too great. Being around Duncan was the best part of her day.
Susan Mallery (High-Powered, Hot-Blooded)
Claudette Colbert was not Hollywood’s greatest beauty, but her trim little figure, round, kitten-like face, and obviously intelligent good humor made her a bit of a sex symbol, much to her own surprise. By 1934 she’d adopted the hairstyle she kept for life: a short, auburn bob with a fringe of bangs. Although a partygoer and social animal, Claudette was also known as a tough-as-nails professional, overseeing her lighting and camera angles. Her right profile was known as “the dark side of the moon,” and scenes had to be staged so as not to show it. She was also self-conscious about her short neck—directing her in a 1956 TV show, Noël Coward reportedly snapped, “If only Claudette Colbert had a neck, I’d wring it!” “When it comes to details, I’m a horror,” she admitted cheerfully, though downplaying the profile story. “Why not have your good side showing?
Eve Golden (Bride of Golden Images)
She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her. It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip. His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree. The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink. Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that? Barbed wire? Yes. A skull and crossbones? Sure. A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible. But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.
Sharon Sala (Nine Lives (Cat Dupree, #1))
he was so focused on watching where Presley went that she almost didn’t see the man he was with until they stopped beneath a security light, their backs to her. She first noticed the other man then, and was shocked at his size. Then her gaze moved to the thick bush of curly hair pulled into a pony tail at the back of his neck, and she wondered how he ever got something that unruly washed and dried. It wasn’t until he turned sideways that she got a momentary glimpse of his profile. As she did, a strange, anxious feeling skittered through her belly, then quickly disappeared. The stranger didn’t matter. He couldn’t matter. It was time to make her move. She had to stop Presley now, before he went any farther. She reached toward the glove box for her handgun and taser, slipped the taser in her pocket and was reaching for the door latch when the big man turned and faced her. For a full fifteen or twenty seconds, Cat had a clear and unfettered view of his face, and in those seconds, the world fell out from under her. She didn’t know that she started moaning, or that she’d broken out in a cold sweat. All she knew was that she was no longer in her car in a San Antonio parking lot but back in her childhood home, trying to run from the intruder who’d come out of their bathroom. She was screaming for her father when the intruder’s arm slid around her chest and lifted her off her feet. She saw the strange geometric designs on his arm, then on the side of his face, as the cold slash of steel from his knife suddenly slid against her throat. The coppery scent of her own blood was thick in her nose as he dropped her to the floor, leaving her to watch as he slammed the same knife into her father over and over again. She tried to scream, but the sounds wouldn’t come. The last things she saw before everything went black were the look of sorrow on her father’s face and the demon who’d killed them running out the front door.
Sharon Sala (Nine Lives (Cat Dupree, #1))
There's just no way I could build a 1976 Fantasy Garage without a Matador Coupe in it. I know that sounds strange, given how repugnant so many people seem to find the Matador's styling, but it's true. I love the face, with the two big round headlights, and the headlight character lines continuing down the hood. I love the creased character line running down the side, and I find the fastback profile sensuous and alluring. The whole thing is just so gorgeous. Family and friends whose opinions I respect respond to me and my love for the Matador as one does to a child who eats dirt--a pitying look spared for somebody so disturbed as to engage in behavior so completely inexplicable. To them, I can only say that this is my fantasy garage, and the Matador is definitively in.
Anonymous
Ava turned to the side, staring out into the dark. In profile, her face was suddenly tired and sad, and Cole felt the urge to wrap himself around her. To protect her from whatever was dragging her down.
Danika Stone (Intaglio: Dragons All The Way Down (Intaglio, #2))
Lovable work is visible work. The question of who gets a public platform as a worker and who does not is neatly side-stepped by Jobs’s narrative. What do those in the invisible workforce call themselves in their social media profiles? What kinds of identities are available to them? These questions are critical because, as Jonathan Crary notes in his recent book, 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep, while the notion of identity is bound up with public visibility, today that public exposure has become detached from communal forms that once provided safekeeping and care. Crary notes that in the always-on, 24/7 temporality in which we now live, the pressure to be constantly consuming or producing necessitates a constant presence in the public sphere, specifically in the marketplace.
Miya Tokumitsu (Do What You Love and Other Lies About Success and Happiness)
He glanced over and ogled the side profile of her as she stared straight ahead either watching Chase being strapped in to the harness, or pretending to. “I gave my mother money for drugs.” Power said nothing. He almost wondered if the words had really come from her; they were spoken so unsystematic. “Do you believe in doing the wrong things for the right reasons?” That punched him in the gut. Was it that simple? Did this girl really have the answers? Had she just summed up his entire life in that last self-effacing question like that? “Yes…” He found himself replying staring straight ahead now as well. When his eyes traveled back over to her, he caught a swift hand movement across her cheek. If there had been a tear there it was gone now. The type of woman Gaby was, he wouldn’t question whether she’d been crying or not; he feared he’d cause her more embarrassment than comfort.
Takerra Allen (An Affair in Munthill)
Once Alex enters the room, I forget I’m even hungry and nearly drop my plate. A helpful servant scoops it up from my hands. I see him in profile, his long lean body in stark shades of black and white: knee-high socks, dark, well-fitted pants, a jacket the color of midnight, and a snowy-white cravat as pressed and starched as ever. I’d think he looked entirely too formal, except my own dress is at least as fancy. Today, it’s appropriate. As much as it would be great to see him in a T-shirt, jeans, and ball cap, the formal attire simply suits him. He surveys the room as the others take notice of his presence, but before they can bombard him, his eyes sweep across to me and then stop. His lips give way to the slightest of smiles, and then he’s heading straight toward me, leaving a gaggle of disappointed faces in his wake. “Do I look okay?” I whisper to Emily, unable to take my eyes off of him long enough to check. She squeezes my hand. “You look…” “Stunning,” Alex finishes as he arrives in front of me. “Your Grace,” I say, for the first time, and curtsy. He looks amused that I’ve addressed him so formally. “My lady.” He bows, a deeper bow than I’ve ever seen him do. I rise and look him in the eye again. “I thought you said I wasn’t a lady.” He smirks. “I thought you said you were.” We smile at one another, and the room fades around me. “Save the next dance?” I nod. “Wonderful. I shall find you then.” And then he leaves me with Emily, and I finally know what a swoon is as I grab her elbow. “I thought he might ravish you right here on the floor,” she says with a giggle. “Emily!” “What?” And then I can’t help it; I burst into a fit of giggles with her, until my sides ache and I can hardly breathe. A few guests stare as they pass us--I’m betting such behavior is frowned upon--but I find that I don’t even care. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend who made me feel like I could be myself. Ironic, since I’m Rebecca here, but it’s still invigorating and exhilarating, and all we’re doing is standing here laughing like total lunatics. It’s definitely against Victoria’s Rules for Proper Young Ladies. But I don’t care. I am me. Whether that is someone they like or someone they despise, I am who I am, and that’s the truth. When have I ever been this sure of myself? “Is everything all right?” Emily stops giggling. “Yes. I--” I pause, taking a breath. “I’m…better than all right.” I glance around at the beautiful, sparkling ballroom and then back at Emily’s smiling face. “I’m perfect.
