Soft Attitude Quotes

We waste so much energy trying to cover up who we are when beneath every attitude is the want to be loved, and beneath every anger is a wound to be healed and beneath every sadness is the fear that there will not be enough time. When we hesitate in being direct, we unknowingly slip something on, some added layer of protection that keeps us from feeling the world, and often that thin covering is the beginning of a loneliness which, if not put down, diminishes our chances of joy. It’s like wearing gloves every time we touch something, and then, forgetting we chose to put them on, we complain that nothing feels quite real. Our challenge each day is not to get dressed to face the world but to unglove ourselves so that the doorknob feels cold and the car handle feels wet and the kiss goodbye feels like the lips of another being, soft and unrepeatable.

Five truly effective prescriptions to remedy a bad day. (You can't overdose.) —Pray; discuss your troubles with God. —List your blessings. (The blue sky, soft cookies, warm socks, etc.) —Call your mom. —Visit an animal shelter and hug a lonely cat. —Visit a nursing home and hug a lonely grandparent.

I’d had a really bad day and you hurt me.” His hand at my jaw tensed and he kept whispering when he said, “I’ll probably do it again, Red, because I’m a man and any man can be a dick. But I won’t do it like that, not again. I know you got soft under that attitude and I’ll have a mind to that.

Aiden i'm not willing to explore a relationship with you other than work. I will consider a one-night stand with you. Preferably tonight as you wanted," she sounded softly, nibbling her bottom lip.

slightly older men and women, they had professions and soft slacks with knife pleats and a certain ease of bearing and belonging, the package of attitudes and values known as lifestyle

Maybe she will be broken forever. but if it is so, she will adorn it with radiant elegance; and all that man will ever discern is her effortless grace and the softness of her smile.

Sorry, I got hung up or I’d have been here earlier. I made sure I made it for closing, though. I didn’t want the streets to suffer if you walked alone.” A glance at him showed his lips twitching. Humor, a new facet to my knight in leather armor; one I liked, given my oftentimes sarcastic attitude towards life. He wore the same leather duster of the previous evening, and, once again, I enviously admired it. Unable to resist, I reached out a hand and stroked its supple surface, feeling a thrill that my hand strayed so close to his actual body. “It’s so soft,” I murmured. “Not for long, if you keep stroking it,” he drawled.

No matter what we do, each instant contains infinite choices. What we choose to think, to say or to hear creates what we feel in the present moment, it conditions the quality of our communication and in the end the quality of our everyday life. Beliefs and attitudes are made of thoughts. Negative thoughts can be changed and by doing so we create for ourselves more pleasant inner states and have a different impact on the people around us

Three things in life you will never have to chase: True friends, true love and your destiny!

Do not let them humble you, he said softly.

The very falsehood that stained her, was a proof how blindly she loved another--this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man--while he himself was rough, and stern, and strongly made. He lashed himself into an agony of fierce jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude!--how he would have laid his life at her feet for such tender glances, such fond detention! He mocked at himself, for having valued the mechanical way in which she had protected him from the fury of the mob; now he had seen how soft and bewitching she looked when with a man she really loved. He remembered, point by point, the sharpness of her words--'There was not a man in all that crowd for whom she would not have done as much, far more readily than for him.' He shared with the mob, in her desire of averting bloodshed from them; but this man, this hidden lover, shared with nobody; he had looks, words, hand-cleavings, lies, concealment, all to himself.

Their bodies lay flatly on the rocks, and their eyes regarded him with evil interest: but it does not appear that Mr. Fison was afraid, or that he realized that he was in any danger. Possibly his confidence is to be ascribed to the limpness of their attitudes. But he was horrified, of course, and intensely excited and indignant at such revolting creatures preying upon human flesh. He thought they had chanced upon a drowned body. He shouted to them, with the idea of driving them off, and, finding they did not budge, cast about him, picked up a big rounded lump of rock, and flung it at one. And then, slowly uncoiling their tentacles, they all began moving towards him - creeping at first deliberately, and making a soft purring sound to each other.

Every twenty years or so the earth renews itself in young maidens. You know what I mean? Her cheeks had the perfect form that belongs to the young; her hair was kinky gold. Her teeth were white and posted on every approach. She was all sweet corn and milk. Blessings on her hips. Blessings on her thighs. Blessings on her soft little fingers which were somewhat covered by the cuffs of her uniform. Blessings on that rough gold. A wonderful little thing; her attitude was that of a pal or playmate, as is common with Midwestern young women

If I ever have more than $37 in my pocket I´m going to open a school for girls with bad attitudes where we basically talk to therapists all day while wearing soft pants and occasionally taking a field trip to the nearest elote cart.

The young officers who had come back [from WW1], hardened by their terrible experience and disgusted by the attitude of the younger generation to whom this experience meant just nothing, used to lecture us for our softness. Of course they could produce no argument that we were capable of understanding. They could only bark at you that war was ‘a good thing’, it ‘made you tough’, ‘kept you fit’, etc. etc. We merely sniggered at them. Ours was the one-eyed pacifism that is peculiar to sheltered countries with strong navies.

When you give up, you are giving others control of your destiny. When you choose not to give up, you take control of your destiny.

You can grow softly, lovely and delicately amidst the hard surfaces. Not all who passed tougher times in life have a hard heart, kindness and tenderness do breathe despite of worse times.

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Most Western Christians—and most Western non-Christians, for that matter—in fact suppose that Christianity was committed to at least a soft version of Plato’s position. A good many Christian hymns and poems wander off unthinkingly in the direction of Gnosticism. The “just passing through” spirituality (as in the spiritual “This world is not my home, / I’m just a’passin’ through”), though it has some affinities with classical Christianity, encourages precisely a Gnostic attitude: the created world is at best irrelevant, at worst a dark, evil, gloomy place, and we immortal souls, who existed originally in a different sphere, are looking forward to returning to it as soon as we’re allowed to. A massive assumption has been made in Western Christianity that the purpose of being a Christian is simply, or at least mainly, to “go to heaven when you die,” and texts that don’t say that but that mention heaven are read as if they did say it, and texts that say the opposite, like Romans 8:18–25 and Revelation 21–22, are simply screened out as if they didn’t exist.13

We, then, can show as spirited an attitude to just the same things if we will only choose to slip the yoke from our necks. But first we have to reject the life of pleasures; they make us soft and womanish; they are insistent in their demands, and what is more, require us to make insistent demands on fortune.

The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.

Fiery attitude. Hisses at anyone who dares come too close. Skin so soft I want to run my hands all over your body until you’re moanin’ my name . . . You’re my Kitten.

Passion to a person is what gas is to a car. Without it, you won't go anywhere!

A good woman shoul have spiked attitude. But, beautiful at heart like the cactus flowers, soft and delicate.

I saw portraits of pain and snapshots of hope—they appeared as complex energies, softly kaleidoscopic, levitating in air with no connotations to joy or pain.

But the revitalisation of glamour modelling has become the symptom of a wider change in our culture, in which the images and attitudes of soft pornography now come flooding in at young women from every side of the media: monthly magazines, weekly magazines, tabloid newspapers, music videos, reality television, and almost every aspect of the internet, from social networking sites to individual blogs.

Sweet tea with milk, three Oreos, and Bob Roy’s snug and cozy flat helped Sue breathe deeply for the first time in months. She let out a sigh as big as a cresting wave and leaned back into a chair so soft it put the z in cozy. “Okay,” Bob said. “Tell me everything.” She opened up about, well, everything, cued by Bob’s sympathy. He uttered his support at every story, every anecdote: New York was the only place for Sue to be! Shelley and her “yeah, okay” attitude were to be expected from such a see-you-next-Tuesday! The subway was survivable as long as you never made eye contact with anyone. You found an apartment by reading the Rental classifieds in the Times and The Village Voice, but you had to get them early, at seven in the morning, and then you had to hightail it to the apartments with a bag of donuts because the super would always open up for a pretty girl who shared her donuts.

The Oscar-nominated documentary The Act of Killing tells the story of the gangster leaders who carried out anti-communist purges in Indonesia in 1965 to usher in the regime of Suharto. The film’s hook, which makes it compelling and accessible, is that the filmmakers get Anwar —one of the death-squad leaders, who murdered around a thousand communists using a wire rope—and his acolytes to reenact the killings and events around them on film in a variety of genres of their choosing. In the film’s most memorable sequence, Anwar—who is old now and actually really likable, a bit like Nelson Mandela, all soft and wrinkly with nice, fuzzy gray hair—for the purposes of a scene plays the role of a victim in one of the murders that he in real life carried out. A little way into it, he gets a bit tearful and distressed and, when discussing it with the filmmaker on camera in the next scene, reveals that he found the scene upsetting. The offcamera director asks the poignant question, “What do you think your victims must’ve felt like?” and Anwar initially almost fails to see the connection. Eventually, when the bloody obvious correlation hits him, he thinks it unlikely that his victims were as upset as he was, because he was “really” upset. The director, pressing the film’s point home, says, “Yeah but it must’ve been worse for them, because we were just pretending; for them it was real.” Evidently at this point the reality of the cruelty he has inflicted hits Anwar, because when they return to the concrete garden where the executions had taken place years before, he, on camera, begins to violently gag. This makes incredible viewing, as this literally visceral ejection of his self and sickness at his previous actions is a vivid catharsis. He gagged at what he’d done. After watching the film, I thought—as did probably everyone who saw it—how can people carry out violent murders by the thousand without it ever occurring to them that it is causing suffering? Surely someone with piano wire round their neck, being asphyxiated, must give off some recognizable signs? Like going “ouch” or “stop” or having blood come out of their throats while twitching and spluttering into perpetual slumber? What it must be is that in order to carry out that kind of brutal murder, you have to disengage with the empathetic aspect of your nature and cultivate an idea of the victim as different, inferior, and subhuman. The only way to understand how such inhumane behavior could be unthinkingly conducted is to look for comparable examples from our own lives. Our attitude to homelessness is apposite here. It isn’t difficult to envisage a species like us, only slightly more evolved, being universally appalled by our acceptance of homelessness. “What? You had sufficient housing, it cost less money to house them, and you just ignored the problem?” They’d be as astonished by our indifference as we are by the disconnected cruelty of Anwar.

