Soiree Quotes

I have no desire to spend every night of the next few months at balls and soirees or drowning in tea with morning callers.

What shall I give? and which are my miracles? 2. Realism is mine--my miracles--Take freely, Take without end--I offer them to you wherever your feet can carry you or your eyes reach. 3. Why! who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at the table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown--or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, boatmen, farmers, Or among the savans--or to the _soiree_--or to the opera. Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring--yet each distinct and in its place. 4. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. To me the sea is a continual miracle; The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

How devastated I am to say that I will not be present at your petite soiree on June 10th. Unfortunately, the exceptionally weak drinks you ordinarily serve at these occasions are not sufficient to dull my senses to your boyfriend's futile efforts to grope me in the hallway.

Augustine had emailed them to me segregated into two helpful categories: will kill you and can kill you. This was going to be one hell of a soiree.

You may put a man in a cravat, teach him manners, and make him attend a soiree, but hardly any of us are truly civilized.

She douses the flames of desire in my eyes, and asks why I leave the soiree so thirsty.

Cavendish is a book in himself. Born into a life of sumptuous privilege- his grandfathers were dukes, respectively, of Devonshire and Kent- he was the most gifted English scientist of his age, but also the strangest. He suffered, in the words of one of his few biographers, from shyness to a "degree bordering on disease." Any human contact was for him a source of the deepest discomfort. Once he opened his door to find an Austrian admirer, freshly arrived from Vienna, on the front step. Excitedly the Austrian began to babble out praise. For a few moments Cavendish received the compliments as if they were blows from a blunt object and then, unable to take any more, fled down the path and out the gate, leaving the front door wide open. It was some hours before he could be coaxed back to the property. Even his housekeeper communicated with him by letter. Although he did sometimes venture into society- he was particularly devoted to the weekly scientific soirees of the great naturalist Sir Joseph Banks- it was always made clear to the other guests that Cavendish was on no account to be approached or even looked at. Those who sought his views were advised to wander into his vicinity as if by accident and to "talk as it were into vacancy." If their remarks were scientifically worthy they might receive a mumbled reply, but more often than not they would hear a peeved squeak (his voice appears to have been high pitched) and turn to find an actual vacancy and the sight of Cavendish fleeing for a more peaceful corner.

Passersby looked at us curiously. In the porch, Mr. Whitman held the church door open for us. “Hurry up, please,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention.” No, sure, there was nothing likely to attract attention in two black limousines parking in North Audley Street in broad daylight so that men in suits could carry the Lost Ark out of the trunk of one of the cars, over the sidewalk, and into the church. Although from a distance the chest carrying it could have been a small coffin . . . The thought gave me goose bumps. “I hope at least you remembered your pistol,” I whispered to Gideon. “You have a funny idea of what goes on at a soiree,” he said, in a normal tone of voice, arranging the scarf around my shoulders. “Did anyone check what’s in your bag? We don’t want your mobile ringing in the middle of a musical performance.” I couldn’t keep from laughing at the idea, because just then my ringtone was a croaking frog. “There won’t be anyone there who could call me except you,” I pointed out. “And I don’t even know your number. Please may I take a look inside your bag?” “It’s called a reticule,” I said, shrugging and handing him the little bag. “Smelling salts, handkerchief, perfume, powder . . . excellent,” said Gideon. “All just as it should be. Come along.” He gave me the reticule back, took my hand, and led me through the church porch. Mr. Whitman bolted the door again behind us. Gideon forgot to let go of my hand once we were inside the church, which was just as well, because otherwise I’d have panicked at the last moment and run away.

It might seem that being a genius is a golden ticket to a life of glamorous soirees with the intellectual elite, champagne flute in hand, arm candy at your side, surrounded by a throng of smiling sycophants. But you might be confusing this scene with the lifestyle of a diplomat

And what do you have planned for your soiree?” Ethan asked. “I’m guessing it won’t involve tea sipping and heavy reading.” I pretended to adjust invisible glasses. “Well, we will be reading the Encyclopaedia Britannica aloud and watching Neil deGrasse Tyson videos on the YouTubes. We might also make time for macramé.