Mandy Hubbard (Prada & Prejudice)
Alma had grown as tall as a man by now, with broad shoulders. ... This need not have necessarily precluded her from marriage. Some men liked a larger woman, who promised a stronger disposition, and Alma, it could be argued, had a handsome profile--at least from her left side. She certainly had a fine, friendly nature. Yet she was missing some invisible, essential ingredient, and so, despite all the frank eroticism that lay hidden within her body, her presence in a room did not kindle ideas of ardor in any man. It did not help that Alma herself believed she was unlovely. She believed this only because she had been told it so many times, and in so many different ways. Most recently, the news of her homeliness had come straight from her father....
Elizabeth Gilbert (The Signature of All Things)
Frank looks good.” Irene’s voice at my ear. “When did he get home?” “Yesterday.” “And?” I glanced at the sheriff, who still hovered beside me. I forced a smile to my face. “Everything’s fine. We’ll get things figured out soon. He was exhausted last night. We all went to bed early.” Blood rushed into my face. “Of course he slept in the barn, and . . .” Irene’s head tipped back as she laughed. Sheriff Jeffries’s mouth twisted into a scowl. From across the yard, Frank’s gaze locked on mine. He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the buggy. “Good-bye, Irene.” I gave her a quick hug, wondering if I would see her again before Frank sent me home. Then I turned to the sheriff. Instead of a good-bye, he held his elbow crooked in my direction. “I’d be happy to escort you to the house.” Sheriff Jeffries’s eyes begged me to say yes. And I knew I ought to oblige. But I found myself wanting to be with my kids again. I didn’t know how much longer I’d have with them. I didn’t want to miss a moment. My mind whirled like the sheriff’s hat. “Thank you, I . . .” Frank had the older kids in the buggy now. He turned toward me with a look of expectancy. “I think I’d better help with the children.” His smile faded a bit, although he seemed to work to make it stay. He walked me to the buggy as if my words hadn’t disappointed him and helped me up to the seat. “Good to have you back, Frank.” Frank nodded. The sheriff touched the brim of his hat and backed away, his gaze undistracted from my face. But Frank’s hard-set jaw and narrowed eyes broke into my line of vision as he plopped Janie in my lap. “If you’re done socializing, we can get on home.” He stalked to the other side of the buggy and hopped up on the seat. I stared at his profile, that rugged face on which I’d seen such vulnerable emotions. But I’d also seen his look of disapproval in church. Now he appeared haughty, almost condescending. My eyes narrowed. What cause did he have to chastise me?
Anne Mateer (Wings of a Dream)
11-8 Let me prophesy something to you just before it comes to pass. The whole world is groping in insanity, and will get worse, and worse, and worse until it'll be a bunch of maniacs, and it's almost that way now. Could you imagine a man driving with his lights off on the wrong side of the road, a Ricky, a young kid supposed to be right out of high school? Killed a bunch of people... Does that stop them? The next one came right behind him doing the same thing. Can you imagine a young man that thinks of himself, anything of himself, getting out here and acting the way they do? Could you imagine a young woman in the bloom of womanhood, beautiful, well-built, shaped, profile, face, beautiful... And the very thing of her being pretty shows that we're at the end time. See, she's went altogether to worldly feature, worldly things and not the beauty of holiness, sweetness in her soul. I've seen women, on the outside of them wasn't nothing to look at, but you speak to them one time, talk to them a few minutes; they're real genuine something that you can't get away from. See, beauty of the outside is of the devil; it's of the world. ( "And knoweth it not" Preached on Sunday, 15th August 1965 at the Branham Tabernacle in Jeffersonville, Indiana, U.S.A. - See - Paragraph 11-8 )
William Marrion Branham
Over the next seven years, the group [Weather Underground] claimed credit for more than two dozen bombings of high-profile targets such as the Pentagon, numerous courthouses and police stations, the U.S. Agency for International Development, and several corporations involved in the coup in Chile or colonialism in Angola. Weather articulated a politics of solidarity that demanded a high level of sacrifice by whites in support of Black and other revolutionary people of color. This support emanated from a strategic belief, pioneered by Che Guevara, that U.S. imperialism could be defeated through overextension; bombings were an attempt to pierce the myth of government invincibility and draw repressive attention away from the Panthers and similar groups. It also reflected a political position that said white people had to side with Third World struggles against the U.S. government—and had to do so in a similarly dramatic way.
Dan Berger (The Struggle Within: Prisons, Political Prisoners, and Mass Movements in the United States)
The Global Financial Crisis shows the credit cycle at the greatest extreme since the Great Depression. Debt markets historically had been marked by general conservatism, meaning excesses on the upside were limited and most bubbles took place in the equity market. Certainly it was the site of the Great Crash of 1929. But the creation of the high yield bond market in the late 1970s kicked off a liberalization of debt investing, and the generally positive economic environment of the subsequent three decades provided those who ventured in with a favorable overall experience. This combination led to a strong trend toward acceptance of low-rated and non-traditional debt instruments. There were periods of weakness in debt in 1990–91 (related to widespread bankruptcies among the highly levered buyouts of the 1980s) and in 2002 (stemming from excessive borrowing to fund overbuilding in the telecom industry, which led to prominent downgrades that coincided with several high-profile corporate accounting scandals). But the effects of these were limited because of the isolated nature of their causes. It wasn’t until 2007–08 that the financial markets witnessed the first widespread, debt-induced panic, with ramifications for the entire economy. Thus the GFC provided the ultimate example of the credit cycle’s full effect.
Howard Marks (Mastering The Market Cycle: Getting the Odds on Your Side)
The end result would be an artificial creation, a woman whose dress appeared more individual than her face. Newly married Florentine women looked out of their frames in severe profile without smiling; that was the convention. After all, the wooden panels would be shown to others and would say something about the fortune of the husband and his family and the chastity of the lady of the house. No unauthorized person was allowed to look into the lady’s eyes or into her heart; the modest side view of the face was intended to prevent this.
Kia Vahland (The Da Vinci Women: The Untold Feminist Power of Leonardo's Art)
He must have thought to himself that it would be possible to abandon the usual profile view of women in Florence, without immediately giving rise to moral doubts. The side view said too little about a person; it was inhibiting, because it prevented dialogue. In order to be on an equal footing with the viewer, if not actually superior to him, the painted figure must be able to return his gaze. God had given people eyes so that they could understand the world, so they should be used, not hidden. “Oh eye, you stand supreme above all the other creations of God!” exclaimed Leonardo. “It is the window of the human body, through which it sees its way and enjoys the beauty of the world; it is thanks to the eye that the soul is content with its human prison.” 17
Kia Vahland (The Da Vinci Women: The Untold Feminist Power of Leonardo's Art)
Dark humor might have offended some on the other side of the blue line, but it was how cops coped with very grim realities.