Another five minutes, thought Olivia, and shut her eyes. Not to fall asleep again; but to go back as it were and do the thing gradually---detach oneself softly, float up serenely from the clinging delectable fringes. Oh, heavenly sleep! Why must one cast it from one, all unprepared, unwilling? Caught out again by Kate in the very act! You're not trying , you could wake up if you wanted to: that was their attitude. And regularly one began the day convicted of inferiority, of a sluggish voluptuous nature, seriously lacking in will-power.

And it's a preference, a long-held preference, what you might call a 'habit of mind'—putting words into other people's mouths. And those people are played by people whose profession is to pretend to be other people. For which purpose, they adopt gestures, voices, intonations, even sexual attitudes not their own. On stage, they affect to be ravished and amused by someone whom they will, afterwards, run a mile to avoid having dinner with. Likewise, they spit torrents of abuse against an actor who later, later, in the softness of the night, they will share their bed with.

The scent spread through the house like a long, soft blanket, settling over everything, calming all worries. The labels on all the honey-lavender candy jars read: 'Lavender essence is for happiness with a touch of honey to raise your spirits. A joyful attitude is ravenous consuming everyone who is near it.

From a lightwire overhead, dangling head downward and hollowed to the weight of ashened feathers and fluted bones, a small owl hung in an attitude of forlorn exhortation, its wizened talons locked about the single strand of wire. It stared down from dark and empty sockets, penduluming softly in the bitter wind.

You've told a good story in a skillful manner. I like it that you haven't moralized about your heroine's mistakes. You've made it difficult for the reader not to sympathize with her." "I sympathize with her," Amanda said frankly. "I've always thought it would be the worst kind of horror to be trapped in a loveless marriage. So many women are forced to marry because of pure economics. If more women were able to support themselves, there would be fewer reluctant brides and unhappy wives." "Why, Miss Briars," he said softly. "How unconventional of you." She countered his amusement with a perplexed frown. "It's only sensible, really." He realized suddenly that this was the key to understanding her. Amanda was so doggedly practical that she was willing to discard the hypocrisies and stale social attitudes that most people accepted without thinking. Why, indeed, should a woman marry just because it was the expected thing to do, if she were able to choose otherwise? "Perhaps most women think it is easier to marry than support themselves," he said, deliberately provoking her. "Easier?" she snorted. "I've never seen a shred of evidence that spending the rest of one's days in domestic drudgery is any easier than working at some trade. What women need is more education, more choices, and then they will be able to consider options for themselves other than marriage.

Shukhov had been told that this old man'd been in camps and prisons more years than you could count and had never come under any amnesty. When one ten-year stretch was over they slapped on another. Shukhov took a good look at him close up. In the camp you could pick him out among all the men with their bent backs because he was straight as a ramrod. When he sat at the table it looked like he was sitting on something to raise himself up higher. There hadn't been anything to shave off his head for a long time-he'd lost all his hair because of the good life. His eyes didn't shift around the mess hall all the time to see what was going on, and he was staring over Shukhov's head and looking at something nobody else could see. He ate his thin gruel with a worn old wooden spoon, and he took his time. He didn't bend down low over the bowl like all the others did, but brought the spoon up to his mouth. He didn't have a single tooth either top or bottom-he chewed the bread with his hard gums like they were teeth. His face was all worn-out but not like a goner's-it was dark and looked like it had been hewed out of stone. And you could tell from his big rough hands with the dirt worked in them he hadn't spent many of his long years doing any of the soft jobs. You could see his mind was set on one thing-never to give in. He didn't put his eight ounces of bread in all the filth on the table like everybody else but laid it on a clean little piece of rag that'd been washed over and over again.

Set them on fire.' Her eyes go wide. 'In your mind,' I say, attempting a smile. 'Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.' I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. 'Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.' She closes her eyes. Turns her face into my hand. And I pull her in, press my forehead to hers. 'Those who do not understand you,' I say softly, 'will always doubt you.

Images of him continued to plague me, unbidden and cruelly tantalising: the mesmerizing blue eyes that compelled me to share with him my most private fears; the feel of his thick, untidy hair as the sunlight split it into myriad shades of gold; the soft laugh that touched my soul; his aloof but unpretentious manner; his confident assurance that I could make my own choices. I shuddered at the thought of Steldor's attitude toward me, for he saw me as only a woman, relegated to supervising that household, planning and executing social events and raising the children. All he really wanted was my presence in his bed, which made me all the more unwilling to comply. Steldor's glance made me uncomfortable, his patronising laugh made me cringe, his condescension frequently led to my humiliation. In Narians arms, I had felt extraordinary happiness; in Steldor's I felt trapped.

In 1917 I went to Russia. I was sent to prevent the Bolshevik Revolution and to keep Russia in the war. The reader will know that my efforts did not meet with success. I went to Petrograd from Vladivostok, .One day, on the way through Siberia, the train stopped at some station and the passengers as usual got out, some to fetch water to make tea, some to buy food and others to stretch their legs. A blind soldier was sitting on a bench. Other soldiers sat beside him and more stood behind. There were from twenty to thirty.Their uniforms were torn and stained. The blind soldier, a big vigorous fellow, was quite young. On his cheeks was the soft, pale down of a beard that has never been shaved. I daresay he wasn't eighteen. He had a broad face, with flat, wide features, and on his forehead was a great scar of the wound that had lost him his sight. His closed eyes gave him a strangely vacant look. He began to sing. His voice was strong and sweet. He accompanied himself on an accordion. The train waited and he sang song after song. I could not understand his words, but through his singing, wild and melancholy, I seemed to hear the cry of the oppressed: I felt the lonely steppes and the interminable forests, the flow of the broad Russian rivers and all the toil of the countryside, the ploughing of the land and the reaping of the wild corn, the sighing of the wind in the birch trees, the long months of dark winter; and then the dancing of the women in the villages and the youths bathing in shallow streams on summer evenings; I felt the horror of war, the bitter nights in the trenches, the long marches on muddy roads, the battlefield with its terror and anguish and death. It was horrible and deeply moving. A cap lay at the singer's feet and the passengers filled it full of money; the same emotion had seized them all, of boundless compassion and of vague horror, for there was something in that blind, scarred face that was terrifying; you felt that this was a being apart, sundered from the joy of this enchanting world. He did not seem quite human. The soldiers stood silent and hostile. Their attitude seemed to claim as a right the alms of the travelling herd. There was a disdainful anger on their side and unmeasurable pity on ours; but no glimmering of a sense that there was but one way to compensate that helpless man for all his pain.

He then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience and withdrew, but not to any distance. As to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it was not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen before he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all the blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of the summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his sailors, -- songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a divine harmony had their notes been taken down, -- he saw the Island of Monte Cristo, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the waves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer, the songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose to heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or Amphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city. At length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without shock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued strains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to descend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that which may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from such perfumes as set the mind a dreaming, and such fires as burn the very senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed to fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows of the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the chamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps which watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure. They were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy, with eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair. They were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated courtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian angel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm shadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow before these marble wantons. Then the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and approached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in their long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves, and assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which saints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which the serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that held him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a voluptuous kiss. It seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about him saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a dream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips of stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so that to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug, love was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were pressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like embraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more his senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle that taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and exhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the enchantment of his marvellous dream.

You want to know who the strongest man in the Kabuki District is? You must be new in town. You won't last long with that attitude. Forget it. This town is on a whole different level. You got thugs, brawlers, vigilantes and rogue warriors from all over Edo here. It's like a haven for hooligans. This is for your own good. Have a drink and go back to the countryside. What's that? You want me to tell you about the top dogs before you go? You really like this stuff. First, there are four monsters on a level of their own: The Fierce and Divine Madamoiselle Saigo, Doromizu Jirocho the Gallant, Peacock Princess Kada and Empress Otose. The four factions are in a standoff which preserves a fragile balance of power. Who would be the strongest in a fight? You wouldn't be able to even scratch those beasts. Saigo and Jirocho in particular, were heroes during the Joui War. Well, they're too old to go on a tear now. If you want someone who's currently active, there's Katsuro Kuroguma, a young leader in the Doromizu Faction. He's the most feared man in Kabuki District right now. You'll also find a few former Joui in Saigo's Faction. There are rumours about Kada's Faction having ties to some crazy folk. Otose's Faction? It's just a bar, really. She's just an old lady with a soft heart. But if you try any funny business on her turf, you'll run into a certain guy. A guy who holds his own against the Big Three by himself. One hell of a monster, with hair that's completely white. A demon...

Hamlet’s soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it’s sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I haven’t got it in the book—I’ve only got one volume—but I reckon I can piece it out from memory. I’ll just walk up and down a minute, and see if I can call it back from recollection’s vaults.” So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan; next he would sigh, and next he’d let on to drop a tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever I see before. This is the speech—I learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king: To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life; For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent sleep, Great nature’s second course, And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune Than fly to others that we know not of. There’s the respect must give us pause: Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The law’s delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn In customary suits of solemn black, But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, Breathes forth contagion on the world, And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i’ the adage, Is sicklied o’er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o’er our housetops, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia: Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to a nunnery—go! Well,

I have since thought a great deal about how people are able to maintain two attitudes in their minds at once. Take the colonel: He had come fresh from a world of machetes, road gangs, and random death and yet was able to have a civilized conversation with a hotel manager over a glass of beer and let himself be talked out of committing another murder. He had a soft side and a hard side and neither was in absolute control of his actions. It would have been dangerous to assume that he was this way or that way at any given point in the day. It was like those Nazi concentration camp guards who could come home from a day manning the gas chambers and be able to play games with their children, put a Bach record on the turntable, and make love to their wives before getting up to kill to more innocents. And this was not the exception—this was the rule. The cousin of brutality is a terrifying normalcy. So I tried never to see these men in terms of black or white. I saw them instead in degrees of soft and hard. It was the soft that I was trying to locate inside them; once I could get my fingers into it, the advantage was mine. If sitting down with abhorrent people and treating them as friends is what it took to get through to that soft place, then I was more than happy to pour the Scotch.