He got up, wishing to go around, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox right over Helene, behind her back. Helene moved forward so as to make room and, smiling, glanced around. As always at soirees, she was wearing a gown in the fashion of the time, quite open in front and back. Her bust, which had always looked like marble to Pierre, was now such a short distance from him that he could involuntarily make out with his nearsighted eyes the living loveliness of her shoulders and neck, and so close to his lips that he had only to lean forward a little to touch her. He sensed the warmth of her body, the smell of her perfume, and the creaking of her corset as she breathed. He saw not her marble beauty, which made one with her gown, he saw and sensed all the loveliness of her body, which was merely covered by clothes. And once he had seen it, he could not see otherwise, as we cannot return to a once-exposed deception.

Cindi didn't care for the Snow Girls, and they pretty much couldn't stand her, either. Ergo, her chances of being included for the Wednesday night soiree in Resort City were just about zero.

The old with the old, the young with the young, the hostess by the tea table, on which there were exactly the same cakes in a silver basket as the Panins had at their soiree - everything was exactly the same as with everyone else.

(I know, it's a poem but oh well). Why! who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best-- mechanics, boatmen, farmers, Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera, Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. To me the sea is a continual miracle; The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

Time has become the costliest commodity, so no one can afford the lavish extravagance of going home to-morrow morning and getting up late. Hence, there is no second soiree now but at the houses of women rich enough to entertain, and since July 1830 such women may be counted in Paris.

Agreeable guests should be sought for among those who have this appearance. They receive all that is offered them, eat slowly, and taste advisedly. They do not seek to leave places too quickly where they have been kindly received. They are always in for all the evening, for they know all games, and all that is neccessary for a gastronomical soiree.   Those, on the contrary, to whom nature has refused a desire for the gratifications of taste, have a long nose and face. Whatever be their statures, the face seems out of order. Their hair is dark and flat, and they have no embonpoint. They invented pantaloons.

I've been eager to make your acquaintance, Dr. Gibson. What an exceptional creature you are. The only woman admitted to the honors of this soiree on her own merit, rather than as some gentleman's accessory." "Accessory?" Garrett repeated, her brows lifting. "I hardly think the ladies present deserve to be described that way." "It is the role most women choose for themselves." "Only for lack of opportunity.

She had a significant following in Paris, where a group of hashish-eating daredevils, under the leadership of Dr. Louis-Alphonse Cahagnet, had been experimenting with monster doses (ten times the amount typically ingested at the soirees of Le Club des Haschischins) to send the soul on an ecstatic out-of-the-body journey through intrepid spheres. It was via Parisian theosophical contacts that the great Irish poet and future Nobel laureate William Butler Yeats first turned on to hashish. An avid occultist, Yeats much preferred hashish to peyote (the hallucinogenic cactus), which he also sampled. Yeats was a member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and its literary affiliate, the London-based Rhymers Club, which met in the 1890s. Emulating Le Club des Haschischins, the Rhymers used hashish to seduce the muse and stimulate occult insight.6 Another member of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Aleister Crowley, was a notorious dope fiend and practitioner of the occult arts. Crowley conducted magical experiments while bingeing on morphine, cocaine, peyote, ether, and ganja.

Coming to the balcony, they both rested their elbows on the railing and looked down into the main room, which was filled wall-to-wall with patrons. Evie saw the antique-gold gleam of Sebastian’s hair as he half sat on the desk in the corner, relaxed and smiling as he conversed with the crowd of men around him. His actions of ten days ago in saving Evie’s life had excited a great deal of public admiration and sympathy, especially after an article in the Times had portrayed him in a heroic light. That, and the perception that his friendship with the powerful Westcliff had renewed, were all it had taken for Sebastian to gain immediate and profound popularity. Piles of invitations arrived at the club daily, requesting the attendance of Lord and Lady St. Vincent at balls, soirees, and other social events, which they declined for reasons of mourning. There were letters as well, heavily perfumed and written by feminine hands. Evie had not ventured to open any of them, nor had she asked about the senders. The letters had accumulated in a pile in the office, remaining sealed and untouched, until Evie had finally been moved to say something to him earlier that morning. “You have a large pile of unread correspondence,” she had told him, as they had taken breakfast together in his room. “It’s occupying half the space in the office. What shall we do with all the letters?” An impish smile rose to her lips as she added. “Shall I read them to you while you rest?” His eyes narrowed. “Dispose of them. Or better yet, return them unopened.” His response had caused a thrill of satisfaction, though Evie had tried to conceal it. “I wouldn’t object if you corresponded with other women,” she said. “Most men do, with no impropriety attached—” “I don’t.” Sebastian had looked into her eyes with a long, deliberate stare, as if to make certain that she understood him completely. “Not now.