Mary Burton (I See You (Criminal Profiler, #5))
The Human Side of Every Person Is the Greatest Enemy of the Average Investor or Speculator” “Patterns Repeat, Because Human Nature Hasn’t Changed for Thousand of Years” –
Indrazith Shantharaj CA Rudra Murthy B V (Mind Markets and Money : A Successful Journey Into Intraday Trading Using Market Profile and Order Flow)
Discuss the story of Lee Sherman—how does he represent “the Great Paradox through a keyhole”? How is it possible for an environmentalist whistle blower to also be a member of the Tea Party? (p. 33) 6.​When telling the story of Harold Areno, Hochschild quotes him as saying, “If you shoot an endangered brown pelican, they’ll put you in jail. But if a company kills the brown pelican by poisoning the fish he eats? They let it go. I think they overregulate the bottom because it’s harder to regulate the top.” Hochschild mentions the brown pelican throughout the book—how does the pelican function as an important motif in the book? (pp. 52, 138, 212) 7.​When spending time with the General, whom Hochschild calls an “empathy wall leaper,” she writes that Louisiana residents prize the freedom to do certain things but resent the freedom from things like gun violence or toxic pollution, even when such restrictions might improve their lives. How does the General deal with what he calls this “psychological program”? (p. 71) 8.​Hochschild provides overwhelming evidence that establishes a correlation between pollution and red states. She also discusses a report from the 1980s that helped identify communities that would not resist “locally undesirable land use.” Do you think she’s right to connect this profile of the “least resistant personality” with the General’s idea of the “psychological program”? (p. 81, Appendix B) 9.​In a moment of feeling stuck on her own side of the empathy wall, Hochschild asks Mike Schaff what the federal government has done that he feels grateful for. What do you make of his answer and the idea that the less you depend on the government, the higher your status? Do you feel one’s status is diminished by receiving government help of any sort? Do others you know feel this way—and why? Do you think people generally feel less gratitude to the government today than in the past? What are you grateful for from the government? (pp. 113–114)
Arlie Russell Hochschild (Strangers in Their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right)
There are five ways technology can boost marketing practices: Make more informed decisions based on big data. The greatest side product of digitalization is big data. In the digital context, every customer touchpoint—transaction, call center inquiry, and email exchange—is recorded. Moreover, customers leave footprints every time they browse the Internet and post something on social media. Privacy concerns aside, those are mountains of insights to extract. With such a rich source of information, marketers can now profile the customers at a granular and individual level, allowing one-to-one marketing at scale. Predict outcomes of marketing strategies and tactics. No marketing investment is a sure bet. But the idea of calculating the return on every marketing action makes marketing more accountable. With artificial intelligence–powered analytics, it is now possible for marketers to predict the outcome before launching new products or releasing new campaigns. The predictive model aims to discover patterns from previous marketing endeavors and understand what works, and based on the learning, recommend the optimized design for future campaigns. It allows marketers to stay ahead of the curve without jeopardizing the brands from possible failures. Bring the contextual digital experience to the physical world. The tracking of Internet users enables digital marketers to provide highly contextual experiences, such as personalized landing pages, relevant ads, and custom-made content. It gives digital-native companies a significant advantage over their brick-and-mortar counterparts. Today, the connected devices and sensors—the Internet of Things—empowers businesses to bring contextual touchpoints to the physical space, leveling the playing field while facilitating seamless omnichannel experience. Sensors enable marketers to identify who is coming to the stores and provide personalized treatment. Augment frontline marketers’ capacity to deliver value. Instead of being drawn into the machine-versus-human debate, marketers can focus on building an optimized symbiosis between themselves and digital technologies. AI, along with NLP, can improve the productivity of customer-facing operations by taking over lower-value tasks and empowering frontline personnel to tailor their approach. Chatbots can handle simple, high-volume conversations with an instant response. AR and VR help companies deliver engaging products with minimum human involvement. Thus, frontline marketers can concentrate on delivering highly coveted social interactions only when they need to. Speed up marketing execution. The preferences of always-on customers constantly change, putting pressure on businesses to profit from a shorter window of opportunity. To cope with such a challenge, companies can draw inspiration from the agile practices of lean startups. These startups rely heavily on technology to perform rapid market experiments and real-time validation.
Philip Kotler (Marketing 5.0: Technology for Humanity)
Luke said that he was surprised when I showed up at his room. That he hadn’t meant to give me the wrong idea. That he would never have taken it beyond just kissing. And he looked so genuine. So trustworthy. So sorry about what had happened. He almost convinced me that I’d misread his signals.” Hallelujah pauses. “The whole time, I kept my mouth shut. I wish I hadn’t. But I was still so humiliated. And I felt guilty. I made out with him. I liked it. And no one made me go to his room.” Her voice breaks. She has to swallow past a lump in her throat. “I know Luke’s not a good guy. I know what he did isn’t my fault. It’s his. But still, none of it would’ve happened if I hadn’t gone to his room.” She’s almost there. Almost done. Almost heard. Something deep inside her hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time. But she knows that this gash had to reopen in order to heal. That’s how wounds work. They need air. “I knew I’d get punished, and I did. My parents grounded me. I was put on youth group probation. But I honestly thought Luke’s lies would just fade away if I kept a low profile. There’s always gossip about someone. This time it was me.” ... “Luke is still telling people about what supposedly happened that night,” Hallelujah says. “And he makes fun of me. All the time. What I look like, what I say, my name. And he does this thing at church: whenever we sing a hymn with my name in it, he sings it like he’s hooking up with me. He sings the word ‘hallelujah’ at me. He moans it. And I hate it.” That’s one of the reasons she stopped singing: his voice, his fake grunts of satisfaction, ruining the music she loved so much. “You said,” she says to Jonah, “he wanted to keep me upset. To keep me from telling anyone what really happened. Well, it worked.” She pauses. “Until now.” “Until now,” Rachel repeats. Then she curses. “I can’t believe him. I can’t believe he got away with it.” “I let him get away with it,” Hallelujah says softly. “No. He’s the one who crossed the line. And okay, maybe you could’ve spoken up sooner. But if no one pushed you for your side of the story, that’s on them.” Rachel yawns and stretches. “And when we get home, we’re going to set the record straight.