She was running him ragged. Gone was the soft, sweet wife he'd thought he was getting, snow dusting her bonnet as she confessed past courtships, one errant flake landing and melting almost instantly on the tip of her nose as she smiled up at him. And in that woman's place was an Amazon, standing at the center of his club, in the heart of the London underworld, placing bets on roulette while the city watched, demanding the safety of her friends and the reputation of her sisters, and scheduling billiards lessons with one of the most powerful and feared men in the city. And now, she stood in front of him, and bold as brass, suggested he leave her alone.

Lucas tried to be as soft as he could be; it wasn’t his natural attitude. “Ambiguous . . . how? Was this a sexual relationship?” “Yes. Twice. I mean, we . . . yes, we slept together twice. When he went away, wherever he went, it’s hard to believe that he might be dead, because he was so upbeat when I last saw him. . . . Anyway, I thought maybe the police would ask me about him, but nobody did, and I didn’t know what to do about that. I was scared. . . . I didn’t know what happened to him, and when he didn’t call me Saturday or Sunday, I thought he wasn’t interested anymore.” “When was the last time you heard from him?” Lucas asked. “Friday night, about . . . nine o’clock,” she said.

Her eyebrow shot up. “After your mean comment on my clothes, do you think you deserve to know?” Oh, yeah, she was his. Her eyes were soft and desire for him was there. She was wholly focused. On him. Wholly. That was another thing he loved about her. “You’re not a woman who holds a grudge, babe. And we both know you’re wet for me, no other man, little darlin’, just for me. And you’re hot for me. I’m thinkin’ right now you wouldn’t mind my mouth between your legs. So show me the underwear.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes hooded, a little brooding, as he watched her. “And just so you know, that little attitude of yours only made me harder. You need to do somethin’ about it, so show me the damn underwear.

I just helped with a birthing." Amber flames lit his angry dark eyes. "Women have no business doing that kind of work. It's not decent!" Thoroughly provoked by his unreasonable attitude, Willow completely forgot Miriam's presence. "Well, that's a lamebrain thing to say, considering it's us females who do the birthing. All men do is prime their-" "Willow!" Miriam interjected. "That is quite enough!" Seemingly disgusted with both of them, Miriam waved Rider off dismissively. "Mr. Sinclair, you've seen for yourself she's quite all right so I suggest you take yourself elsewear." "Fine! It's a little too whiffy around here for me anyway." He jerked Sultan around and rode off in a monstrous huff. Willow was pricked by his disdain more than she cared to admit. "Did you hear what he said? He said I stink! You'd think I'd just climbed out of a pig sty! Hell, how would he know if I stink? He wasn't even close enough to sniff me." Miriam exhaled a deep sigh and wrinkled her nose. "Well, believe me, I'm close enough!" Miriam bristled but then recognized the teasing twinkle in Miriam's soft hazel eyes and broke into a grin. "It'll never do to stick you in a tub," the landlady observed. "I'd kill myself, filling and dumping it before we got you clean. Stay here and don't move. I'll be right back." Miriam returned, loaded down with towels, soap, and clean clothes. "Lead the way to that swimming hole you were telling me about." The two women silently traipsed down the narrow path to the river, Willow brooding over Rider's sarcasm and Miriam wondering if Willow's clothes could be laundered or if she should just burn them.

After the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than usual; she carried her somber spirit from one familiar shrine to the other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind, rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where the fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness of the scene — at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush.

This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level. Look at it talking to you. You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it. You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other. The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot. What’s a plain level? It is that and other things, Bringing a system of them into play. Play? Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern, As in the division of grace these long August days Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters. It has been played once more. I think you exist only To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.

Though I had been nearly two years on Winter I was still far from being able to see the people of the planet through their own eyes. I tried to, but my efforts took the form of self-consciously seeing a Gethenian first as a man, then as a woman, forcing him into those categories so irrelevant to his nature and so essential to my own. Thus as I sipped my smoking sour beer I thought that at table Estraven’s performance had been womanly, all charm and tact and lack of substance, specious and adroit. Was it in fact perhaps this soft supple femininity that I disliked and distrusted in him? For it was impossible to think of him as a woman, that dark, ironic, powerful presence near me in the firelit darkness, and yet whenever I thought of him as a man I felt a sense of falseness, of imposture: in him, or in my own attitude towards him? His voice was soft and rather resonant but not deep, scarcely a man’s voice, but scarcely a woman’s voice either . . . but what was it saying?

You see, it only takes a tiny bit of pressure. A certain A.G. is called in, and it is well known that he is a nincompoop. And so to start he is instructed: "Write down a list of the people you know who have anti-Soviet attitudes." He is distressed and hesitates: "I'm not sure." He didn't jump up and didn't thump the table: "How dare you!" (Who does in our country? Why deal in fantasies!) "Aha, so you are not sure? Then write a list of people you can guarantee are one hundred percent Soviet people! But you are guaranteeing, you understand? If you provide even one of them with false references, you yourself will go to prison immediately. So why aren't you writing?" "Well, I… can't guarantee." "Aha, you can't? That means you know they are anti-Soviet. So write down immediately the ones you know about!" And so the good and honest rabbit A.G. sweats and fidgets and worries. He has too soft a soul, formed before the Revolution. He has sincerely accepted this pressure which is bearing down on him: Write either that they are Soviet or that they are anti-Soviet. He sees no third way out.

I’m willing to bargain with you,” he said gently, “for the same reason anyone tries to bargain-you have something I want.” Desperately trying to prove to her she wasn’t powerless or empty-handed, he added, “I want it badly, Elizabeth.” “What is it?” she asked warily, but much of the resentment in her lovely face was already being replaced by surprise. “This,” he whispered huskily. His hands tightened on her shoulders, pulling her close as he bent his head and took her soft mouth in a slow, compelling kiss, sensually molding and shaping her lips to his. Although she stubbornly refused to respond, he felt the rigidity leaving her; and as soon as it did, Ian showed her just how badly he wanted it. His arms went around her, crushing her to him, his mouth moving against hers with hungry urgency, his hands shifting possessively over her spine and hips, fitting her to his hardened length. Dragging his mouth from hers, he drew an unsteady breath. “Very badly,” he whispered. Lifting his head, he gazed down at her, noting the telltale flush on her cheeks, the soft confusion in her searching green gaze, and the delicate hand she’d forgotten was resting against his chest. Keeping his own hand splayed against her lower back, he held her pressed to his rigid erection, torturing himself as he slid his knuckles against her cheek and quietly said, “For that privilege, and the others that follow it, I’m willing to agree to any reasonable terms you state. And I’ll even forewarn you,” he said with a tender smile at her upturned face, “I’m not a miserly man, nor a poor one.” Elizabeth swallowed, trying to keep her voice from shaking in reaction to his kiss. “What other privileges that follow kissing?” she asked suspiciously. The question left him nonplussed. “Those that involve the creation of children,” he said, studying her face curiously. “I want several of them-with your complete cooperation, of course,” he added, suppressing a smile. “Of course,” she conceded without a second’s hesitation. “I like children, too, very much.” Ian stopped while he was ahead, deciding it was wiser not to question his good fortune. Evidently Elizabeth had a very frank attitude toward marital sex-rather an unusual thing for a sheltered, well-bred English girl.

Chitta means “mind” and also “heart” or “attitude.” Bodhi means “awake,” “enlightened,” or “completely open.” Sometimes the completely open heart and mind of bodhichitta is called the soft spot, a place as vulnerable and tender as an open wound. It is equated, in part, with our ability to love. Even the cruelest people have this soft spot. Even the most vicious animals love their offspring. As Trungpa Rinpoche put it, “Everybody loves something, even if it’s only tortillas.” Bodhichitta is also equated, in part, with compassion—our ability to feel the pain that we share with others. Without realizing it we continually shield ourselves from this pain because it scares us. We put up protective walls made of opinions, prejudices, and strategies, barriers that are built on a deep fear of being hurt. These walls are further fortified by emotions of all kinds: anger, craving, indifference, jealousy and envy, arrogance and pride. But fortunately for us, the soft spot—our innate ability to love and to care about things—is like a crack in these walls we erect. It’s a natural opening in the barriers we create when we’re afraid. With practice we can learn to find this opening. We can learn to seize that vulnerable moment—love, gratitude, loneliness, embarrassment, inadequacy—to awaken bodhichitta. An analogy for bodhichitta is the rawness of a broken heart. Sometimes this broken heart gives birth to anxiety and panic, sometimes to anger, resentment, and blame. But under the hardness of that armor there is the tenderness of genuine sadness. This is our link with all those who have ever loved. This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we’re arrogant and soften us when we are unkind. It awakens us when we prefer to sleep and pierces through our indifference. This continual ache of the heart is a blessing that when accepted fully can be shared with all. The Buddha said that we are never separated from enlightenment. Even at the times we feel most stuck, we are never alienated from the awakened state. This is a revolutionary assertion. Even ordinary people like us with hang-ups and confusion have this mind of enlightenment called bodhichitta. The openness and warmth of bodhichitta is in fact our true nature and condition. Even when our neurosis feels far more basic than our wisdom, even when we’re feeling most confused and hopeless, bodhichitta—like the open sky—is always here, undiminished by the clouds that temporarily cover it.