Oh God,was all Keeley could think. Oh God, get me out of here. When they swung through the stone pillars at Royal Meadows,she had to fight the urge to cheer. "I'm so glad our schedules finally clicked. Life gets much too demanding and complicated, doesn't it? There's nothing more relaxing than a quiet dinner for two." Any more relaxed, Keeley thought, and unconsciousness would claim her. "It was nice of you to ask me, Chad." She wondered how rude it would be to spring out of the car before it stopped, race to the house and do a little dance of relief on the front porch. Pretty rude,she decided.Okay, she'd skip the dance. "Drake and Pamela-you know the Larkens of course-are having a little soiree next Sunday evening.Why don't I pick you up at eightish?" It took her a minute to get over the fact he'd actually used the word soiree in a sentence. "I really can't Chad. I have a full day of lessons on Saturday. By the time it's done I'm not fit for socializing.But thanks." She slid her hand to the door handle, anticipating escape. "Keeyley,you can't let your little school eclipse so much of your life." Her and stiffened,and though she could see the lights of home, she turned her head and studied his perfect profile. One day,someone was going to refer to the academy as her little school, and she was going to be very rude.And rip their throat out.

What did he do?" he murmured. "He said something about if his words didn't put me in my place, he would find something that would. And then he slapped me." Bram abruptly regretted not making use of the knife he'd carried in his boot to the Hampton soiree. He could understand Cosgrove desiring her and wanting to control her. But to strike her... Bram was accustomed to being angry; he'd spent most of the past ten years in varying states of it. What he felt as he listened to Rosamund, though, to the shake of her words and the despair in her voice, was deeper and hotter than anything he'd ever experienced. Plainly and simply, it was fury. White-hot, blood-boiling fury. "Hope that he enjoyed hitting you, Rosamund," he said in a low voice, "because he will never touch you again.

But you must admit,it's taking up an inordinate amount of your time. Why it's taken us six months to have dinner together." "Is that all?" He misinterpreted the quiet response, and the gleam in her eyes.And leaned toward her. She slapped a hand on his chest. "Don't even think about it.Let me tell you something,pal.I do more in one day with my school than you do in a week of pushing papers in that office your grandfather gave you between your manicures and amaretto lattes and soirees. Men like you hold no interest for me whatsoever,which is why it's taken six months for this tedious little date.And the next time I have dinner with you,we'll be slurping Popsicles in hell.So take your French tie and your Italian shoes and stuff them." Utter shock had him speechless as she shoved open her door.As insult trickled in,his lips thinned. "Obviously spending so much time in the stables has eroded your manners, and your outlook." "That's right, Chad." She leaned back in the door. "You're too good for me. I'm about to go up and weep into my pillow over it." "Rumor is you're cold," he said in a quiet, stabbing voice. "But I had to find out for myself." It stung,but she wasn't about to let it show. "Rumor is you're a moron. Now we've both confirmed the local gossip." He gunned the engine once,and she would have sworn she saw him vibrate. "And it's a British tie." She slammed the car door, then watched narrow-eyed as he drove away. "A British tie." A laugh gurgled up,deep from the belly and up into the throat so she had to stand, hugging herself, all but howling at the moon. "That sure told me." Indulging herself in a long sigh, she tipped her head back,looked up at the sweep of stars. "Moron," she murmured. "And that goes for both of us." She heard a faint click, spun around and saw Brian lighting up a slim cigar. "Lover's spat?" "Why yes." The temper Chad had roused stirred again. "He wants to take me to Antigua and I simply have my heart set on Mozambique.Antigua's been done to death." Brian took a contemplative puff of his cigar.She looked so damn beautiful standing there in the moonlight in that little excuse of a black dress, her hair spilling down her back like fire on silk.Hearing her long, gorgeous roll of laughter had been like discovering a treasure.Now the temper was back in her eyes,and spitting at him. It was almost as good. He took another lazy puff, blew out a cloud of smoke. "You're winding me up, Keeley." "I'd like to wind you up, then twist you into small pieces and ship them all back to Ireland." "I figured as much." He disposed of the cigar and walked to her. Unlike Chad, he didn't misinterpret the glint in her eyes. "You want to have a pop at someone." He closed his hand over the one she'd balled into a fist, lifted it to tap on his own chin. "Go ahead." "As delightful as I find that invitation, I don't solve my disputes that way." When she started to walk away, he tightened his grip. "But," she said slowly, "I could make an exception." "I don't like apologizing, and I wouldn't have to-again-of you'd set me straight right off." She lifted an eyebrow.Trying to free herself from that big, hard hand would only be undignified.