Kathryn Holmes
I put my hand on his forearm, I don't know why I do this, and it's not exactly natural, although it's not unnatural, except that I really want to touch his skin. It's smooth and tan just a little bit and feels like summer, like something familiar and warm and good, like my skin did on the first days aboard 'Fishful Thinking' before it salted and burned and peeled. 'We broke up three years after that.' I sit back in my chair and give a sly smile. Relationships are complex and sometimes you can't really explain them to an outside party. 'I can't believe I just told you that' 'YES! YOU! ARE! LIVING! YOUR! FULL! LIFE!' A third time. I am not imagining it. 'There you are.' This time my heart does skip a beat. I look down at his arm, and we are still touching, and he has made no attempt to retract his arm or retreat. All my surroundings, the red formica table top, the pink yogurt, the blue sky, the green vegetables in the market, they all come alive in vibrant technicolor as the sun peers from behind a cloud. I am living my full life. 'Honesty in all things,' Byron adds, lifting his cup of yogurt for a toast of sorts. I pull my hand away from him and the instant my hand is back by his side, I miss the warmth of his arm, the warmth of him. Honesty in all things. I should put my hand back, that's where it wants to be, that's Lily's lesson to me. Be present in the moment, give spontaneous affection. I'm suddenly aware I haven't spoken in a bit. 'Did you know that an octopus has three hearts?' As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realize I sound like that kid from 'Jerry McGuire.' 'Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?' I hope my question comes off almost a fraction as endearing. 'No,' Byron says with a glint in his eye that reads as curiosity, at least I hope that it does, but even if it doesn't I'm too into the inertia of the trivia to stop it. 'It's true, one heart called the systemic heart that functions much like the left side of the human heart, distributing blood throughout the heart, then two smaller branchial heart with gills that act like the right side of our hearts to pump the blood back.' 'What made you think of that?' I smile. It may be entirely inappropriate first date conversation, but at least it doesn't bore me in the telling. I look up at the winsome August sky, marred only by the contrails of a passing jet, and a vaguely dachshund shaped cloud above the horizon. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in love at first site. I don't believe in angels. I don't believe in heaven and that our loved ones are looking down on us, but the sun is so warm and the breeze is so cool and the company is so perfect and the whole afternoon so intoxicating, ti's hard not to hear Lily's voice dancing in the gentle wind, 'one! month! is Long! Enough TO! BE! SAD!' ... 'I recently lost someone close to me....I don't know, I feel her here today with us, you, me, her, three hearts, like an octopus,' I shrug. If I were him, I would run. What a ridiculously creepy thing to say. I would run and I would not stop until I was home in my bed with a gallon of ice cream deleting my profile from every dating site I belonged to. Maybe it's because it's not rehearsed, maybe it's because it's as weird a thing to say as it is genuine, maybe it's because this is finally the man for me. Byron stands and offers me his hand, 'Let's take a walk and you can tell me about her.' The gentle untying of a shoe lace. It takes me a minute to decide if I can do this, and I decide that I can, and I throw our yogurt dishes away, and I put my hand in his, and it's soft and warm, and instead of awkward fumbling, our hands clasp together like magnets and metal, like we've been hand-in-hand all along, and we are touching again. ...
Steven Rowley (Lily and the Octopus)
This was the flip side. It was easy to be cynical and poke fun, but when she stepped back, Kat realized something that pierced her straight through the heart: Every profile was a life. Simple, yep, but behind every cliché-ridden, please-like-me profile was a fellow human being with dreams and aspirations and desires. These people hadn’t signed up, paid their fee, or filled out this information idly. Think about it: Every one of these lonely people came to this website—signed in and clicked on profiles—hoping it would be different this time, hoping against hope that finally they would meet the one person who, in the end, would be the most important person in their lives. Wow. Just let that realization roll over you for moment. Kat
Harlan Coben (Missing You)
The Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), a special unit of the North Carolina-based Special Operations Command (SOCOM), existed before Rumsfeld, but its mission, profile, and budget dramatically expanded during his tenure as secretary of defense in the Bush administration. It effectively became Rumsfeld's clandestine service. JSOC operatives did not necessarily wear uniforms, dispensed with many aspects of normal military protocol, and adopted secrecy as their byword. Consequently, the boundary lines laid down in 1947 were breached on both sides: the CIA got its own army and air force, and the Pentagon got its own CIA.
Scott Horton (Lords of Secrecy: The National Security Elite and America's Stealth Warfare)
My cousin, Red Buffalo, has said false words to you? If this is so, you will tell me.” “As if you don’t know what he told me!” “You made a lie of your promise and tried to flee, this is what I know! You came at me with a knife, this is what I know! You made me look the fool, this is what I know.” “Oh, yes, you’re the man whose words are drifting on the wind, whispering to him always! The man who never lies! I saw you out there at the fire! How stupid do you think I am?” Grinding out the words between clenched teeth, he said, “Why did you make a lie of your promise?” “Why wouldn’t I? A little girl, Hunter? Animal! Aunt Rachel was right all along. I am the fool!” He made a strangled sound in his throat and rolled off her, turning her loose to throw an arm across his eyes. Loretta tensed, casting a hopeless glance at the door. Even if she made it outside, her chances of saving Amy were slim. In a taut, barely restrained growl he said, “Do not test me by trying to run, Blue Eyes. I will sure enough beat you.” After a moment he let out an audible breath and eased onto his side, folding an arm beneath his head, his blue eyes so dark they looked black in the dusky light. “You will make an echo of Red Buffalo’s words. I cannot fight an enemy whose face is hidden.” Hearing his voice, so silken and close, brought bittersweet memories rushing back to her, and she wanted to cry. “You let me think you were my friend.” Hunter studied her delicate profile, his attention coming to rest on her tremulous lips. Her voice ached with the pain of betrayal, but he felt betrayed as well.
Catherine Anderson (Comanche Moon (Comanche, #1))
Gazing at Grace's profile, he skimmed his fingertips along the side of her neck. She shivered and gave a small shrug to discourage his touch. With a smile, he paused before moving to toy with a curl at her nape. "Jack, stop," she said on a hushed undertone. "Why?" he teased. "You know why. Now stop." His lips twitched. Reaching higher, he traced the shell-like edge of her ear, drawing a quiver from her this time. "Please." He smiled, slow and intimate. "Please what?" "We're in a theater." "Yes, but in this dark corner no one can see." "What about Aunt Jane?" She is busy watching the play." Angling his head, he caught her earlobe between his teeth and gave a light, playful nip. Her eyelashes fluttered and she bit her own lip to hold back a sigh. "I could do more," he promised in a low, suggestive tone.