The mythological figure of the Universal Mother imputes to the cosmos the feminine attributes of the first, nourishing and protecting presence. The fantasy is primarily spontaneous; for there exists a close and obvious correspondence between the attitude of the young child toward its mother and that of the adult toward the surrounding material world. But there has been also, in numerous religious traditions, a consciously controlled pedagogical utilization of this architypal image for the purpose of the purguing balacning, and initiation of the mind into the nature of the visible world..... The Universal Mother is also the death of everything that dies. The whole round of existence is accomplished within her sway, from birth, through adolescence, maturity, and senescence, to the grave. She is the womb and the tomb. Thus she unites the good and bad, exhibiting the two modes of the remembered mother, not as personal only, but as universal. the devotee is expected to contemplate the two with equal equanimity. through this exercise, his spirit is purged of its infantile, inappropriate sentimentalities, and his mind opened to the inscrutable presence which exists, not as good and bad primarily with respect to his childlike human convenience, but as the law and image of the nature of being.

And as he looked with this intention, he was struck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress before and yet now it appeared as if such elegance of attire was so befitting her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance, that she ought to go always thus apparelled. She was talking to Fanny; about what, he could not hear; but he saw his sister’s restless way of continually arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now glancing here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation; and he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her companion said—the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the summit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair, to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and taper hands, laid lightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty attitude. Mr. Thornton sighed as he took in all this with one of his sudden comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the young ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart and soul, into a conversation with Mr. Hale.

For a second he thought she might chuckle, and honest to God he didn't know what he would do if she did. "Grey, society didn't give you that scar. A woman you treated with no more regard than your dirty stockings gave you that scar. You cannot blame the actions of one on so many." HIs fingers tightened into fists at his side. "I do not blame all of society for her actions, of course not." "How could you? You don't even know who it was, do you?" "No." But he had suspicions. He was almost completely certain it had been Maggie-Lady Devane. He'd broken her heart the worst of them all. "Of course you don't." Suddenly her eyes were very dark and hard. "I suspect it could be one of a large list of names, all women who you toyed with and cast aside." A heavy chill settled over Grey's chest at the note of censure, and disapproval in her tone. He had known this day would come, when she would see him for what he truly was. He just hadn't expected it quite so soon. "Yes," he whispered. "A long list indeed." "So it's no wonder you would rather avoid society. I would too if I had no idea who my enemies were. It's certainly preferable to apologizing to every conquest and hope that you got the right one." She didn't say it meanly, or even mockingly, but there was definitely an edge to her husky voice. "Is this what we've come to, Rose?" he demanded. "You've added your name to the list of the women I've wronged?" She laughed then, knocking him even more off guard. "Of course not. I knew what I was getting myself into when I hatched such a foolhardy plan. No, your conscience need not bear the weight of me, grey." When she moved to stand directly before him, just inches away, it was all he could do to stand his ground and not prove himself a coward. Her hand touched his face, the slick satin of her gloves soft against his cheek. "I wish you would stop living under all this regret and rejoin the world," she told him in a tone laden with sorrow. "You have so much to offer it. I'm sure society would agree with me if you took the chance." Before he could engineer a reply, there was another knock at the door. Rose dropped her hand just as her mother stuck her head into the room. "Ah, there you are. Good evening, Grey. Rose, Lord Archer is here." Rose smiled. "I'll be right there, Mama." When the door closed once more, she turned to Grey. "Let us put an end to this disagreeable conversation and put it in the past where it belongs. Friends?" Grey looked down at her hand, extended like a man's. He didn't want to take it. In fact, he wanted to tell her what she could do with her offer of friendship and barely veiled insults. He wanted to crush her against his chest and kiss her until her knees buckled and her superior attitude melted away to pleas of passion. That was what he wanted.

Now, in the academy, you cannot just say anything about male theory. You have to proceed with an immanent critique, that is to say, you have to expertly play the parts against the whole. You show, for example, how certain assumptions in the work actually defeat its stated purpose of human liberation, but once remedied, i.e. salvaged, the theory will work for women. An immanent critique can stay within the masculinist academic circle. In this position women become the technicians of male theory who have to reprogram the machine, turning it from a war machine against women into a gentler, kinder war machine, killing us softly. This is a very involving task and after years of playing this part it is understandable that there may be little desire to admit that the effort was virtually futile. An investment has been made, and the conformity is not wholly outer. What attitudes and feelings does this sexist context produce towards oppositional women who refuse this male material? Does a male-circled woman have the power and security to be generous? Having compromised her freedom, will she be less willing to compromise ours? Perhaps the most pernicious aspect of this arrangement, besides the ways it sets women against one another, is the fact that although the male academy values owning our freedom, it does not have to pay a lot for it. Masculine culture already controls gross amounts of female lives. Still, it seems to want more, but always at the same low price. The exploited are very affordable.

I’m in love with Rachel. There is no doubting that. And while I have a strong sense that she feels something similar, she isn’t ready for anything yet. What happened after our kiss is proof. At first, I wasn’t ready for a relationship since I was keeping too much from her, but that wouldn’t stop me now. I wanted her to be mine; I was just afraid of pushing her again. As much as I hated not being in control of this, I needed to let her make the decisions. Things had been different since the night I sang to her; something had changed. She was still a bitch and loved throwing her attitude at me, but I didn’t want her any other way. Rachel was easily the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, and that was what had originally caught my attention, but her attitude was what hooked me. In an attempt to give her the time she needed, I had gone back to being exactly like I always was with her. As if there had never been a kiss, as if I’d never sung for her and told her what she meant to me. The last couple weeks though, through the bickering and friends-only relationship, there had been a charge between us. Well, more than usual, anyway. It was constant, and it didn’t make things awkward; it was almost as if it just made us both more aware of each other physically at all times. And I’m not gonna lie. I. Fucking. Loved it. The way she gasped softly whenever I would brush against her, how her arms would be covered in goose bumps when I pulled away from kissing the top of her head, and how she always seemed to shift closer to me without even realizing it.

[T]he great man; he least of all lets himself be given gifts or be compelled — he knows as well as any little man how to take life easily and how soft the bed is on which he could lie down if his attitude towards himself and his fellow men were that of the majority: for the objective of all human arrangements is through distracting one’s thoughts to cease to be aware of life. Why does he desire the opposite — to be aware precisely of life, that is to say to suffer from life — so strongly? Because he realizes that he is in danger of being cheated out of himself, and that a kind of agreement exists to kidnap him out of his own cave. Then he bestirs himself, pricks up his ears, and resolves: 'I will remain my own!' It is a dreadful resolve; only gradually does he grasp that fact. For now he will have to descend into the depths of existence with a string of curious questions on his lips: why do I live? what lesson have I to learn from life? how do I become what I am and why do I suffer from being what I am? He torments himself, and sees how no one else does as he does, but how the hands of his fellow men are, rather, passionately stretched out to the fantastic events portrayed in the theater of politics, or how they strut about in a hundred masquerades, as youths, men, graybeards, fathers, citizens, priests, officials, merchants, mindful solely of their comedy and not at all of themselves. To the question: 'To what end do you live?' they would all quickly reply with pride: 'To become a good citizen, or scholar, or statesman' — and yet they are something that can never become something else, and why are they precisely this? And not, alas, something better?

1. ‘ I hate people who collect things and classify things and give them names and then forget all about them. That’s what people are always doing in art.They call a painter an impressionist or a cubist or something and then they put him in a drawer and don’t see him as a living individual painter any more. But I can see they’re beautiful arranged.’ 2. ’ Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?... Why do you keep on using these stupid words-nasty, nice, proper, right? Why are you so worried about what’s proper?...why do you take all the life out of life? Why do you kill all the beauty?’ 3. ‘ Because I can’t marry a man to whom I don’t feel I belong in all ways. My mind must be his, my heart must be his, my body must be his. Just as I must feel he belongs to me. ‘ 4.’ The only thing that really matters is feeling and living what you believe-so long as it’s something more than belief in your own comfort.’ 5. 'It’s weird. Uncanny. But there is a sort of relationship between us. I make fun of him, I attack him all the time, but he senses when I’m ‘soft’. When he can dig back and not make me angry. So we slip into teasing states that are almost friendly. It’s partly because I’m so lonely, it’s partly deliberate (I want make him relax, both for his own good and so that one dat he may make a mistake), so it’s part weakness, and part cunning, and part charity. But there’s a mysterious fourth part I can’t define. It can’t be friendship, I loathe him. Perhaps it’s just knowledge. Just knowing a lot about him. And knowing someone automatically makes you feel close to him. Even when you wish he was on another planet.’ 6.’ You must MAKE, always. You must act, if you believe something. Talking about acting is like boasting about pictures you’re going to paint. The most terrible form. If you feel something deeply, you’re not ashamed to show your feeling.’ 7. ‘ The women I’ve loved have always told me I’m selfish. It’s what makes them love me. And then be disgusted with me...But what they can’t stand is that I hate them when they don’t behave in their own way. ‘ 8. ‘ I love honesty and freedom and giving. I love making , I love doing, I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart. ‘ 9. ‘ I don’t know what love is...love is something that comes in different clothes, with a different way and different face, and perhaps it takes a long time for you to accept it, to be able to call it love.’ 10. ‘ All this business, it’s bound up with my bossy attitude to life. I’ve always known where I’m going, how I want things to happen. And they have happened as I have wanted, and I have taken it for granted that they have because I know where I’m going. But I have been lucky in all sorts of things. I’ve always tried to happen to life; but it’s time I let life happen to me. ‘ 11. ‘I said, what you love is your own love. It’s not love, it’s selfishness. It’s not me you think of, but what you feel about me.’ 12. ‘ The power of women! I’ve never felt so full of mysterious power. Men are a joke. We’re so weak physically, so helpless with things. Still, even today. But we’re stronger then they are. We can stand their cruelty. They can’t stand ours.

