Simpson Love Quotes

Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.

I knew I would hate my best memory because it would prove that people could fake love or that love could end or worst of all, love was not powerful enough to change a life.

If you're thinking bout me, text 143 that means I Love You

A sonnet might look dinky, but it was somehow big enough to accommodate love, war, death, and O.J. Simpson. You could fit the whole world in there if you shoved hard enough.

We do not measure the value of a person by their outward appearance, rank, or creed, rather by the sum of the agápe in their heart. Your value in the cosmos is greater than precious metals or jewels, humans have to potential to take us all into a period of great enlightenment, or to our ruin. The choice is yours.

The first five years of a child's life create their future. Teach them about love, about God, and about how special and loved they are. Create a successful and happy future for them. OM

He sank to his knees, absolutely full of despair and sadness. For a long time, droplets of blood continued to fall into his lap.

Do not write. I am sad, and want my light put out. Summers in your absence are as dark as a room. I have closed my arms again. They must do without. To knock at my heart is like knocking at a tomb. Do not write! Do not write. Let us learn to die, as best we may. Did I love you? Ask God. Ask yourself. Do you know? To hear that you love me, when you are far away, Is like hearing from heaven and never to go. Do not write! Do not write. I fear you. I fear to remember, For memory holds the voice I have often heard. To the one who cannot drink, do not show water, The beloved one's picture in the handwritten word. Do not write! Do not write those gentle words that I dare not see, It seems that your voice is spreading them on my heart, Across your smile, on fire, they appear to me, It seems that a kiss is printing them on my heart. Do not write!

Divine love loves that it may bless and do good. You ought to love not because it pleases you, but because it blesses them.

The skillset you need to survive is not the same skillset you need to love and be loved

Pour your scotch on the rocks and drink your misery down. Go home and make love to her and picture me, picture me. Yeah, picture me!

there are a couple of problems with being twenty-two but you don't know about them yet, because you can only find out about the problems sometime after you are no longer twenty-two. anyway, one of the problems with being twenty-two is you start to get afraid that maybe you're horrible at everything, mostly because you're not really good at anything yet, so you decide to stay the course with biology until a sign appears, even though being stoned drunk all the time doesn't register as a sign.

The ideal way to live would be always to treat each day, each encounter with loved ones, as one's last. Only thus could one avoid the endless self-reproach, self-recrimination, with which so many flagellate themselves after a sudden loss.

No task will seem trying, and no sinner unattractive, to one whose heart has been thus possessed with the Savior’s heart of love.

Do what you love, especially if your sharing the word

I want the love that cannot help but love; Loving, like God, for very sake of love.

God’s jewels are often sent us in rough packages and by dark liveried servants, but within we find the very treasures of the King’s palace and the Bridegroom’s Love.

I was like a lot of women who get their wish: I loved being a mom, I just didn't love being me.

Still, I've heard it said that all stories are basically love stories, and my story is no exception. This is a love story, too. And, like a lot of love stories, it doesn't have a happy ending.

she never asked for recognition, because she wasn't doing it to be recognized. she did it because it filled her up. she just carefully planted those seeds. she just kept picking up those pieces. she just kept visiting those old ones. she just kept speaking her language and sitting with her mother. she just kept on lighting that seventh fire every time it went out. she just kept making things a little bit better, until they were.

The top landing of any Bedford Park building’s stairwell felt so much safer. Lying there, flat on a bed of marble, using my backpack for a pillow, whole lives played out beneath me: the smell of food cooking; lovers’ arguments; dishes clanking; TVs blasting at top volume; my old shows, The Simpsons and Jeopardy!; rap music—all carrying me back to University Avenue. Mostly, though, I heard families: children calling out for mothers, husbands speaking their wives’ names, sending me reminders of the way love stretched between a handful of people fills a space, transforms it into a home.

They believe if employees are treated right and well compensated, they will be loyal to the company. A loyal employee is worth his or her weight in gold.

There was no way she could be around this much hotness and not have a reaction. Darn worthless underwear. When would they make some to absorb when needed.

Who was I if I had no one to blame for my life but myself?

These stories depressed me. Love ruined people's lives, the way our parents said drugs could.

I wanted to see who I was, without using another person’s love for me as a measurement of my value.

Having a soul means having the capacity to love something more than yourself.

copy: “I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.

You have no idea how hard it is to live out a great romance. -Wallace Simpson

This is a love story too. And, like a lot of love stories, it doesn't have a happy ending.

He found he was popular, known for a loose style and an appealing willingness to digress. “We spend most of our time talking about Twin Peaks and The Simpsons so they think I am an okay caballero,” he told Markson.