Tracy Anne Warren (Seduced by His Touch (The Byrons of Braebourne, #2))
* Who do you think of when you hear the word “successful”? “The first people who come to mind are the real heroes of Task Unit Bruiser: Marc Lee, first SEAL killed in Iraq. Mike Monsoor, second SEAL killed in Iraq, posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor after he jumped on a grenade to save three of our other teammates. And finally, Ryan Job, one of my guys [who was] gravely wounded in Iraq, blinded in both eyes, but who made it back to America, was medically retired from the Navy, but who died from complications after the 22nd surgery to repair his wounds. Those guys, those men, those heroes, they lived, and fought, and died like warriors.” * Most-gifted or recommended books? “I think there’s only one book that I’ve ever given and I’ve only given it to a couple people. That’s a book called About Face, by Colonel David H. Hackworth. The other book that I’ve read multiple times is Blood Meridian [by Cormac McCarthy].” * Favorite documentaries? “Restrepo, which I’m sure you’ve seen. [TF: This was co-produced and co-filmed by Sebastian Junger, the next profile.] There is also an hour-long program called ‘A Chance in Hell: The Battle for Ramadi.’” Quick Takes * You walk into a bar. What do you order from the bartender? “Water.” * What does your diet generally look like? “It generally looks like steak.” * What kind of music does Jocko listen to? Two samples: For workouts—Black Flag, My War, side B In general—White Buffalo
Timothy Ferriss (Tools of Titans: The Tactics, Routines, and Habits of Billionaires, Icons, and World-Class Performers)
OkCupid tracks the ratio of straight women to straight men, and platform managers work hard to adjust that ratio when it diverges from the level they deem optimal. They manage these adjustments by asking users to rate the attractiveness of those on the opposite side of the platform.7 The website then introduces a filter to reduce the number of men who can participate in the platform by seeing women’s profiles—especially women who are rated as particularly attractive.8 In this way, the OkCupid platform is helping to maintain positive network effects and fostering market liquidity by avoiding an imbalance that might otherwise alienate a segment of its female users.
Geoffrey G. Parker (Platform Revolution: How Networked Markets Are Transforming the Economy and How to Make Them Work for You: How Networked Markets Are Transforming the Economy―and How to Make Them Work for You)
Even the silhouette of her side profile warms his heart. He believes he could find the entire universe captured in the blue of her eyes. He feels free, yet so at home whenever he looks at her.
Celia Östergaard (The Romanov Diary)
Brian Wecht was born in New Jersey to an interfaith couple. His father ran an army-navy store and enjoyed going to Vegas to see Elvis and Sinatra. Brian loved school, especially math and science, but also loved jazz saxophone and piano. “A large part of my identity came from being a fat kid who was bullied through most of my childhood,” he said. “I remember just not having many friends.” Brian double majored in math and music and chose graduate school in jazz composition. But when his girlfriend moved to San Diego, he quit and enrolled in a theoretical physics program at UC San Diego. Six months later the relationship failed; six years later he earned a PhD. When he solved a longstanding open problem in string theory (“the exact superconformal R-symmetry of any 4d SCFT”), Brian became an international star and earned fellowships at MIT, Harvard, and the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. He secured an unimaginable job: a lifetime professorship in particle physics in London. He was set. Except. Brian never lost his interest in music. He met his wife while playing for an improv troupe. He started a comedic band with his friend Dan called Ninja Sex Party. “I was always afraid it was going to bite me in the ass during faculty interviews because I dressed up like a ninja and sang about dicks and boning.” By the time Brian got to London, the band’s videos were viral sensations. He cried on the phone with Dan: Should they try to turn their side gig into a living? Brian and his wife had a daughter by this point. The choice seemed absurd. “You can’t quit,” his physics adviser said. “You’re the only one of my students who got a job.” His wife was supportive but said she couldn’t decide for him. If I take the leap and it fails, he thought, I may be fucking up my entire future for this weird YouTube career. He also thought, If I don’t jump, I’ll look back when I’m seventy and say, “Fuck, I should have tried.” Finally, he decided: “I’d rather live with fear and failure than safety and regret.” Brian and his family moved to Los Angeles. When the band’s next album was released, Ninja Sex Party was featured on Conan, profiled in the Washington Post, and reached the top twenty-five on the Billboard charts. They went on a sold-out tour across the country, including the Brooklyn Bowl in Las Vegas.
Bruce Feiler (Life Is in the Transitions: Mastering Change at Any Age)
How to Quantify Achievement Stories When hiring managers, recruiters, and staffing firms see a resume or LinkedIn profile or attend an interview with verbiage but no numbers, they don’t know what those words mean. In fact, they know next to nothing until you add the numbers that explain the impact of your work. Here’s how you can resolve this issue. Work With Finance Sometimes the impact of our work is not always clear. At times like this, reaching out to one of your friends in the Finance Department can be very helpful. Finance has access to numbers that are not always readily available to other departments. If you’re no longer with the company, explain to the Finance associate that the numbers he provides could make the difference in determining whether you land another position. Using a Range Per Lily Zhang of the Muse, one reason job seekers avoid quantifying is not knowing the exact number. Lily suggests using a range. Using my work experience, here’s what that means: Before: Chaired weekly product manager meeting. After: Chaired weekly meeting with 7 to 12 product managers so plans could be discussed and coordinated. Confusion and rework were eliminated. Frequency Lily shared that one of the easiest ways to add numbers is to identify the frequency with which you perform a given task. This can help the hiring manager understand how much you can handle. For example: Before: Responded to pricing requests from the Sales Force. After: Responded to 15 to 20 pricing requests from the Sales Force on a daily basis. Scale Everyone on the hiring side of the business loves when candidates provide numbers, because numbers explain the impact of what you’ve done. The most meaningful numbers are those associated with making money, saving money, and driving productivity. Here are a couple examples from my work experience: Before: Reduced time to perform Operations Manager’s role; after analysis showed tasks could be batched and performed at the end of the month. After: Reduced time to perform Operations Manager role by 66%; after analysis showed tasks could be batched and performed at the end of the month. Asked Director if I could take on the responsibilities of employees who were laid off. Before: Analysis revealed misconfigured offers; worked with other departments to correct errors. Implemented process to prevent future errors. After: Analysis revealed misconfigured offers; worked with other departments to correct errors. Recognized $7.2M. Implemented process to prevent future errors.
Clark Finnical (Job Hunting Secrets: (from someone who's been there))
I... fell in love with... her profile. I want to see what Kei sees, by her side. I want to do different fun things with her and see that expression on her face again. I... I love Kei!
Yuhta Nishio (After Hours, Vol. 2)
She studied Nathaniel’s face, the stark lines of his profile. “I’m sorry.” “What for?” Everything, she thought. “I dragged you into this,” she said. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.” “You’re right. I would be alone in my study, utterly miserable, spending my final hours unaware that demons were about to overrun the world.” He returned and slumped beside her, tipping his head back against the stone. “I like this version better. The one with you in it.” “Even if we die?” Briefly, he shut his eyes. “The last month has been the happiest time of my life that I can remember since I was twelve, the fiends and the blood drinking and the imminent threat of a demonic apocalypse notwithstanding. I think—I think I was a bit dead already, before you came along.” He turned his head, taking her in. “It’s an honor to fight by your side, Elisabeth, for however long it lasts. You’ve reminded me to live. That’s worth having something to lose.