When I Know I Must Speak Pleasant Words Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the bones. PROVERBS 16:24 WHAT ARE THE FIRST WORDS you speak to your spouse when you both get up in the morning? Are they pleasant and positive? Are they covered with the love and joy of the Lord? Or are they powered by yesterday’s resentments, disappointments, and unfulfilled expectations? It is of utmost importance that a wife sets the tone of the day for the entire family, but especially for her husband. It is easy for you as a wife to not be ahead of your emotions and thoughts before you talk to your husband in the morning, especially when you have a lot on your plate, too much to do, you don’t feel well, you’re upset at your husband, or you haven’t had enough time with the Lord to get your heart right. And if you have been up in the night, for whatever reason, and haven’t had enough sleep, your mind can be set on a negative track long before your husband wakes up. You may have already thought up many things you want to communicate to him that do not include pleasant words. If you dive in with these issues before he is ready to talk, it can set the day on the wrong course. The thing to do, right when you wake up in the morning, is ask God to give you pleasant words that bring “sweetness to the soul” of your husband when you first see him—even if you don’t think he deserves it at that moment. When God gives you the right attitude first thing in the morning, you’ll see what a difference it makes in your day and night. Your husband will respond differently than he would if your words were harsh. A soft word can turn away much suffering and bring great healing. It’s not worth it to start your day any other way. My Prayer to God LORD, I pray You would help me to pause every morning when I wake up to thank You for the day and ask You to fill me afresh with Your love and joy, so that the first words that come out of my mouth to my husband are pleasant. Help me to hesitate before I speak to him for the first time in order to plan how I can set a positive tone for the day. Make me to be a woman with a gentle and loving spirit so that uplifting words flow naturally from me. I pray that the next time I see or talk to my husband, my words will bring sweetness to his soul and health to his body. May they also bring sweetness and health to the very soul of our marriage. I know there are times when pleasant and sweet is not my first reaction. I realize I can sometimes worry and allow thoughts and words that are not glorifying to You. At those times I depend on You to transform me so that I can be a strong conduit for Your love to my husband and family. Help me to be a person he wants to be around. Break in me any bad habits of negative, faithless, or critical thinking. Help me to forgive anything he has done or said that is still in my mind. I release the past to You so I can do what is right today. Help me to always consider the state of my heart before I speak. In Jesus’ name I pray.

If you could have a gigantic billboard anywhere with anything on it, what would it say and why? I would need three billboards: “Don’t let the weight of fear weigh down the joy of curiosity.” Fear is really false evidence appearing real. “The great majority of that which gives you angst never happens, so you must evict it.” Don’t let it live rent-free in your brain. “Attitude puts aptitude on steroids.” Attitude is the soft stuff, but when the chips are down, as they so often are, it’s the soft stuff that often counts. What advice would you give to a smart, driven college student about to enter the “real world”? The seminal change in the business from then to now is that a young person should view the career pyramid differently rather than traditionally. Put the point at the bottom where you are now (at the start of your career) and conceive your future as an expanding opportunity horizon where you can move laterally across the spectrum in search of an ever-widening set of career opportunities. Reinvent yourself regularly. See your world as an ever-increasing set of realities and seize the day.

The saint’s censorious attitude vanished; his eyes became compassionately soft. He patted my shoulder. “Young yogi, I see you are running away from your master. He has everything you need; you must return to him. Mountains cannot be your guru.

Boone stood in front of Doc, half naked. Soft black hair ran down his chest, disappearing below his belt. He had arms that made a woman feel light as a scarf, a stomach flat enough to iron on, and an attitude set to smolder.

And so it is, that the blessed Jesus, our adorable Master, has escaped fame. No one says much about Jesus, except His followers. We do not find His name written among the great and mighty; even though, he is truly the greatest, mightiest, holiest, purest, and best man that ever lived. Jesus is neglected and forgotten. He was “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.” His kingdom is not of this world.  He was not rough, but all love. His words were softer than butter, they were gentler than soothing oil. No one ever spoke like this man, so gently. Therefore he is neglected and forgotten. He did not come to be a conqueror with his sword, nor a Mahomet with his fiery eloquence. He came to speak with a soft whisper; one that could melt the rocky heart and heal those broken in spirit. His attitude was always, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” Jesus Christ was all gentleness. This is why he has not been praised by people who otherwise would have considered him famous.

Knox pulls off with a wet pop and then moves to the other nipple, biting down on that one hard until I moan his name. It all goes straight to my pussy, my clit throbbing with the desire to be touched. It takes no time at all for me to reach this point with Knox and his go for what you want attitude, and I let myself get wrapped up in it, panting softly while he works me over with his lips and teeth and tongue.

I understood now that you could be as soft as the silken draperies, shine like the copper candle holders, and have something tick quietly inside you and never miss a beat, even if you lived in a rude sod hut in the wilderness.

I love your temper, and your attitude, and that soft passionate heart you keep hidden away from plain sight. Separately, together, it doesn't matter- anything at all that you give me, I want, forever.

Of course the disease was not your fault, " Mr. Hornbeam said more softly. "But we choose how we respond to life's misfortunes.

I wave a hand. “You’re so open and honest. Why?” “Why not?” I lean forwards. “Because that sort of attitude will get you hurt.” His eyes are soft and warm. “But if I’m not open to life, I’d be retiring from it. And I only have one.

How you must hate us for what we did to you.” Behind her, she heard Sedric give a small gasp of dismay. She ignored him. “Hate you?” Paragon slowly digested her words before he spoke again. He did not turn to look at her, but kept his eyes focused on the river ahead of him as the ship moved steadily against the current. “Why would I waste my time with hate? What was done to me was unforgivable, of course. Completely unforgivable. Those who did it are no longer alive to be punished or to apologize. Even if they were and did, it would not undo what they did. The torments I endured cannot be undone. The stolen future cannot be given back to me. The companionship of my own kind, the chance to hunt and kill, to fight and mate, to live a life in which I am neither servant or master—all those things are forever lost to me.” He did glance back at her now; the blue of his eyes paled to an icy gray. “Can you think of anything that anyone could do to make up for it? Any sacrifice that could be offered that would be adequate reparation?” Her heart was beating so hard that there was a ringing in her ears. Was that why he had rolled so many times and taken so many human lives? Did he think that enough humans had died in expiation for the sin against him, or would he demand more? She hadn’t answered his questions. His voice was a bit more penetrating as he nudged her with, “Well? What sacrifice would be adequate?” “None that I can think of,” she replied softly. She tightened her grip on the railing, wondering if he would immediately turn turtle and drown then all. “Neither can I,” he replied. “No vengeance could resolve it. No sacrifice would make reparations for it.” He returned his gaze to the river. “And so I have decided to move beyond it. To be what I am now, in this incarnation, as no other is available to me. To have what life I may for as long as the wood of this body lasts me.” She couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Then you have forgiven us?” Paragon gave a quiet snort. “Wrong on two points. I haven’t forgiven anything. And I don’t believe in the ‘us’ you think I might take vengeance on. You didn’t do this to me. But even if you had, killing you would not undo it.” Behind her, Sedric suddenly spoke. “That is not the attitude I would have expected from a dragon.” Paragon have a snort, half contempt, half amusement. “I told you. I am not a dragon. And neither are those creatures that you intend to visit and study. That’s why I called you forward. To tell you that. To tell you that there’s no point to your journey. Studying those pathetic wretches will not teach you anything about dragons. No more than studying me would.” “How can they not be dragons?” “In a world where dragons lived, they would not have survived.” “Other dragons would have killed them?” “Other dragons would have ignored them. They would have died and been eaten. Their memories and knowledge would have been preserved by those who fed upon them.” “It seems cruel.” “Would it have been crueler than enabling them to exist as they are now?” She took a breath and then tried to speak boldly. “You have chosen to continue as you are. Should not they be given that choice?” The muscles in his back tightened, and she felt a gout of fear. But when he turned back to her, there was a spark of respect in his blue eyes that had not been there before. He gave her a slow nod. “A point.

I couldn't repress the sigh of relief at being back here. It was bright and tidy and smelled like oranges. Ellie stood at the sink wearing an old-fashioned sundress, navy blue with red roses, with a deep V that showed her upper back. Brown beauty spots dotted her creamy skin. What would they taste like? The grumpy voice I'd had in my head since Brian called lost the attitude and instead started to list reasons why kissing Ellie's neck would be amazing. The dip of her waist would be perfect to rest my hands in. She'd smell like Earl Grey and clean sheets, and taste like salt and citrus. She'd turn in my hold, rest her arms on my shoulders, and her soft blue eyes would flutter closed like they had when she'd tasted that blood orange at the farmers' market.

So she is tearing us apart, dictating the rest of my life and we have to go along with it or she will destroy Hytanica?” “Yes. And we’re running out of time.” He shook his head in awe. “I have to hand it to her, Alera. She’s ruthless in pursuing what she wants.” “This is serious, Narian.” I found his attitude almost irritating. He obviously understaood the direness of his situation, yet was acting like it was only a game. “I know it’s serious, but there is only one choice as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to live without you, Alera. I won’t live without you.” I sat up and searched the depths of his blue eyes. “What do you mean?” He leaned forward and kissed me tenderly, and my pulse raced. Then I put my hands on his chest and pushed myself away. “Tell me, Narian.” “All right. There are three things I believe with all my heart. Hytanica can withstand a Cokyrian assault. I can no longer let Nantilam control my life and I will die before I let you go.” His eyes met mine and he unlaced my blouse, slowly pushing it off my shoulders. This time I did not resist him. “What I want,” he softly finished, “is to spend these last hours holding the woman I love, the woman to whom I am bound.” “But how are you feeling?” “Trust me, Alera, I’m not feeling any pain right now.” Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes as I opened his shirt and ran my fingers over the muscles of his chest. He stood, leading me to the rug in front of the hearth, where he drew me down to kneel beside him. His touch was warm, gentle, as he almost reverently removed my clothing, then he stripped off his shirt and breeches, his skin and his golden hair glistening in the light cast by the fire. As my pulse and breathing quickened, he caressed me, first with his eyes, then with his hands and mouth. “I love you, Alera,” he whispered against my skin, and I gave in to him completely, sinking into the feelings he stirred in me, knowing I stirred the same feelings in him. In all my dreams of what this moment would be like, I had never imagined the soaring bliss that came from giving yourself to another person with reservation, without fear, without pressure. A person you loved and trusted with all your heart and who returned those feelings a hundredfold.