A circle has no end, no beginning, and can hold within itself all the love and devotion shared between mates. Let the rings you exchange now guide you in your life together and show you the way to everlasting love.

And so love and sacrifice is the law of Christ. “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” The law of Christ is the bearing of others’ burdens, the sharing of others’ griefs, sacrificing yourself for another.

One year before the Rapture "...that proves how marvellous God's love is, even for the most miserable human beings, being that demons can never take a human figure in a perfect form, and so the most stupid people are able to discover them." Nicholas Remy, Daemonolatreiae libri tres, 1595.

I know not where we go from here. I do not think this is the end, but a new beginning, a new chapter in our tale. Told by minstrels who reveal not their sources. I know not if we have achieved victory this day. But I will forever know that I was honored to call each and everyone of you my brother.

And so we find Fussell living alone in a flat unfurnished except for an exercise machine and 'A cardboard cut-out of Arnold with loin cloth and sword as Conan the Barbarian'. Thus the heterosexual bodybuilder's relationship to homosexuality is revealed as a sad kind of insubstantial shadow of it, a kind of mourning, a ghostly kind of love.

broad leaves are born we relearn fragile green waves of wind light harvested into food sun making breath river washing land lake suffocating ice trees bleeding sweet i’ve only ever seen you hitchhiking into dreams or running from the headlights but today here you are just sleeping. sitting. eating hours of still armfuls of nothing.

The typical metrosexual is a young man with money to spend, living in or within easy reach of a metropolis — because that’s where all the best shops, clubs, gyms and hairdressers are. He might be officially gay, straight or bisexual, but this is utterly immaterial because he has clearly taken himself as his own love object and pleasure as his sexual preference.

Stained-glass windows glowed faintly in the moonlight streaming through, illuminating the sculpture of Christ on the cross that hung above the altar. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Then the sculpture seemed to move, and Christ’s body twisted on the cross to look directly at him. ...Jesus, the son of God and his saviour, seemed be smiling at him.

Someone has beautifully analyzed the fruit of the Spirit in Gal. 5: 22, and shown that all the graces there mentioned are but various forms of love itself. The apostle is not speaking of different fruits, but of one fruit, the fruit of the Spirit, and the various words that follow are but phrases and descriptions of the one fruit, which is love itself. Joy, which is first mentioned, is love on wings; peace, which follows, is love folding its wings, and nestling under the wings of God; longsuffering is love enduring; gentleness is love in society; goodness is love in activity, faith is love confiding; meekness is love stooping; temperance is true self-love, and the proper regard for our own real interests, which is as much the duty of love, as regard for the interests of others.

I took all this criticism very personally, thinking I was bringing about America’s moral decay. So I decided to write children’s books. This was a stretch for me, because I hate children. But, Dr. Seuss hated children. So did Hans Christian Andersen. Lewis Carroll loved children in a way that’s illegal in forty-eight states. (I mentioned this in a lecture, and someone asked, “What are the two states where it’s okay?” That’s how I met R. Kelly.)

Hancock: I was talking about Olive, my sweetheart. Sid : And a load of old rubbish it was too. Hancock: Oh well of course, I wouldn't expect you to understand. How could a man like you hope to understand the sensitive world of two children who discover the wonders of innocent love for the first time. Sid: 'Innocent love'. If I'd been your old man I'd have given you a thump round the earhole and kicked you up to bed. Hancock: I don't think I've such a crude man in my life.

The Worst Man in Australia Australians love The Simpsons, except, naturally, the episode where the family goes there. That episode was condemned in the Australian parliament, which is a Hooters, by the way. They didn’t object to us saying the Australian penal system involved kicking offenders with a giant boot, or that their prime minister’s office was an inner tube in a pond. Nope. What they didn’t like was our cast’s attempt at doing an Australian accent. Mind you, the true Australian accent is semi-incomprehensible

It won't work. You see, he is a liar and a thief. And he's been one for too long. He can't retire now. In addition to which. He has become, I'm afraid, a hack.' 'He may be all those things but she knows he's not.' 'What gives her that curious idea?' 'She's been with him constantly for the last few days. She's seen him shaking with terror, exhausted, ready to quit. She's watched him pull himself together again and she's also seen him be warm and tender. And funny. Not famous-international-wit funny but really funny.' 'Do you think she's an idiot? Do you think she doesn't know what kind of man he is? Or what he needs?' 'And what he needs is L-O-V-E? Uh-uh it's too late. He is 43 years old. Or will be this October. He's been married twice, both times disastrously and there have been too many years of... too much dough, too much bad writing and too much whiskey. He's got nothing left inside to give. Even if he could, which he can't.' 'But that's not true. You can, you have. I just know it.' 'No, you don't. It's lousy. In any case, the problem is you're not in love with the script. You're in love with me. And why shouldn't you be? When suddenly, waltzing into your life comes this charming and relatively handsome stranger. Me. Smooth as silk, with a highly practised line of chatter, specifically designed to knock relatively unsophisticated chicks like you Miss Simpson, right on their ears. Which I'm terribly afraid I've done. Well if it's the last decent thing I do in this world, and it very well may be, I'm going to fix that. I'm going to send you packing Miss Simpson before I cause you serious and irrevocable harm. You want the truth? Of course you don't. I'll give it to you anyway. I do not give one damn about anything.