They were already out of her lands, and in another day Yorkshire would be behind them altogether. By the end of the week she'd be in London, resuming her life as if this trip had never happened. Three or four months from now, Harry, acting as her land steward, might write to ask if she wanted him to present his report on her lands in person. And she, having just returned from another soiree, might turn the letter over in her hand and muse, Harry Pye. Why, I once lay in his arms. I looked up into his illuminated face as he joined his flesh with mine, and I was alive. She might toss the letter on her desk and think, But that was so long ago now and in a different place. Perhaps it was only a dream. She might think that. George closed her eyes. Somehow she knew that there would never come a day when Harry Pye was not her first memory when she woke and her last thought as she drifted into sleep. She would remember him all the days of her life. Remember and regret.

Annabelle drew back to look at both of them with glowing eyes. “How was your journey from London? Have you had any adventures yet? No, you couldn’t possibly, you’ve been here less than a day—” “We may have,” Lillian murmured cautiously, mindful of her mother’s keen ears. “I have to talk to you about something—” “Daughters!” Mercedes interrupted, her tone strident with disapproval. “You haven’t yet finished preparing for the soiree.” “I’m ready, Mother!” Daisy said quickly. “Look—all finished. I even have my gloves on.” “All I need is my reticule,” Lillian added, darting to the vanity and snatching up the little cream-colored bag. “There—I’m ready too.” Well aware of Mercedes’s dislike of her, Annabelle smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowman. I was hoping that Lillian and Daisy would be allowed to come downstairs with me.” “I’m afraid they will have to wait until I am ready,” Mercedes replied in a frosty tone. “My two innocent girls require the supervision of a proper chaperone.” “Annabelle will be our chaperone,” Lillian said brightly. “She’s a respectable married matron now, remember?” “I said a proper chaperone—” their mother argued, but her protests were abruptly cut off as the sisters left the room and closed the door. “Dear me,” Annabelle said, laughing helplessly, “that’s the first time I’ve ever been called a ‘respectable married matron’—it makes me sound rather dull, doesn’t it?” “If you were dull,” Lillian replied, locking arms with her as they strode along the hallway, “then Mother would approve of you—” “—and we would want nothing to do with you,” Daisy added. Annabelle smiled. “Still, if I’m to be the official chaperone of the wallflowers, I should set out some principal rules of conduct. First, if any handsome young gentleman suggests that you sneak out to the garden with him alone…” “We should refuse?” Daisy asked. “No, just make certain to tell me so that I can cover for you. And if you happen to overhear some scandalous piece of gossip that is not appropriate for your innocent ears…” “We should ignore it?” “No, you should listen to every word, and then come repeat it to me at once.

Soiree in Rome. The women are more attractive than the men - they always are. My first impression is that all the men are ugly (they are producers and film directors) and that all the women are beautiful (they are actresses). On a second view: the men are ugly, but they have character; all the women have something erotic about them, but nothing remarkable - a purely macho society, the world of showbiz. The big scene with the male lead is played out in all its grandeur, from one palazzo to the next in the Roman night. The most beautiful actress I know is marrying a rich director, author of 97 screenplays. This is the rule among the showbiz crowd. As usual I feel alienation from all the men there and solidarity with all the women, whom the men pretend to scorn in order to please them, but to whom they are basically indifferent. It must be nice to live in bodies so beautiful, so ingenuous, and allow the men to dominate you with all their ugliness, wealth and pretensions. It must be marvellous to be a woman. Ultimately, it is this which is fascinating: woman is unimaginable. The more beautiful she is, the more unimaginable.

The superannuated General Ivan Ivanovich Drozdov, a former friend and colleague of the late General Stavrogin, a most honourable man (but in his own way), and known to all of us here, a man who was extremely obstinate and short-tempered, who ate an awful lot and was awfully afraid of atheism, began to quarrel at one of Varvara Petrovna’s soirees with a certain celebrated young man. The latter promptly retorted: ‘You must be a general if you talk like that’, meaning, in other words, that he could come up with no greater term of abuse than ‘general’. Ivan Ivanovich rose to the bait at once: ‘Yes, sir, I am a general, and a lieutenant general, and I have served my Sovereign, and you, sir, are an impudent boy and an atheist!’ A dreadful scene ensued. The next day the incident was reported in the press, and people began collecting signatures for a petition against the ‘outrageous conduct’ of Varvara Petrovna, who had refused to banish the general instantly from her house. A cartoon appeared in an illustrated magazine,32 where Varvara Petrovna, the general and Stepan Trofimovich were caricatured all together as three reactionary friends; the cartoon was also accompanied by some verses, written by the people’s poet exclusively for this occasion.