I have said earlier that the typical attention span of a child is his age in minutes. If a parent or teacher expects that a ten-year-old should be able to focus uninterrupted for twenty or thirty minutes, those are unrealistic expectations. When the adult gets to the part of the questionnaire that says, “Often has difficulty sustaining attention in tasks or play activities,” she has to check off one of the following modifiers: always, often, sometimes, rarely, or never. Because of her expectation that a ten-year-old boy should be able to focus for twenty or thirty minutes, she is likely to check off always or often. Is this realistic? Will these kinds of answers lead to a diagnosis of ADD in a boy whose behaviour is perfectly normal? Two other statements on the questionnaire are, “Often leaves seat in classroom or in other situations in which remaining seated is expected,” and “Often has difficulty playing or engaging in leisure activities quietly.” Let’s imagine a December-born boy in grade one sitting with a January-born girl on each side of him. How will he appear? Does he have ADD? I have heard it suggested, and I completely agree, that no child should be assessed for ADD before the age of seven, and even that is pretty young. The “clay” is still very soft. In our modern schools, where we are in the business of making kids “normal” and measuring normalcy, our yardsticks may be flawed. Our standards for normal have two aspects: the tools we use for measuring, and the attitudes and expectations we bring to interpreting the results. We should have great humility when it comes to diagnosing kids. Are our tools accurate and our expectations realistic?

You’ll Meet an Old Lady One Day You are going to meet an old lady someday. Down the road 10, 20, 30 years—she’s waiting for you. You will catch up to her. What kind of old lady are you going to meet? She may be a seasoned, soft, and gracious lady. A lady who has gown old gracefully, surrounded by a host of friends—friends who call her blessed because of what her life has meant to them. Or she may be a bitter, disillusioned, dried-up, cynical old buzzard without a good word for anyone or anything—soured, friendless, and alone. The kind of old lady you will meet will depend entirely upon you. She will be exactly what you make of her, nothing more, nothing less. It’s up to you. You will have no one else to credit or blame. Every day, in every way, you are becoming more and more like that old lady. You are getting to look more like her, think more like her, and talk more like her. You are becoming her. If you live only in terms of what you are getting out of life, the old lady gets smaller, drier, harder, crabbier, more self-centered. Open your life to others. Think in terms of what you can give and your contribution to life, and the old lady grows larger, softer, kinder, greater. These little things, seemingly so unimportant now—attitudes, goals, ambitions, desires—are adding up inside where you cannot see them, crystallizing in your heart and mind. The point is, these things don’t always show up immediately. But they will—sooner than you think. Someday they will harden into that old lady; nothing will be able to soften or change them then. The time to take care of that old lady is right now. Today. Examine your motives, attitudes, goals. Check up on her. Work her over now while she is still pliable, still in a formative condition. Then you will be much more likely to meet a lovely, gracious old lady at the proper time.2

Have you been crying?” She glanced away. “I’m sorry. I had one of those days.” He put his thumb and forefinger on her chin and pulled her eyes back to his. “What’s up?” he asked softly. “Need to talk about it?” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I know you don’t want to—” “It’s okay. What made you cry? Homesick? Lonesome?” She took a deep breath. “It was a year ago today. Snuck up on me, I guess.” “Ah,” he said. He put his big arms around her. “That would make some tears, I guess. I’m sorry, Marcie. I’m sure it still hurts sometimes.” “That’s just it—it doesn’t exactly hurt. It’s just that I feel so useless.” She leaned against him. “Sometimes I feel all alone. I have lots of people in my life and can still feel so alone without Bobby.” She laughed softly. “And God knows, he wasn’t much company.” He tightened his embrace. “I think I understand.” Yeah, she thought, he might. Here was a guy who was around people regularly, yet completely unconnected to them. She pulled away and asked, “Why did you do this?” “I thought I could clean up a little and take you somewhere.” “Wait. You didn’t think I needed you to do this for me, did you? Because of Erin?” He laughed, and she could actually see the emotion on his face, given the absence of wild beard. “Actually, if you’d asked me to, I probably wouldn’t have. You really think you can match me for stubborn? Probably not. I kept the beard because of the scar,” he said, leaning his left cheek toward her. “That, and maybe a bit of attitude of who cares?” She gently fingered the beard apart to reveal a barely noticeable scar. “It’s hardly there at all. Ian, it’s only a thin line. You don’t have to cover it. You’re not disfigured.” She smiled at him. “You’re handsome.” “Memories from the scar, probably. Anyway, tonight is the truckers’ Christmas parade. A bunch of eighteen-wheelers in the area dress up their rigs and parade down the freeway. I see it every year—fantastic. You think you’re up to it? With it being that anniversary?” “Maybe it’s a good idea,” she said. “Getting out, changing the mood.” “We’ll eat out and—” “What’s all this?” she asked, looking at the bags and boxes. “Snow’s forecast. It’s just what you do up here. Be ready. But this time I got some different things, in case you’re sick of stew. And I never do this—but you’re a girl, so I bought some fresh greens. And fresh eggs. Just enough to last a couple of days. No fridge; and they’ll freeze if we leave ’em in the shed.” “Ian, what about the bathroom? What will we do about the bathroom if there’s a heavy snow?” He laughed at her. “No problem. We’ll tromp out there fine—but I’ll shovel a path. And I’ll plow out to the road, but it’s slow going and if the snow keeps coming, it’s going to be even slower.” “Wow. Is it safe to leave tonight? For the parade? Will we get back in?” “We don’t have blizzards, Marcie. Snow falls slow, but steady. Now, I’m thinking bath day. How about you?” She put her hands on her hips and looked up at him with a glare. “All right, be very careful here. I’ve had my bath. And a hair wash. I’m wearing makeup, Ian. Jesus. You wanna try to clean me up?” His eyes grew large for a moment. Then he said. “Bath day for me, I meant. I knew. You look great.” His thumb ran along her cheek under one eye. “Just a couple of tear marks, but you can take care of that. Let me put this stuff away and get my water ready. You have something to read? Or are you looking for the thrill of your life?” “I have something to read,” she said. And, she thought, at the end of the day, they all turn out to be just men. *

John jumped to the side as an entire keg came flying at his head. Fortunately, Vishous was able to grab it before the thing hit the mosaic floor out in the foyer—which would have been a bitch to fix. “We gotta keep him contained,” someone muttered. “Amen,” somebody else replied. “He gets free in the house, and it’ll be shit even Fritz won’t know how to clean up.” “I’ll take care of it.” Everyone turned and stared at Lassiter. The fallen angel with the bad attitude and even worse taste in just about everything had appeared from out of nowhere—and was looking serious, for once. “What the fuck is that?” V demanded as the angel put a thin gold pen up to his own mouth. Turned out it wasn’t a fancy Bic. With a quick puff, Lassiter discharged a tiny dart across the room—and when it hit Wrath in the shoulder, the impact was as if the King had been struck by a bullet in the chest. He went down hard, his body stiffening and then falling like an oak. “What the fuck did you do!” V pulled a Wrath and went for the angel. But Lassiter got right back in the Brother’s face. “He was going to hurt himself, the house, or one of you assholes! And don’t get your fucking panties in a wad. He’s just going to have a little nap—” Wrath let out a soft snore. Moving carefully, the Brotherhood closed in like they were checking out a grizzly and John went with them. As a circle formed around Sleeping Beauty, there was a lot of cursing under breaths. “If you’ve killed him—” Lassiter put his gold whacker away. “Does he look dead.” No, actually, the poor bastard looked like he was at peace with himself and the world, his coloring strong, his body so relaxed his shitkickers were lolling to the sides.

Little Jimmy got a parrot for Christmas. The bird was fully grown, with a very bad attitude and a worse vocabulary. Every other word out of its beak was an expletive; those that weren’t expletives were, to say the least, rude. Jimmy tried to change the bird’s habits by constantly saying sweet, polite words, playing soft music, anything he could think of. Nothing worked. He yelled at the bird and the bird got worse. He shook the bird and the bird got madder and even more revolting. Finally, in a moment of desperation, Jimmy put the parrot in the freezer. For a few moments he heard the bird swearing, squawking, kicking, and screaming and then, suddenly, there was absolute quiet. Jimmy was frightened that he might have actually hurt the bird, and quickly opened the freezer door. The parrot calmly stepped out onto Jimmy’s extended arm and said, “I’m sorry that I offended you with my language and my actions, and I ask your forgiveness. I will endeavor to correct my behavior.” Jimmy was astounded at the change in the bird’s attitude and was about to ask what had changed him, when the parrot said, “May I ask what the chicken did?