The really strange thing about this is that it was one of the Fog Facts. That is, it was not a secret. It was known. But it was not known. That is, if you asked a knowledgeable journalist, or political analyst, or a historian, they knew about it. If you yourself went and checked the record, you could find it out. But if you asked the man in the street if President Scott, who loved to have his picture taken among the troops and driving armored vehicles and aboard naval vessels, if you asked if Scott had found a way to evade service in Vietnam, they wouldn't have a clue, and, unless they were anti-Scott already, they wouldn't believe it. In the information age there is so much information that sorting and focus and giving the appropriate weight to anything have become incredibly difficult. Then some fact, or event, or factoid mysteriously captures the world's attention and there's a media frenzy. Like Clinton and Lewinsky. Like O. J. Simpson. And everybody in the world knows everything about it. On the flip side are the Fog Facts, important things that nobody seems able to focus on any more than the can focus on a single droplet in the mist. They are known, but not known.

To get to this point, to talking to you right here in this moment, I had to really feel. And I hadn’t been doing that. Up until a few years ago, I had been a feelings addict. Love, loss—whichever, whatever, as long as it was epic. I just needed enough noise to distract me from the pain I had been avoiding since childhood. The demons of traumatic abuse that refused to let me sleep at night—Tylenol PM at age twelve, red wine and Ambien as a grown, scared woman. Those same demons who perched on my shoulder, and when they saw a man as dark as them, leaned in to my ear to whisper, “Just give him all your light. See if it saves him. . . .

I once saw a picture of the Constitution of the United States, very skillfully engraved in copper plate, so that when you looked at it closely it was nothing more than a piece of writing, but when you looked at it at a distance, it was the face of George Washington. The face shone out in the shading of the letters at a little distance, and I saw the person, not the words, nor the ideas; and I thought, “‘That is the way to look at the Scriptures and understand the thoughts of God, to see in them the face of love, shining through and through; not ideas, nor doctrines, but Jesus Himself as the Life and Source and sustaining Presence of all our life.

I know he accused Nick of making me dependent on him for everything, which is the pot calling up the kettle to have a long talk about being black. My mom loved Nick, but right or wrong, my parents had spent my life making me think that I couldn’t do anything without them. At twenty-one years old, I was still very much a child. I didn’t know how to write a check, but, somehow, I was paying for everything. I knew that I was making money, but I didn’t think of myself as the family breadwinner. I just thought my money was their money. Honestly, what I knew for sure was that it stopped my family from having as many fights, so I felt lucky that I could be the one to help keep the peace.

Hi, I’m Gale Norton,” she said. “Welcome to the White House.” “I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking her hand. I made a stab at small talk. “And what do you do?” “I’m the secretary of the interior,” she said. “Oh my gosh,” I said, waving my arm high to take in the room. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Everything is beautiful.” My dad pinched my arm, and she just walked away. I was trying to be nice and give a compliment, but that’s her Jessica Simpson story. Now I know the secretary of the interior manages federal land and national parks. Believe me, I beat myself up so much over that one that I could ace a test on it. At least I’d made it to the White House again. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

She can’t explain or quite understand what it is that is special about dancing with Harry. When he opens his arms to her, he is so sure, the way he holds her, not too hard, not too soft. Like coming home. Where she belongs. The way he moves her. They are a part of the music. Their bodies fit together, move like one person. Perfect. The way a man and a woman must feel, she thinks, when they are in love. He makes her feel beautiful, too, like when he assures her that someday she will be good enough to be a professional dancer. Harry must know, because he is the best dancer, the best teacher, a girl could have, patient and gentle. She is lucky that he believes in her. That is how she feels outside his door.

member of the family recounted a few stories or read a poem. “His mind was never a captive of reality,” Laurene said. “He possessed an epic sense of possibility. He looked at things from the standpoint of perfection.” Mona Simpson, as befitting a novelist, had a finely crafted eulogy. “He was an intensely emotional man,” she recalled. “Even ill, his taste, his discrimination, and his judgment held. He went through sixty-seven nurses before finding kindred spirits.” She spoke of her brother’s love of work and noted that “even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from his friends at Apple to finish them.” She also, more personally, stressed his love of Laurene and all four of his children.