I am tied to old ways, which I learned in a hard house. It was a loving house even as it was besieged by its country, but it was hard. Even in Paris, I could not shake the old ways, the instinct to watch my back at every pass, and always be ready to go. A few weeks into our stay, I made a friend who wanted to improve his English as much as I wanted to improve my French. We met one day in the crowd in front of Notre Dame. We walked to the Latin Quarter. We walked to a wine shop. Outside the wine shop there was seating. We sat and drank a bottle of red. We were served heaping piles of meats, bread, and cheese. Was this dinner? Did people do this? I had not even known how to imagine it. And more, was this all some elaborate ritual to get an angle on me? My friend paid. I thanked him. But when we left I made sure he walked out first. He wanted to show me one of those old buildings that seem to be around every corner in that city. And the entire time he was leading me, I was sure he was going to make a quick turn into an alley, where some dudes would be waiting to strip me of … what, exactly? But my new friend simply showed me the building, shook my hand, gave a fine bonne soiree, and walked off into the wide open night. And watching him walk away, I felt that I had missed part of the experience because of my eyes, because my eyes were made in Baltimore, because my eyes were blindfolded by fear.

Why did you come here-that is, why did you agree to reconsider my proposal?” The question alarmed and startled her. Now that she’d seen him she had only the dimmest, possibly even erroneous recollection of having spoken to him at a ball. Moreover, she couldn’t tell him she was in danger of being cut off by her uncle, for that whole explanation was to humiliating to bear mentioning. “Did I do or say something during our brief meetings the year before last to mislead you, perhaps, into believing I might yearn for the city life?” “It’s hard to say,” Elizabeth said with absolute honesty. “Lady Cameron, do you even remember our meeting?” “Oh, yes, of course. Certainly,” Elizabeth replied, belatedly recalling a man who looked very like him being presented to her at Lady Markham’s. That was it! “We met at Lady Markham’s ball.” His gaze never left her face. “We met in the park.” “In the park?” Elizabeth repeated in sublime embarrassment. “You had stopped to admire the flowers, and the young gentleman who was your escort that day introduced us.” “I see,” Elizabeth replied, her gaze skating away from his. “Would you care to know what we discussed that day and the next day when I escorted you back to the park?” Curiosity and embarrassment warred, and curiosity won out. “Yes, I would.” “Fishing.” “F-fishing?” Elizabeth gasped. He nodded. “Within minutes after we were introduced I mentioned that I had not come to London for the Season, as you supposed, but that I was on my way to Scotland to do some fishing and was leaving London the very next day.” An awful feeling of foreboding crept over Elizabeth as something stirred in her memory. “We had a charming chat,” he continued. “You spoke enthusiastically of a particularly challenging trout you were once able to land.” Elizabeth’s face felt as hot as red coals as he continued, “We quite forgot the time and your poor escort as we shared fishing stories.” He was quiet, waiting, and when Elizabeth couldn’t endure the damning silence anymore she said uneasily, “Was there…more?” “Very little. I did not leave for Scotland the next day but stayed instead to call upon you. You abandoned the half-dozen young bucks who’d come to escort you to some sort of fancy soiree and chose instead to go for another impromptu walk in the park with me.” Elizabeth swallowed audibly, unable to meet his eyes. “Would you like to know what we talked about that day?” “No, I don’t think so.” He chucked but ignored her reply, “You professed to be somewhat weary of the social whirl and confessed to a longing to be in the country that day-which is why we went to the park. We had a charming time, I thought.” When he fell silent, Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze and say with resignation, “And we talked of fishing?” “No,” he said. “Of boar hunting.” Elizabeth closed her eyes in sublime shame. “You related an exciting tale of a wild board your father had shot long ago, and of how you watched the hunt-without permission-from the very tree below which the boar as ultimately felled. As I recall,” he finished kindly, “you told me that it was your impulsive cheer that revealed your hiding place to the hunters-and that caused you to be seriously reprimanded by your father.” Elizabeth saw the twinkle lighting his eyes, and suddenly they both laughed. “I remember your laugh, too,” he said, still smiling, “I thought it was the loveliest sound imaginable. So much so that between it and our delightful conversation I felt very much at ease in your company.” Realizing he’d just flattered her, he flushed, tugged at his neckcloth, and self-consciously looked away.