You look beautiful,” Caleb said softly, laying his hands on the sides of her slender waist. Lily smiled at his reflection in the glass. “Don’t you try to flatter me, Caleb Halliday,” she warned. “I think you’re a brute with a despicable attitude toward women.” He cupped her breasts in his hands. “I love women,” he said, bending to nibble at the exposed flesh of her neck. “When they obey, of course.” “Of course,” Caleb replied. He was untying the ribbon of Lily’s hat, taking it from her head, setting it back in its box. “You needn’t think you’re going to take me to bed,” Lily said airily. “Not, that is, until you apologize to me and tell Rupert you won’t lend him the money to build a boarding school unless he allows girls to attend.” Caleb turned Lily to face him. “You’re free to disagree with my opinions any time you like, Mrs. Halliday, but you will not refuse me your bed. Is that understood?” Lily’s cheeks heated. “I don’t guess you give a damn about my opinions,” she said, “but you’ll come around soon enough.” “Sometimes I think you enjoy baiting me. It makes the pleasure more intense when I lay you down and take you, doesn’t it, Lily?” She raised her hand to slap him, then thought better of the idea. “You are reprehensible.” Caleb

Why are you building that house, Caleb Halliday, when we both know you’re going to hightail it back to Pennsylvania and drag me right along with you?” She couldn’t read his expression, but she saw that he was climbing deftly down the roof. He reached the ladder and descended to stand facing her, his shirt in one hand, his muscular chest glistening with sweat even as the first chill of twilight came up from the creek. “Half of that farm is mine,” he said. Lily sighed. “So go back to Pennsylvania and fight for it,” she said, exasperated. “You’re not the only one with problems, you know.” Caleb looked at her closely as he shrugged back into his shirt and began doing up the buttons, but he didn’t speak. He seemed to know that Lily was going to go on talking without any urging from him. “It just so happens that my mother is dead, and I’ll probably never find out where my sisters are.” “So that’s why you were willing to marry me all of a sudden—you’ve given up. I don’t know as I like that very much, Lily.” “What you like is of no concern to me,” Lily said briskly. She started to turn away, but Caleb caught her by the arm and made her stay. “You can’t just up and quit like this. It isn’t like you.” “You’ve said it yourself, Caleb: The West is a big place. My sisters could be married, with no time in their busy lives for a lost sister they haven’t seen in thirteen years. They might even be dead.” Caleb’s mouth fell open, but he recovered himself quickly. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You’ve fought me from the day we met because you wanted to find your sisters, and now you’re standing there telling me that it’s no use looking for them. What about that letter you had from Wyoming?” “It said Caroline had disappeared, Caleb. That’s hardly reason for encouragement.” “Maybe we’d better go there and find out.” Lily had never dared to think such a thought. “Travel all the way to Wyoming? But what about the chickens?” “What’s more important to you, Lily—your sister or those damn chickens?” Despite herself, Lily was beginning to believe her dreams might come true after all. “My sister,” she said quietly. Caleb reached out at long last and laid his hands on Lily’s shoulders, drawing her close. “Lily, come to Fox Chapel with me,” he said hoarsely. “I’m going to need you.” Lily looked up at her husband. He was, for all practical purposes, the only family she had, and she couldn’t imagine living without him. “What if I hate it there?” she asked, her voice very quiet. “What if I miss my house and my chickens so much I can’t stand it?” He gave her a light, undemanding kiss, and his lips were warm and soft as they moved against hers. “If you hate Fox Chapel, I’ll bring you back here.” “Is that a promise?” “Yes.” “Even if you work things out with your brother and want to stay?” Caleb sighed. “I told you—your happiness is as important to me as my own.” Lily was not a worldly woman, but she’d seen enough to know that such an attitude was rare in a man. She hugged Caleb. “In that case, maybe you won’t be mad that there’s nothing for supper but biscuits.” Although his lips curved into a slight smile, Caleb’s eyes were serious. He lifted one hand to caress Lily’s cheek. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said quietly. Lily straightened in his arms. “I didn’t even know the woman, really,” she said lightly. “So it’s not as though I’m grieving.” She would have walked away toward the house, but Caleb held her fast. “I think you are,” he said. Lily swallowed. Damn the man—now he had her on the verge of tears. She struggled all the harder to maintain her composure. “If I wept for her, Caleb, I’d be weeping for a woman who never existed—the woman I needed her to be. She was never a real mother to us.” At

I didn’t want to be pigeonholed, defined by my career, growing soft and specialized behind a desk. I would continue to resist specialization and stretch myself by undertaking new endeavors. If not for that attitude, I wouldn’t be here. But because of that attitude, I can be too demanding of myself.

Steph, I’m really not in the mood this morning for your attitude,” I growled.   “Too bad,” she shot at me. “Your girlfriend spent the night on my couch.”   “What?” My reaction got a snide little smirk out of her. I pushed my annoyance to side and questioned her about Bella.   “She’s fine. So far. Stubborn girl that one.” She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, pushing her chestnut curls out of the way of her eyes. “She told me about her kid.” Her voice dropped and she walked around her Camaro until she was standing in front of me. With the sun just starting to rise, her face looked soft. Like it used to before so much hatred and pain settled in her expression.   “Why is she by you? Why isn’t she here?” I sunk my hands into my front pockets, trying to keep my voice civil. Getting all hard on Steph would only send her packing back up into her car and heading out without giving me any information. And if Bella was hiding out there, Steph would make the fucking place a fortress to keep me out.   “She doesn’t want to see you, or want your help.” She leaned against her car. “Apparently, her friends are involved on the wrong side of this shit storm, and she doesn’t have anyone else.”   We never talked about family. She knew about my brother, but she didn’t talk about her family. Did she even have anyone other than that fucking ex of hers? “Did she finally get a hold of Ashley?”   “Yeah, well, sort of. Not that it was any help. The important call she got was from Shadow.”   “Shadow called her?” My hands came out of my pockets, balled into fists, and I took a step toward her. Stella weathered more than one shit storm, as she liked to call them, while married to Jaxson, she kept her ground, not even flinching.   “Yeah. He’s got the little girl. The fucking prick.” Her eyes widened and her mouth went taught. Jaxson never could get her to quit cursing like a biker, but I think it was one of the things he found so damn irresistible about her. She didn’t take shit from anyone, but she could sure as hell dish it out when she needed to.   “What did he want?”   “He wants to meet her. Said he’d give her back the kid if she meets him this morning at eleven.”   The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Bella wasn’t as seasoned as Stella.

When my eyes meet his gaze as we’re sitting here staring at each other, time stops. Those eyes are piercing mine, and I can swear at this moment he senses the real me. The one without the attitude, without the façade. Just Brittany. “What would it take for you to go out with me?” he asks. “You’re not serious.” “Do I look like I’m jokin’?” Mrs. Peterson wanders by us, saving me from answering. “I’m keeping my eyes on you two. Alex, we missed you last week. What happened?” “I kinda fell onto a knife.” She shakes her head in disbelief, then moves away to harass other partners. I look at Alex, wide-eyed. “A knife? You’re kidding, right?” “Nope. I was cuttin’ a tomato, and wouldn’t ya know the thing flung up and sliced my shoulder open. The doc stapled me back together. Wanna see?” he asks as he starts pulling up his sleeve. I slap a hand over my eyes. “Alex, don’t gross me out. And I don’t believe for one second a knife flung out of your hand. You were in a knife fight.” “You never answered my question,” he says, not admitting or denying my theory about his wound. “What would it take for you to go out with me?” “Nothing. I wouldn’t go out with you.” “I bet if we make out you’ll change your mind.” “As if that’ll ever happen.” “Your loss.” Alex stretches his long legs in front of him, his chem book resting in his lap. He looks at me with chocolate brown eyes that are so intense I swear they could hypnotize someone. “You ready?” he asks. For a nanosecond, as I’m staring into those dark eyes, I wonder what it would be like to kiss Alex. My gaze drops to his lips. For less than a nanosecond, I can almost feel them coming closer. Would his lips be hard on mine, or soft? Is he a slow kisser, or hungry and fast like his personality? “For what?” I whisper as I lean closer. “The project,” he says. “Hand warmers. Peterson’s class. Chemistry.” I shake my head, clearing all ridiculous thoughts from my overactive teenage mind. I must be sleep-deprived. “Yeah, hand warmers.” I open my chem book. “Brittany?” “What?” I say, staring blindly at the words on the page. I have no clue what I’m reading because I’m too embarrassed to concentrate. “You were lookin’ at me like you wanted to kiss me.” I force a laugh. “Yeah, right,” I say sarcastically. “Nobody’s watchin’ if you want to, you know, try it. Not to brag, but I’m somewhat of an expert.” He gives me a lazy smile, one that was probably created to melt girls’ hearts all over the globe. “Alex, you’re not my type.” I need to tell him something to stop him from looking at me like he’s planning to do things to me I’ve only heard about. “You only like white guys?” “Stop that,” I say through gritted teeth. “What?” he says, getting all serious. “It’s the truth, ain’t it?

In 1943, when evidence of the scale of Nazi atrocities in Europe was already familiar, Simon lectured a group of Jewish eighteen-year-olds: ‘We are entering a country populated by another people and are not showing that people any consideration,’ he warned. ‘The Arabs are afraid we may force them out of here.’ The youngsters’ response was hostile, truculent and highly revealing: ‘Which is more ethical?’ one of them asked. ‘To leave Jews to be annihilated in the diaspora or to bring them in the face of opposition to Palestine and to carry out a transfer, even by force, of Arabs to Arab countries?’ It was an attitude that was increasingly prevalent among the so-called ‘Sabra’ generation of Jews who were born or raised in Palestine (named after the cactus-like plant that was prickly on the outside but soft inside), and who were to fight and rise to public prominence in the years to come. ‘Reference to the aspiration for peace and the desire for Arab–Jewish friendship became a kind of ritualised convention, repeated without any deep conviction’,19 in the words of one mainstream Israeli historian. Ihud leaders held discussions with Arab leaders in Palestine and the neighbouring countries. But these efforts were ‘unavailing as long as the official leadership on both sides looked on them with disdain’.