He’s coming off the bridge,” said Serge. “The rocks will start soon.” “Rocks?” “It’s local tradition, and another reason I love the Keys.” Serge stood and put on his sneakers. “It’s our version of when those people went out to the overpasses and waved at O. J. Simpson during the slow-motion chase. Except in the Keys, when there’s a high-speed pursuit on TV heading south, the locals line the road and wait for the car to come off the bridge to Key Largo. Last time was around Christmas.” “You’re right.” Coleman pointed at the TV again. “They’re lining the side of the road. They’re throwing rocks.” “And we’re at Mile Marker 105, so that gives us about three minutes.” Serge tightened the Velcro straps on his shoes. “Let’s go throw rocks.

for every adult person you look up to in life there is trailing behind them an invisible chain gang of ghosts, all of which, as a child, you are generously spared from meeting. I know now, however, that these ghosts exist, and that other adults can see them. The lost loves, the hurt friends, the dead: they follow their owner forever. Perhaps this is why we feel so crowded around those people who we know have had hard times. Perhaps this is why we find so little to say. We suffer an odd brand of stage fright, I think, before all those dreadful eyes. And maybe that’s what my uncle had noticed about Mr. Simpson on the lawn that night of the fight. Maybe in my eyes, a child’s eyes, it was just the three of us squatting in the grass. But, to those two men, the lawn appeared to be full of bodies, full of the people they’d made mistakes with in life now tethered to them and ill-rested and serving no purpose but to remind them of the one awful thing: that life is made up, ever increasingly, of what you cannot change.

It’s just time to marry, that’s all,” she said. “I’m so tired of dating! I’m so tired of keeping up a good front! I want to sit on the couch with a regular, normal husband and watch TV for a thousand years. It’s going to be like getting out of a girdle; that’s exactly how I picture it.” “What are you saying?” Maggie asked. She was almost afraid of the answer. “Are you telling me you don’t really love Max?” “Of course I love him,” Serena said. She blended the dots into her skin. “But I’ve loved other people as much. I loved Terry Simpson our sophomore year—remember him? But it wasn’t time to get married then, so Terry is not the one I’m marrying.” Maggie didn’t know what to think. Did everybody feel that way? Had the grownups been spreading fairy tales? “The minute I saw Eleanor,” her oldest brother had told her once, “I said, ‘That girl is going to be my wife someday.’ ” It hadn’t occurred to Maggie that he might simply have been ready for a wife, and therefore had his eye out for the likeliest prospect. So there again, Serena had managed to color Maggie’s view of things. “We’re not in the hands of fate after all,” she seemed to be saying. “Or if we are, we can wrest ourselves free anytime we care to.

There were three great comedians in my formative years—Bill Cosby, Bill Murray, and Richard Pryor—and they wrecked comedy for a generation. How? By never saying anything funny. You can quote a Steve Martin joke, or a Rodney Dangerfield line, but Pryor, Cosby, and Murray? The things they said were funny only when they said them. In Cosby’s case, it didn’t even need to be sentences: “The thing of the thing puts the milk in the toast, and ha, ha, ha!” It was gibberish and America loved it. The problem was that they inspired a generation of comedians who tried coasting on personality—they were all attitude and no jokes. It was also a time when comedy stars didn’t seem to care. Bill Murray made some lousy movies; Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy made even more; and any script that was too lame for these guys, Chevy Chase made. These were smart people—they had to know how bad these films were, but they just grabbed a paycheck and did them. Most of these comic actors started as writers—they could have written their own scripts, but they rarely bothered. Then, at the end of a decade of lazy comedy and half-baked material, The Simpsons came along. We cared about jokes, and we worked endless hours to cram as many into a show as possible. I’m not sure we can take all the credit, but TV and movies started trying harder. Jokes were back. Shows like 30 Rock and Arrested Development demanded that you pay attention. These days, comedy stars like Seth Rogen, Amy Schumer, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, and Jonah Hill actually write the comedies they star in.