Margaret Rogerson (Sorcery of Thorns (Sorcery of Thorns, #1))
TO REDUCE APPETITE, PROMOTE FAT LOSS, AND REBALANCE OUR METABOLISM: The peptide semaglutide (and other glucagon-like peptide-1 agonists) have aced four-year-plus clinical trials, with subjects routinely losing 15 percent of their body weight—or 30 pounds for someone weighing in at 200. Generally well-tolerated, with a terrific safety profile, GLP-1s can be game-changers when added to a healthy diet, exercise, and other lifestyle changes. Occasional side effects: nausea, diarrhea, and flatulence. May not be suitable for individuals with a history of thyroid gland tumors. MOTS-c and Humanin are derived from the mitochondria, our cells’ power packs. Among other things, they may revitalize our carbohydrate and fat metabolism. This category of mitochondrial peptides is a potential wellspring of future innovation for longevity, healthspan, and peak performance!
Tony Robbins (Life Force: How New Breakthroughs in Precision Medicine Can Transform the Quality of Your Life & Those You Love)
The Witch stood on an isthmus connecting two rocky lands, and on either side of her stretch patches of cerulean blue sea, with white-lipped waves of astonishing vigor and particularity. The Witch held in her hands a beast of unrecognizable species, though it was clearly drowned, or nearly drowns. She cradled it in an arm that, without attention to actual skeletal flexibility, lovingly encircled the beast's wet, spiky-furred back. With her other hand she was freeing a breast from her robe, offering suck to the creature. Her expression was hard to read, or had the monk's hand smudged, or age and grime bestowed a sfumato sympathy? She was nearly motherly, with miserable child. Her look was inward, or sad, or something. But her feet didn't match her expression, for they were planted on the narrow strand with prehensile grip, apparent even through the silver-colored shoes, whose coin-of-the-realm brilliance had first caught Boq's eyes. Furthermore, the feet were turned out at ninety-degree angles to the shins. They showed in profile as mirror images, heels clicked together and toes pointing in opposite directions, like a stance in ballet. The gown was a hazy dawn blue.
Gregory Maguire (Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (The Wicked Years, #1))
Whirlwind’s configuration of activities produces a different kind of value with a different cost profile. Looking at competing value chains side by side highlights those differences. If your value chain looks like everyone else’s, then you are engaged in competition to be the best.
Joan Magretta (Understanding Michael Porter: The Essential Guide to Competition and Strategy)
information that Volkov runs the primary supply routes for small arms and other supplies between Russia and the rebels in Donetsk.” “Can’t we just call in an air strike?” Max muttered. He was squatting next to Kate, peering through the darkness with a pair of night-vision binoculars and listening on a separate earpiece. Silver moonlight illuminated Max’s face and Kate found herself admiring his profile. He was even more handsome than when they first met several months ago outside Minsk. Back then, he was recovering from a two-foot piece of rebar that had impaled his side. Despite the constant strain of trying to keep his family alive, she noticed he was thriving under the pressure. A simmering fire burned behind the deep blackness of his eyes. He was bred for this sort of thing. Kate almost felt sorry for the consortium members, knowing Max wouldn’t rest until they were all dead and buried. Max’s eyes flashed when he looked over at her, reminding her of the strength he possessed. When he held her gaze, she saw a powerful conviction, the confidence he had gained after surviving in the face of overwhelming danger, a resolve emanating from the depths of his soul, an aura she couldn’t help but be attracted to. The moment lingered even as his eyes moved back to the binoculars and he went back into the dark recesses of his mind. She fought back the attraction, willing it to a place somewhere out of reach. She was bad at love. She had a habit of falling fast and hard before paying the price as things fell apart. As she got older, she found she didn’t want to bother with it anymore. It was too much work, too much of a distraction from what drove her. Besides, she couldn’t imagine there was room in his heart while he fought for his family’s survival. She touched his bicep. “If you’re from Belarus, and your given name was Mikhail, how did you end up with the nickname Max?” He kept his eyes glued to the field glasses. “It’s short for Maxim, a common name in Belarus. My mother started calling me Max when I was young. She said—” “Your surrogate mother?” “Right. The mother who raised me. She told me that she lost an argument with my father. She wanted to name me after Maxim Gorky, a Soviet Marxist writer and comrade of Lenin’s. My father wouldn’t hear of it. I think it was her
Jack Arbor (The Attack (Max Austin #3))
Coming here was a risk. To my position on the team and as captain. I told Bryant that I had some family business to take care of and I’d be back as soon as possible. He wasn’t happy about it, but it’s the first practice I’ve missed in three years, including the time I had the flu. But Twyler is more important than anything—that’s what was missing in my relationship with Shanna. We could have gone on and been a hot professional athlete couple that looked good in the tabloids and elevated my profile, but that’s not what I want. I want a partner. Someone I love to be by my side. A best friend. With Twyler, I get all of that and more.
Angel Lawson (Faking It with the Forward (Wittmore U Hockey, #1))
PROMPTS FOR WRITING RESUMES AND BIOS Generate a compelling professional summary for a marketing manager with 5 years of experience. Create a list of 10 action verbs to effectively describe accomplishments in a resume. Draft a LinkedIn bio for a recent college graduate with a degree in computer science. Suggest 5 resume formatting tips to create a visually appealing and easy-to-read document. Write an engaging personal bio for a freelance graphic designer’s website. How can transferable skills be effectively showcased in a career change resume? Create a list of 5 questions to ask a client before writing their resume or bio. Develop a powerful resume objective statement for a sales professional targeting a managerial role. Provide tips for optimizing a LinkedIn profile to increase visibility and attract recruiters. Write an attention-grabbing personal
Mark Silver (ChatGPT For Cash Flow: 10 Easy Ways To Unlock The Power Of AI To Build A Side Hustle Empire & Make Money Online Fast (Make Money With AI Book 1))
The dramatic strategy of the show provides a simple and effective means to blend melodrama with farce (which Sondheim claims as his “two favorite forms of theatre because … they are obverse sides of the same coin”).37 Starkly put, the show develops a pattern of first scaring the hell out of its audience and then rescuing the situation through humor, each time by introducing Mrs. Lovett into a situation saturated with Sweeney Todd’s wrenching angst. This scare-rescue pattern happens twice to great effect, at the beginning and end of Act I, but its real payoff is the devastating conclusion, where there is no comic rescue. The denial of this previous pattern greatly intensifies the darkness of the supremely bleak ending, making the show’s musical profile seem operatic to Broadway audiences even though, ironically in this respect, the denouement unfolds with only intermittent singing.38 But the musical dimension of the show is also deliberately operatic, as it interweaves, Wagner-like, a host of recurring motives, mostly related to each other through a common origin in the Dies Irae, from the Catholic requiem mass. The Dies Irae (literally, “Day of Wrath”; see example 7.1) was taken up as a symbol of death and retribution in music throughout the nineteenth century and continuing into the twentieth (the most important early such use was by Berlioz in his 1830 Symphonie fantastique). Most scene changes bring back “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd,” which includes both fast and slow versions of the Dies Irae (example 7.1) and builds up to a frenetic, obsessive chorus of “Sweeney, Sweeney.