The cluster was oriented so that it was pointing toward the sun; that way, boiloff of the cryogenic propellants inside the tanks was reduced. Shadows of struts and attitude thrusters lay long against the sunlit white-and-silver bellies of the fuel tanks. The booster’s underside was illuminated only by the soft blue and green of Earthlight. She could see the great flaps of the cluster’s solar panels, folded up against the sides of the MS-IVB stage like wings; the panels would be unfurled when Ares was safely launched on its trajectory to Mars. There was the bold red UNITED STATES stenciled against the side of the MS-II, and the finer lettering along the long thin protective flaps masking the solar panels, and the NASA logo; and she could make out the support struts and attachment pins which held the External Tanks in place against the flanks of the MS-II, and the gold-gleaming mouths of the MS-II’s four J-2S engines, upgrades of the engines which had pushed Apollo to the Moon. To assemble this much mass in Earth orbit had taken all of nine Saturn VB flights over the last five years—half of them manned. The booster stages and their tanks had been flown up and assembled more or less empty, and then pumped full of gas from tanker modules. The cluster was an exercise in enhanced Apollo-Saturn technology, of course, and the essence of its design went all the way back to the 1960s. But NASA had had to develop a raft of new techniques to achieve it: the assembly in orbit of heavy components, the long-term storage of supercold fuels, in-orbit fueling.

complaisamment /kɔ̃plɛzamɑ̃/ adv 1. (aimablement) obligingly 2. (avec trop d'indulgence) indulgently 3. (avec autosatisfaction) complacently complaisance /kɔ̃plɛzɑ̃s/ nf 1. (volonté de faire plaisir) kindness, readiness to oblige • avoir la ~ de faire | to be kind enough to do • faire qch par ~ | to do sth to oblige ou out of kindness • sourire de ~ | polite smile • certificat médical de ~ | medical certificate delivered by an obliging doctor • pavillon de ~ | flag of convenience 2. (indulgence excessive) • la ~ d'un père à l'égard de ses enfants | a father's indulgence toward(s) his children • leur ~ à l'égard du régime | their soft attitude toward(s) the regime, the fact that they condone the regime • décrire la situation sans ~ | to give an objective assessment of the situation • un portrait sans ~ | a candid portrait 3. (autosatisfaction) complacency, smugness • il s'écoute avec ~ | he likes the sound of his own voice

Colin Wilson, Criminal History of Mankind, op. cit.: Wilson presents a theory of the Violent Male, backed up by criminological and historical data from the past 3000 years, and some current anthropological data on our earlier ancestors. He claims the Violent Male basically acts like Van Vogt's Right Man: he can never admit he might be wrong about anything. His ego definition, as it were, demands that he is always Right, nearly everybody else is always Wrong, and he must "punish" them for their Wrongness. He despises the "softness" of "emotions" and thinks most people are fools. As such, he sounds like the Authoritarian Personality described by such psychologists as Fromm and Adorno; what makes him Violent is a particular savage intensity of what I have called modeltheism. The Right Man, in addition to the above traits, has a basically paranoid attitude toward people: he thinks they are all rotten; they have all cheated him; they are always cheating; they are sneaks; they are liars; they are, in fact, rotten bastards. He is going to be the rottenest bastard of all to get back at them.

Get out, Theo,” he groused. “This isn’t the projects. Take that trashy attitude with you and don’t let it out the next time I see you. I won’t stand for it.” I rose, thunder reverberating off the walls of my chest. I could take a lot from him, but when he brought up where I grew up with my mother, violence filled my veins. He was lucky I had more self-control over my body than I did my mouth. Damn lucky. Swiveling on my heel, I stalked to the door of his office. Hand on the knob, he called out, “Make sure to contact Miranda. I’ll be checking with her.” I raised a hand, forcing my fingers to straighten from a fist. Then I walked the fuck out, asking myself for the thousandth time since I met Andrew Whitlock on my fifteenth birthday how I could be related to such a dumb fuck.

Just so you know,” he said softly, a low threat in his voice that shouldn’t have made my aching body feverish but totally did anyway, “if you pull this attitude on me again when you’re better, I’ll spank you until you’re sweet again, and then I’ll fuck you until you’re purring.

Both in love and hate, soft is my character, hot is my attitude.

I love your temper, and your attitude, and that soft, passionate heart you keep hidden away from plain sight. Separately, together, it doesn’t matter—anything at all that you give me, I want, forever.” His fingers thread through mine, brushing the new ring. “I wouldn’t have ever given up on you, Little Nightmare, because it would’ve meant giving up all of that. And living without even an ounce of you would’ve been like living without the fucking rain: completely impossible.

The things of the world are not simply neutral objects which stand before us for our contemplation. Each one of them symbolises or recalls a particular way of behaving, provoking in us reactions which are either favourable or unfavourable. This is why people’s tastes, character, and the attitude they adopt to the world and to particular things can be deciphered from the objects with which they choose to surround themselves, their preferences for certain colours or the places where they like to go for walks...The objects which haunt our dreams are meaningful in the same way. Our relationship with things is not a distant one: each speaks to our body and to the way we live. They are clothed in human characteristics (whether docile, soft, hostile or resistant) and conversely they dwell within us as emblems of forms of life we either love or hate. Humanity is invested in the things of the world and these areninvested in it. To use the language of psychoanalysis, things are complexes. This is what Cézanne meant when he spoke of the particular ‘halo’ of things which it is the task of painting to capture.

I have the softness and meekness of a daughter but I also have the boldness and Braveheart of a Son I am Royalty

Gregori was an impressive figure. Shea watched him as he knelt beside Raven, his entire attention seemed to be concentrated on the woman lying so still. “Have you attended to Shea’s injuries?” The soft inquiry startled Shea. He addressed Jacques, asking the male, as was his irritating way. “The wounds are closing,” Jacques assured him. Rand drew Shea alone into the woods. He is the betrayer, healer. I walked away from him because he is linked to Shea. He could make her feel whatever I did to him. He is very dangerous. I cannot be the ne to bring him to justice. Shea would never forgive me. “Don’t do that, Jacques,” Shea said with a little bite in her voice. She was exasperated with him. “I know you’re talking to Gregori. If you have something to say, say it out loud so that I can hear you. You think Rand is the vampire, don’t you?” The thought was in her mind also, and it made her feel disloyal. She knew something was wrong with Rand; perhaps Maggie’s death had twisted his mind so he was living in the past. But something rand had said in the course of their strange conversation was niggling at her brain. Something she couldn’t put a finger on. Gregori passed a hand over Raven’s stomach, his fingers splayed wide. His touch lingered for a moment, a surprisingly tender gesture, then he turned to Shea. “Jacques knows his duty to you, Shea. This man, Rand, the one who is your birth father, was never in your life. Hold on to what is real, not to your childhood fantasies.” “You don’t know the first thing about my childhood, fantasy or not,” Shea snapped, goaded beyond endurance by his unruffled, superior attitude. Gregori definitely grated on her. She suspected it was because he was always using logic. She was the one who was supposed to do that. “I have my own mind, Gregori, and it is a perfectly good one. Perhaps the first couple of times we met gave you a false impression. I am not a hysterical woman who runs at the first sign of danger. I don’t faint at the sight of blood, and I can make my own decisions.

Jacques knows his duty to you, Shea. This man, Rand, the one who is your birth father, was never in your life. Hold on to what is real, not to your childhood fantasies.” “You don’t know the first thing about my childhood, fantasy or not,” Shea snapped, goaded beyond endurance by his unruffled, superior attitude. Gregori definitely grated on her. She suspected it was because he was always using logic. She was the one who was supposed to do that. “I have my own mind, Gregori, and it is a perfectly good one. Perhaps the first couple of times we met gave you a false impression. I am not a hysterical woman who runs at the first sign of danger. I don’t faint at the sight of blood, and I can make my own decisions.” “If I gave you the idea that I thought those things of you, then I must apologize,” Gregori said gently, courteously. “It is not my impression of you at all. You have much courage, and you are a natural healer, but you have little knowledge of our way of life. It takes much to maintain proper health. You have the human aversion to taking blood, as Raven does.” Her chin lifted. “I am well aware I have a problem in that area. In my own time I will deal with it. But there are other much more important things going on at the moment.” Beside her Jacques stirred as if to protest, but he remained silent. “That is where you are wrong. Nothing is more important,” Gregori replied, his voice velvet soft, a whisper of power. “Your health is essential to every member of our race. You are a woman. You are able to create life within you. You represent hope to every male who has no lifemate.

Softness of your attitude generates mildness and sweetness in your personality.

Our attitude may also be unfair. Our negative view of confidence may be overly dependent on the quirks of our own histories, on the sort of people we first encountered confidence in who were not its best or most reliable representatives. Our real problem may not be confidence so much as a lack of other virtues such as manners, charm, wit and generosity. We may be wrongly diagnosing the root of our objections. There may be a few people at risk of growing into braggarts, self-seekers and blowhards. But confidence is in its essence entirely compatible with remaining sensitive, kind, witty and softly-spoken. It might be brutishness, confidence, that we hate.

Before Rylee could respond, Morgan’s hand came down on the bare flesh of her ass, and she screamed with the surprise.  Her skin bloomed into a burning mass of pain. “I hate you,” she spit at him, wiggling around to free herself. “You said you weren’t going to hurt me.” “All you have to do is relax,” Morgan reminded her softly. “Just lose that attitude, princess, and it will all be okay. Besides, you’re not hurt. You might even find out you really like it. If you let yourself.” “Go to hell.

Businesses have to address collective thinking, attitude, and behavior, balance both hard and soft elements for moving to an outcome-focused and outside-in digital organization.

Love is laying down our lives, our self-centered agendas, our “all about me” attitudes, our selfish selves. The death that love requires is … mine. Love is laying it all down in order to truly give rather than take. But this kind of love, true love, can only be birthed through the grace that is the fruit of humility.

They cover a wide spectrum of abilities and traits: being self-aware, trustworthiness, conscientiousness, adaptability, critical thinking, attitude, initiative, empathy, confidence, integrity, self-control, organizational awareness, likability, influence, risk taking, problem solving, leadership, time management, and then some.

In maintaining this open attitude toward misadventure, of course, it’s important that you don’t get carried away and inadvertently seek misadventure. It’s wise, for example, to keep a positive, adventuresome spirit while you endure malaria (as I did once, in a Bangkok hospital), but it’s foolish to invite such a misadventure through sloppy health habits. In the same way, getting robbed (as I was once, in Istanbul) might be rationalized afterward as part of the grand drama of travel, but it’s stupid to let your theft defenses go soft merely to keep things interesting. I