SCULLEY. Pepsi executive recruited by Jobs in 1983 to be Apple’s CEO, clashed with and ousted Jobs in 1985. JOANNE SCHIEBLE JANDALI SIMPSON. Wisconsin-born biological mother of Steve Jobs, whom she put up for adoption, and Mona Simpson, whom she raised. MONA SIMPSON. Biological full sister of Jobs; they discovered their relationship in 1986 and became close. She wrote novels loosely based on her mother Joanne (Anywhere but Here), Jobs and his daughter Lisa (A Regular Guy), and her father Abdulfattah Jandali (The Lost Father). ALVY RAY SMITH. A cofounder of Pixar who clashed with Jobs. BURRELL SMITH. Brilliant, troubled hardware designer on the original Mac team, afflicted with schizophrenia in the 1990s. AVADIS “AVIE” TEVANIAN. Worked with Jobs and Rubinstein at NeXT, became chief software engineer at Apple in 1997. JAMES VINCENT. A music-loving Brit, the younger partner with Lee Clow and Duncan Milner at the ad agency Apple hired. RON WAYNE. Met Jobs at Atari, became first partner with Jobs and Wozniak at fledgling Apple, but unwisely decided to forgo his equity stake. STEPHEN WOZNIAK. The star electronics geek at Homestead High; Jobs figured out how to package and market his amazing circuit boards and became his partner in founding Apple. DEL YOCAM. Early Apple employee who became the General Manager of the Apple II Group and later Apple’s Chief Operating Officer. INTRODUCTION How This Book Came to Be In the early summer of 2004, I got a phone call from Steve Jobs. He had been scattershot friendly to me over the years, with occasional bursts of intensity, especially when he was launching a new product that he wanted on the cover of Time or featured on CNN, places where I’d worked. But now that I was no longer at either of those places, I hadn’t heard from him much. We talked a bit about the Aspen Institute, which I had recently joined, and I invited him to speak at our summer campus in Colorado. He’d be happy to come, he said, but not to be onstage. He wanted instead to take a walk so that we could talk. That seemed a bit odd. I didn’t yet

Our capacity for love is our greatest advantage. It’s what propels our species forward and guarantees that we won’t destroy ourselves.

But it isn’t the fun of DIY invention, urban exploration, physical danger, and civil disorder that the Z-Boys enjoyed in 1976. It is fun within serious limits, and for all of its thrills it is (by contrast) scripted. And rather obedient. The fact that there are public skateparks and high-performance skateboards signals progress: America has embraced this sport, as it did bicycles in the nineteenth century. Towns want to make skating safe and acceptable. The economy has more opportunity to grow. America is better off for all of this. Yet such government and commercial intervention in a sport that was born of radical liberty means that the fun itself has changed; it has become mediated. For the skaters who take pride in their flashy store-bought equipment have already missed the Z-Boys’ joke: Skating is a guerrilla activity. It’s the fun of beating, not supporting, the system. P. T. Barnum said it himself: all of business is humbug. How else could business turn a profit, if it didn’t trick you with advertising? If it didn’t hook you with its product? This particular brand of humbug was perfected in the late 1960s, when merchandise was developed and marketed and sold to make Americans feel like rebels. Now, as then, customers always pay for this privilege, and purveyors keep it safe (and generally clean) to curb their liability. They can’t afford customers taking real risks. Plus it’s bad for business to encourage real rebellion. And yet, marketers know Americans love fun—they have known this for centuries. And they know that Americans, especially kids, crave autonomy and participation, so they simulate the DIY experience at franchises like the Build-A-Bear “workshops,” where kids construct teddy bears from limited options, or “DIY” restaurants, where customers pay to grill their own steaks, fry their own pancakes, make their own Bloody Marys. These pay-to-play stores and restaurants are, in a sense, more active, more “fun,” than their traditional competition: that’s their big selling point. But in both cases (as Barnum knew) the joke is still on you: the personalized bear is a standardized mishmash, the personalized food is often inedible. As Las Vegas knows, the house always wins. In the history of radical American fun, pleasure comes from resistance, risk, and participation—the same virtues celebrated in the “Port Huron Statement” and the Digger Papers, in the flapper’s slang and the Pinkster Ode. In the history of commercial amusement, most pleasures for sale are by necessity passive. They curtail creativity and they limit participation (as they do, say, in a laser-tag arena) to a narrow range of calculated surprises, often amplified by dazzling technology. To this extent, TV and computer screens, from the tiny to the colossal, have become the scourge of American fun. The ubiquity of TV screens in public spaces (even in taxicabs and elevators) shows that such viewing isn’t amusement at all but rather an aggressive, ubiquitous distraction. Although a punky insurgency of heedless satire has stung the airwaves in recent decades—from equal-opportunity offenders like The Simpsons and South Park to Comedy Central’s rabble-rousing pundits, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert—the prevailing “fun” of commercial amusement puts minimal demands on citizens, besides their time and money. TV’s inherent ease seems to be its appeal, but it also sends a sobering, Jumbotron-sized message about the health of the public sphere.