Raymond Knapp (The American Musical and the Performance of Personal Identity)
Today, Chefs, I have prepared for you a coconut-curry chicken, served on a naan waffle. And while the flavor profile is a little more on the exotic side, I think even exotic food should be comfort food. To that end, you'll see that you also have a side of warmed sweet and slightly spicy plum chutney. I'll ask you to pour that over the dish, as you would maple syrup over the traditional Southern version of chicken and waffles.
Bethany Turner (Hadley Beckett's Next Dish)
Pictures of her, and of the raven and the quote from Lear, snapped and circulated from Twitter. Her, coming out of Park Street station with a cop on each side. Her first instinct was not to read the comments—the first rule of retaining whatever faith you had left in humanity was Never, ever read the comments—but she couldn’t help it. She read the comments. Tim Burton’s Lady Indiana Jones and the T Station of Doom #hero #fuckshitup Who is this woman??? And then—these were her people, all right: resourceful, internet-literate geeks—a link to her professional profile on LinkedIn. She inhaled. And, not for the first time, was intensely grateful no one who didn’t already work for the hospital knew the location of her little satellite office.
Kate Racculia (Tuesday Mooney Talks To Ghosts)
Time and time again Billy Collins takes a mundane situation and spirals it out into something that is by turns humorous and poignant as in his poem "Imperial Garden", one of my favorites in this new collection: It was at the end of dinner, the two of us in a red booth maintaining our silence, when I decided to compose a message for the fortune cookie you were soon to receive. Avoid mulishness when choosing a position on the great board game of life was my mean-spirited contribution to the treasury of Confucian wisdom. But while we waited for the cookies, the slices of oranges, and the inescapable pot of watery tea, I realized that by mulishness I meant your refusal to let me have my own way every time I wanted it. I watched you looking off to the side— your mass of dark hair, your profile softened by lamplight— and then I made up a fortune for myself. He who acts like a jerk on an island of his own creation will have only the horizon for a friend. I seemed to be getting worse at this, I seemed to be getting worse at this, I thought, as the cookies arrived at the table along with the orange slices and a teapot painted with tigers menacingly peering out from the undergrowth. The restaurant was quiet then. The waiter returned to looking out at the street, a zither whimpered in the background, and we turned to our cookies, cracking the brittle shells, then rolling into little balls the tiny scrolls of our destinies before dropping them, unread, into our cups of tea— a little good-luck thing we’d been doing ever since we met.
Billy Collins (Whale Day: And Other Poems)
Well, this isn’t awkward at all,” Hailee whispered. And even though it was dark, and I could barely see her, I was aware of everything. The soft sound of every breath she took, the warm current flowing between us. The way my skin tingled, and my pulse raced at her close proximity, despite the fact I hadn’t even touched her. Turning onto my side, I traced the profile of her face. “Get some sleep.” I choked out the words to stop myself from doing something stupid. Like telling her it didn’t feel awkward to me at all. That it felt pretty damn near perfect. “Night, Cameron.” “Night, Sunshine.” A beat of silence passed and then her sleepy voice cut through the quiet. “Cameron?” “Yeah?” “Thank you.” As I felt the pull of sleep, my mind was a jumble of thoughts. Of me and Hailee. Of all the reasons why this was a really bad fucking idea. But one thought stood out above all the others. It was the first time I’d ever fallen to sleep with a girl in my bed. And I liked it. I liked it a whole lot.
L.A. Cotton (The Trouble with You (Rixon Raiders, #1))
Yuichi & I are climbing a narrow ladder in the jet-black gloom. Together we peer into the cauldron of hell. We stare into the bubbling red sea of fire, and the air hitting our faces is so hot it makes us reel. Even though we're standing side by side, even though we're closer to each other than anyone else in the world, even though we're friends forever, we don't join hands. No matter how forlorn we are, we each insist on standing on our own two feet. But I wonder, as I look at his uneasy profile blazingly illuminated by the hellish fire, although we have always acted like brother and sister, aren't we really man and woman in the primordial sense, and don't we think of each other that way? But the place we are in now is just too dreadful. It is not a place where two people can create a life together.
Banana Yoshimoto (Kitchen)
used to think of him as a god. When had he fallen? When had he changed, so definitively, from the man I had married? Was he really this weak and helpless against basic human desires? It meant nothing. “That was not how I expected you to find out. If you ever found out.” He turned his head to the side, his profile visible but his eyes still elusive. “I’m sorry you had to hear it like this.
A.R. Torre (Every Last Secret)
Cradled on the bed of that trailer was a small wooden dory. The boat’s profile was distinctive—an upturned prow that terminated in a sharp point, and a hull whose bottom was curved like the blade of a scimitar. Lashed to her decks were two sets of ten-foot oars hewn from straight-grained Oregon ash, and tucked into the footwell at the center of the boat lay a cable connecting a car battery to a pair of powerful search lamps, the kind of devices that jacklighters use when hunting deer in the dark. There was just enough light to make out her colors—a beryl-green hull and bright red gunwales. And if you looked closely, you could discern the black-and-gold lettering emblazoned along the right side of her bow that spelled her name: Emerald Mile.
Kevin Fedarko (The Emerald Mile: The Epic Story of the Fastest Ride in History Through the Heart of the Grand Canyon)
Editor’s introduction: Welcome our guide on guest blogging in seo. That’s right, send it a spot on profcontent from our friend alex. Alex breaks down everything beginners need to know to start blogging on the web. Take that, Alex. What is good blogging? Guest blogging- also referred to as blogging – is the need to contribute to another person’s blog to build relevant exposure, leads and links. Link are a primary ranking factor in goggle, and seo offer a strong chance of getting a link back from another website, among other marketing considerations in guest blogging. Guest blogging build a relationship with the blogger hosting your post, connects with the blogger hosting your post, connects with their audience for additional exposure, and helps you build authority among that audience. The premise is simple: you write a blog article tailored to the needs of a particular blogger and get a backlink in return, What Is Guest Blogging in SEO? A Guide for usually below the article in what’s called an author box. Blogger are inserted in publishing high- quality content on their blogs that they can use to attract new readers as well as share with their exiting audience. This makes guest blogging a win-win solution for both website owners who want to rank higher in search engines (and need link to do so) and bloggers who want to drive more readers to their blog. Interested in attracting more readers their blog. Is guest blogging good for bloggers? The short answer is yes again. As extensive as the blogger is shrewdness and eager to spend time sifting through and excision posts from outside bases, guest blogging can be a great source of valuable content for the blogger’s audience. An important portion of removal any external role is reviewing the links inside the content Take a look at this (or another) post a bout guest blogging and inbound marketing written by Neil Patel. Almost every paragraph has an external link. You get, Neil knows that links add price to a post by if more material and additional incomes. Be like Neil. To be on the benign side, examine guest posts for superiority and make sure you only link to superiority websites that add price to the mesh. To type sure the websites you’re involving to are immobile available, aren’t recurring 404s, or readdressing to dissimilar content. 1.find list of top blogs. The first step of prospects is pretty obvious: type a phrase like “ top [ industry specific] blogs list” into goggle and review the results. Opinion all the blogs registered one by one on each sheet in the search fallouts. Most likely you find great blogs this way, but only a few of them can accept guest articles from contributors. 2. Advanced search with search strings: Google has many hunt strings to help you find exact happy on the web, which you can syndicate into search If you are novel to this, you can learn extra here or here. If you search for [“keyword” and “write for us”], your results will look like the image under. 3. Shadow people or businesses who actively visitor blog. One of the best ways to find great guest blogging opportunities is to find other people who consistently contribute quality guest posts to industry- related websites. Most people and companies share their posts through social media profiles. Once I ran across a twitter profile that was basically sharing their guest posts, so I pretty much grew my list in no time. Stab this search thread to find sites anywhere a precise person or business published a guest post: “individual name “or” corporation name” “guest column”.