This is getting weird,” Lip said, flipping through some of the others.  “Do you think these are code?” “Could be.  Don’t know.  Not our speed, though.  We’re going to need to call in some favors to get them run.” Lip nodded.  “That shouldn’t be a problem.  We’ll use our go-to boy.” “Lawrence?” “He owes us.” Lawrence Simpson.  He still worked at the NSA.  Man was a lifer.  And he owed them big. “They’ve got the Black Widow now,” Lip said.  “I’d love to work with that baby.” The Black Widow.  The NSA’s colossal Cray supercomputer.  Thing could scan through millions of emails, phone calls, you name it, in seconds.  It could find patterns, search for key words, and do it on a scale that was unfathomable. “Keep dreaming,” Marks said. Lip could get carried away.  Like the NSA was going to let ‘em use that.  Thing was needed for its job.  Like spying on the world. First time on the job Marks was pretty blown away.  Didn’t faze him in the least now, knowing that the NSA captured every bit of correspondence every day and every second from around the world.  Phone calls, cell or land lines.  Domestic and international.  Emails.  Text messages.  Fuckin’ everything. It was all captured, scanned and stored.  And Lip and he had a hand in helping with that.  Still were helping.  Information in motion.  There were always new pipes that needed to be tapped, more splitters to put in place somewhere around the world.  Dubai, Chóngqing, Bangalore…  Marks and Lip, just two of your friendly cable box installers.  No job too small or too far away. Marks eyed the walls again.  In a micro sense this was almost like a snapshot of the soup.  Random and nonsensical.  Just a bunch of non-related groups lumped together. He examined some of the newspaper clippings.  It was weird to see the paper content. 

We think we aren’t worth loving, so it will take a long time for the right male to see our worth, even longer for him to love us. When it’s just there. When they love us, faults and all, we balk. It must be

Today is the autumnal equinox, when the hours of light and dark are in equal balance. This is a good day to take stock to make sure that we have a God-given equilibrium in our lives. This may seem a forlorn and frustrating task, until we realize that Christ, who is the perfect specimen of a balanced human being, can calm our agitated or overworked parts, heal our sick parts, and strengthen our weak parts. Gildas, who has been nicknamed the Jeremiah of the early British church because he was so critical of its lax members, believed in fasting and prayer—yet he was equally aware of the danger of going overboard and losing a sense of proportion. He wrote: There is no point in abstaining from bodily food if you do not have love in your heart. Those who do not fast much but who take great care to keep their heart pure (on which, as they know, their life ultimately depends) are better off than those who are vegetarian, or travel in carriages, and think they are therefore superior to everyone else. To these people death has entered through the window of their pride. Grant me the serenity— that comes from placing the different parts of my being under your harmonizing sway. Today may I grow in balance. SEPTEMBER

He sat down at the piano and flexed his fingers before he began to play. It was a slow piece that Amber loved to listen to on the radio; it spoke of the possibility of love after waiting a lifetime.

Hale a borrowed

morning.” “I’ll.

When you kiss me, I forget where I’m.

His warm voice was quickly replaced by one as cold as the ashes of lost love, the whites of his eyes suddenly darkened to a coal blackness, and his teeth became long and shark-like in their razor sharpness;

Thel’s love-drenched eyes

People want what isn’t given to them. And this is not sin, but hope. What if God didn’t put us here to accept, but to struggle? Isn’t love itself built of that precise impossible hope?

on the inside, a diamond is one of the toughest objects found in nature—just like you. You’re beautiful on the outside, but inside you’re an amazing combination of strength and love. And somehow I was lucky enough to earn your love. Allegra Simpson, will you marry me?” Allegra

Before the New Kingdom, the bestowal of “divine love” occurred by a “superior” deity upon a human, a subordination that extended down the chain of authority, passed from gods to royals, from royals to non-royal officials, from officials to their wives and relatives, etc.[538] In this regard, Doxey further relates: [Egyptologist] W.K. Simpson has studied the concept of divine love, asserting that prior to the New Kingdom, love was always bestowed by a superior upon a subordinate. Simpson’s view is certainly correct with regard to the love of gods. During the Middle Kingdom, humans always receive divine love; they are never described as “loving” a god.[539] On some occasions, such as when the king was “beloved by the people,” such love or mri could apparently be “reciprocated between superiors and subordinates” as well.[540] The clarification of the Middle and New Kingdoms indicates that this custom changed during the New Kingdom, with the use of the mry epithet becoming increasingly popular even as applied to deities. It is evident that, especially after the Hellenization of the Ptolemaic and Greco-Roman periods, various Egyptian deities became the objects of “divine love” and were themselves invoked as “beloved” or Mery. In reality, this ability to bestow mry upon even the “chief of all gods” is demonstrated as early as the New Kingdom in a hymn from the Papyrus Kairo CG 58038 (Boulaq 17), parts of which may date to the late Middle Kingdom,[541] such as the 18th Dynasty (1550-1292 BCE), and in which we find the combined god Amun-Re praised as “the good god beloved.”[542] Indeed, at P. Boulaq 17, 3.4, we find Amun-Re deemed Mry, as part of the epithet “Beloved of the Upper Egyptian and Lower Egyptian Crowns.”[543] Amun-Re is also called “beloved” in Budge’s rendering of the Book of the Dead created for the Egyptian princess and priestess Nesi-Khonsu (c. 1070-945 BCE).[544]

It’s surprising what you can get used to,” I said, leaning into him the way my mom does. “Like annoying brothers, for example.” He snorted, pushing back. “You love me.” I held up my hand, pinching my thumb and forefinger together so there was only a slight gap. He pouted, making me grin like an idiot. “Okay. You got me. I do.

That's what you do. You find the best angle. You crop. You edit. That's not cheating. That's love.

Then what were feelings worth? Like currency, their value depended on a sound treasury, so love from a liar was pretty worthless.

And, most important, I love you.

Neve plonked the chicken down on the table, then stood there with arms folded. 'Give Max his presents, then I'll feed you,' she commanded. The Tesco's bag was handed over and Max pulled out two bottles of Cava (which Neve knew were in a two for five pounds promotion), a small box of Quality Street and a pair of Homer Simpson socks. 'My God, have you no shame?

Black women - the world knows that we are strong because our strength is legendary. We are Harriet Tubman, Michelle Obama, and Rosa Parks. We are Oprah Winfrey, Nanny, and Mae Jameson. We are Shirley Chisholm, Portia Simpson and Maya Angelou. We have birthed a nation, rescued slaves, built empires, traveled to space and written our place in history. Survival is not enough; we were built to rise.

When you're raising someone to survive a war that the other side invests millions convincing people it doesn't exist you raise your army to be tough. You teach them not to make a big fuss. You teach them not to feel. If you waste your time feeling you're not going to be ready and in the ring for the next blow. You're going to be crying and feeling sorry for yourself in the corner and you're not going to see them coming, because that's the lesson you never see them coming.

When you're raising someone to survive a war that the other side invests millions convincing people it doesn't exist you raise your army to be tough. You teach them not to make a big fuss. You teach them not to feel. If you waste your time feeling you're not going to be ready and in the ring for the next blow. You're going to be crying and feeling sorry for yourself in the corner and you're not doing to see them coming, because that's the lesson you never see them coming

He had a love of ‘childish fun’ and ‘a great sense of humour and loved

He had a love of ‘childish fun’ and ‘a great sense of humour and loved bawdy jokes’.

love doesn’t seem to be all that i expected it to be, i’m always chewed up, spat out, let down

Seinfeld’s a hit? Give him a wife, you’ve got Mad About You. Throw in some kids—it’s Everybody Loves Raymond. Make it suck—and it’s Home Improvement.

Alfie is the goon in the team: think of Scooby-Doo with the brains of Homer Simpson. People often can’t believe he’s a collie because he is as smooth as a piglet and built like a lurcher with long legs and a deep chest. He is a true athlete and can run for miles and miles without tiring. Dog owners call it ‘having a good engine.’ He is obedient to the last – but sometimes ‘obedient’ can be another word for ‘stupid.’ If I ask him to lie down and get side-tracked, he will stay glued to the very spot until eventually I come looking for him ten minutes later. I would take sheep out the same gate every day for a week and on day seven Alfie would still need to be told what to do. But he is a great work dog and very honest, and no matter what situation he gets into he is always listening for my commands and has full faith that I will not see him wrong.

... Old neighbors viewed each other strangely, and as strangers,'" I said softly to myself. From behind me, Conner laughed. "If anyone is acting strangely here, it's you. This is a real '"'Tis," replied Aunt Helga' moment you're in." I'd been quoting Truman Capote's classic In Cold Blood; trust my brother to answer with a reference to one of our favorite Simpsons episodes when we were kids.

The suffering of mental illness, whether for the afflicted or for their families, is typically marked by isolation. When people desperately need to experience the love and empathy of their fellow human beings and to know that their Creator has not abandoned them, many reach out and are shocked to touch the church's painfully cold shoulder.

If a tortured artist hurls a nasty email at 10 p.m. and then a love song at 11:20, are you up or down?

Carrie would always have him anyway, he thought, the way she had him now. Spring smells of dirt and rainwater rose from the ground. Love was a mixed business. As in building, he couldn’t afford the refinement he desired. He needed too much. Carrie had been his great romance. He hadn’t been hers. With Susan it wasn’t romance, exactly. It was home.