Sannan
Weird, how love is,” Izuku talks to the sky, swinging his legs as Katsuki piggybacks him, “Someone can have the ability to crush your heart in the palm of their hands, stab it with words that kill and actions that torture. And you’d still hand it over to them.” Katsuki seemed to not know what to say to this for a while, for the blonde goes silent in what felt like contemplation. He kicked gravel on the road under his feet as he walked, and Izuku just held on. “Why would anyone do that,” Katsuki finally asks, tone genuinely curious, yet cautious. Izuku laughs and looks down at Katsuki’s side profile, mapping the blonde’s jaw, his eyes, the bridge of his nose, “Because, love feels like flying.” Katsuki slows down to a stop, looking ahead, words on the tip of his tongue, before glancing to the side where Izuku was facing, but not exactly looking at the greenette. And Katsuki tells him then, “Everything that flies eventually falls.” Oh .
suffocatingspring (From The Sidelines)
Right from the start he is dressed in his best - his blacks and his whites Little Fauntleroy - quiffed and glossy, A Sunday suit, a wedding natty get-up, Standing in dunged straw Under cobwebby beams, near the mud wall, Half of him legs, Shining-eyed, requiring nothing more But that mother's milk come back often. Everything else is in order, just as it is. Let the summer skies hold off, for the moment. This is just as he wants it. A little at a time, of each new thing, is best. Too much and too sudden is too frightening - When I block the light, a bulk from space, To let him in to his mother for a suck, He bolts a yard or two, then freezes, Staring from every hair in all directions, Ready for the worst, shut up in his hopeful religion, A little syllogism With a wet blue-reddish muzzle, for God's thumb. You see all his hopes bustling As he reaches between the worn rails towards The topheavy oven of his mother. He trembles to grow, stretching his curl-tip tongue - What did cattle ever find here To make this dear little fellow So eager to prepare himself? He is already in the race, and quivering to win - His new purpled eyeball swivel-jerks In the elbowing push of his plans. Hungry people are getting hungrier, Butchers developing expertise and markets, But he just wobbles his tail - and glistens Within his dapper profile Unaware of how his whole lineage Has been tied up. He shivers for feel of the world licking his side. He is like an ember - one glow Of lighting himself up With the fuel of himself, breathing and brightening. Soon he'll plunge out, to scatter his seething joy, To be present at the grass, To be free on the surface of such a wideness, To find himself. To stand. To moo. - A March Calf
Ted Hughes
Obsessional people tend to be careful, do not take undue risks, check what they are doing and set themselves high standards. The negative side of this personality profile is that it means you may be less flexible, and deal less well with change – there is a need to feel in control.
Stefan Cembrowicz (Beating Depression)
Ways to Make use of a Router This article demonstrates how to use a router securely as well as uses some tips to stay secure as well as generate a top quality item of work. When utilizing a router, or any power device, always work out risk-free practices. It is necessary to keep in mind that routers are effective tools as well as could be harmful. When utilizing a router, always stay concentrated on just what you are doing, as well as regard the tool being used. safety and security standards: Constantly utilize a sharp router bit. Plain router bits can not only affect the quality of the work surface but could additionally be really unsafe. Plain router bits put much more stress and anxiety on the router and typically end up melting the wood. Utilizing boring router little bits could also catch the timber as well as trigger the router to bent from your hands. Constantly see to it the work is secured down firmly. Wood secures made particularly for this can be bought. Feed the router from delegated right to ensure that the reducing side meets the timber first. Use superficial passes, going deeper right into the timber with each pass. making to deep of a pass can burn the timber, or perhaps cause the router to twist out of one's hands. Do not ever before push the router. enable the router to relocate through the wood a lot more slowly. feeding the router also quickly could trigger the timber to burn, splinter, or chip. Tips and Tricks Fasten a piece of wood the exact same density of the workpiece to the router table or bench so that it could work as a support for the router. This will prevent the router from wobbling while you make it. Utilize an edge guide whenever feasible. Look for knots warps and nails in the timber you are transmitting. Never ever utilize a router on damp timber. There are various techniques that can be attempted when utilizing a router. Various techniques might work better for various types of router little bits being used as well as various kinds of wanted cuts. Edge Profiles: When transmitting side accounts make certain your workpiece is clamped down safely by using a timber clamp. Relocate the router in a counter-clockwise motion around the beyond the work surface. When cutting the inside of an item, reduced clockwise. (You need to also cut clockwise around the top right corner of the item as well as the lower left corner of the item and afterwards walk around the whole piece counter-clockwise. This will stop splintering at the corners.). Make shallow passes with the Side Bit, going deeper with each pass. It might be a good idea to test the router on an item of scrap wood to see simply how shallow making each pass. Different timbers could chip much easier, and for certain items you may have to take even more shallow passes compared to others. * Remember that when reducing a piece with an edge trim bit, the item needs to be sanded prior to directing. Dado Cuts:. Dado cuts make grooves in timber. Dado cuts could be made in wood utilizing a router with a straight router little bit and a router jig or a t-square. Pick straight router bits that will produce the desired groove size. Test the router bit by using the router on a scrap piece of wood to guarantee it will certainly make the preferred cut. Then secure the t-square to the work piece and also make the wanted cuts. Route on the appropriate side of the t-square or jig so that the router presses against the firmly secured jig rather than away from it. This will certainly make certain straight also dado cuts.
somvabona
Then he shifted to his side, showing off his twink profile and lifted one leg. I got a great view of his balls and a glance at his hole. He moved to his stomach, up on all fours, and started shaking his ass. Those firm cheeks of his opened and closed so I got quick glimpses of his puckered entrance. 
James Cox (Swallowing Mayhem (Outlaw MC Book 5))