Name … Cookie Haque – well, kind of.1 Parents … Abed and Rozie. Sisters … Nahid and Roubi. Age … Nine, although I feel I am more mature than this. Pets … Really want one. Star Sign … Don’t believe in all that. I mean, how could somebody’s whole personality be determined by random stars or what month they’re born in? Makes no sense. E.g. I’m supposed to be a Scorpio but their traits include being jealous, negative, secretive and resentful. I am NONE of those! Best friend … Keziah, Keziah, always and forever Keziah. BFF. Hobbies … I love drawing and doodling. My current favourite doodle is a hedgehog. I like drawing it with different hairstyles. I love long words and chatting too, if you count that as a hobby! I used to collect sachets of stuff, anything really … salt, pepper, shampoo, all sorts – but I’ve given up on that now. I’ve collected so many different types of things: coins, stamps, acorns. No idea why I collected acorns. Random! Favourite Teacher … Ms Krantz Favourite Subject … Science. How can anybody not love science? I like it because it explains EVERYTHING. It’s thanks to science that human beings can build buildings that don’t fall down, design cars and planes that don’t crash and make medicines to help us get better. Without progress in science we’d all still be cavemen running around in rabbit skins with sticks! No houses, no TVs, no iPads! We owe science A LOT. Favourite Food … I love all food except for pork. We don’t eat pork in my family cos we’re Muslim. My favourite sandwich is coronation chicken and my favourite food at the moment is a roast dinner but it changes all the time. I just love food! Favourite Colour … Favourite colour for what? Just because I like wearing green clothes doesn’t mean I want to paint my house green! What a dumb question! More Stuff About Me … I do a good Bart Simpson impression. CHAPTER 1 Animal Lover

You can't demand love. Not expect it, not wait for it, not want it. It comes on air like a scent.

She would have loved to be able to hate her mother the way they did, with a breeziness carried by a fundamental trust in a home with a set table and dinner cooking.

Sometimes I think you’re allergic to fun,” Carrie said. That stung. He was having fun right now! He wasn’t wild enough for her. When she was slipping into restaurants in scant clothes, he walked around Berkeley in the dark. Carefree, the politician had called college students. Walter had cares, but he’d also had days at Ken’s house; he’d gone swimming in a pond at dawn with a girl he almost loved. His first day in the dorm, the glimpse of gold under the cloth draped over Ken’s French horn. He wouldn’t have swapped his own youth.

You made me love baseball,” Lisa tells Bart on The Simpsons. “Not as a collection of numbers but as an unpredictable, passionate game beaten in excitement only by every other sport.

Listen. You better stop treating me like I’m Jessica Simpson and I don’t know the difference between tuna and chicken…of the sea… Circa 2003.

In each hour of my workday, make me aware, Spirit of Life, of the Eye that beholds me, the Hand that holds me, the Heart that loves me, the Presence that enfolds me.

I wondered if perhaps Elinor would understand- in a way my own parents never seemed to- how it felt to carry around the potential to harm the people you loved best, just by nature of your being.

Still, I prayed that God would send me someone who longed for love like I did.

Step aside everyone! Sensitive love letters are my specialty. 'Dear Baby, Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: you.

Love without honesty must be a hollow thing, worth little and easily shaken.

Indeed, though Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman were the first and most important casualties of this case, they were not the only ones. There was Simpson’s family, those decent and loyal women in yellow who endured this long trial for a man they loved, and of course those two children, who would grow up without a mother. There were Simpson’s friends, many of whom came to realize how blind they had been to O.J.’s narcissism and brutality. There were the peripheral figures, like Shipp and Huizenga, who degraded themselves on the altar of celebrity. (Shipp, at least, came to realize what he had done.) And there was even the public at large, whose passions and biases were inflamed by the events Simpson had set in motion. None of this mattered to O.J. Simpson, because, as he had done his entire life, he cared only about himself.

California Dreamin’ Cali was a cute little surfer girl from Santa Ana. She was about this tall, had a sweet laugh, great smile, deliriously long sun-bleached hair, and a nice, tight little IM. We liked to pretend we were in love. She used to send me photos of herself in the Victoria’s Secrets dressing room at the mall with her iPhone while she was sitting in Physics class. “There’s more where that came from,” she would wink. She took me for a drive one night— just her, her iPhone, and I. We ended up out on the beach where she lay me out beside her on a blanket, flipped me open, and began texting with a warm, seductive voice into my ear. I thought I was roaming. “Touch me—here,” she teased. And forwarded me a photo of the inside of her thigh. I was all thumbs. I moved my hand slowly up the inside of her LCD. She giggled as I started caressing her Instagram application. “Do you love me?” She purred. “I thought we were pretending.” I replied.