1.  Declaration of Intent: Hand lifting to the sky The first step is the collective declaration of intent to reestablish Kintuadi between Creator, Catalyst and Creation. That collective intent was implemented and manifested by the physical act of hand lifting to the sky.   Objective: To first acknowledge that we are lost due to a false start and to seek the alignment and the Kintuadi of 3 Components; Creator, Catalyst and Creation (CCC).   2.  Commitment and Decision: Cross Jumping The second step is the collective commitment and decision to abandon sinful, flesh and material driven life, and jump to the side of the creator and Christ. That collective commitment and decision was implemented and manifested by the physical act of cross jumping.   Objective: To stop and commit to a change of direction.   3.  Fasting and Meditation: Spiritual Retreat The third step is the collective fasting and meditation to gradually reduce total dependency on flesh and material driven life. This is the step of seeking spiritual enlightment, guidance and purpose for life. It is achieved by a temporary but frequent isolation and spiritual retreats. During this step, the body and soul are cleansed and fed with spiritual food.   Objective: To stop dependency on human guidance but seeks spiritual guidance and direction.   4.  Devotion and Service to God: Temple Construction (1987) The fourth step is the collective devotion and service to God. Now that body and soul are cleansed and fed spiritually, man devotion and service to god is manifested by the construction of the temple as an offering to God. The real temple is the body of Christ, the supreme sacrifice.   Objective: To regain God’s trust by gradually training the flesh and material wealth to serve God.   5.  Prayers and Faith Consolidation: Spiritual Soiree (1990s) Now that body and soul have constructed the sanctuary, the place of reunion and spiritual communion with God. This fifth step is the step of collective prayers and faith consolidation at the sanctuary, the place of invocation and the real body of Christ, our Catalyst.   Objective: To repair and reestablish communication between Creator, Catalyst and Creation.   6.  Redemption: The Begging for forgiveness; December 24, 1992 In the name of all humanity, on December 24, 1992 followers of Simon Kimbangu lead by Papa Dialungana Kiangani (Kimbangu son) gathered inside the temple in Nkamba, all wearing sac clothes and begged for the forgiveness of Adamus and eve original sin. After asking for forgiveness that Adamus himself did not have the courage to ask, the Kimbanguists burned all sac clothes. In 1994, Adeneho Nana Oduro Numapau II, President of the Ghana National House of Chiefs, initiated ceremonies in Africa and the Americas to beg forgiveness of African Americans for his ancestors ‘involvement in the slave trade.   Objective: To reestablish and maintain interconnectivity between Creator, Catalyst and Creation.   7.  Return to Eden, the Realm of Kintuadi (Oneness) December 24th, 1992 marked the beginning of a new spiritual era for mankind in general but for Africans in particular. The chains of physical and spiritual slavery were broken on that date. The spiritual exodus from Egypt, the land of Slavery to Eden, the Promised Land also started that date. On May 10, 1994 Nelson Mandela was inaugurated as the first black President of South Africa, Africa most powerful country. On January 20, 2009, Barack Hussein Obama was inaugurated as the first African American president of the United States, the most powerful country on earth.   Objective: To enjoy the Oneness between Creator, Catalyst and Creation.  Chapter 27  Kimbangu’s Wife, 3 sons  and 30 Grand Children As stated in chapter 11, few months after Kimbangu’s birth, his mother Luezi died, so Kimbangu did not know his biological mother and was raised by Kinzembo, his maternal aunt.

Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There is no reason for you to carry on as you are. I can give you everything you need—lovely clothes, servants, and maids; grand parties, balls, and soirees. You will entertain dignitaries, diplomats, and naval officers, take tea with members of your own fair sex instead of crossing swords with criminals, killers, and rogues. By God, never again will you have to steal just to feed yourself, fight just to defend your honor! I will take care of you, Maeve. I will love you. As my wife you shall enjoy the life you deserve to have, one of grandeur, society, and status.” “But that is not the life I want.” He drew back, hurt. “What do you mean? Isn’t that what every woman wants?” “It is not what I want. And I am not ‘every woman.’” “Well, what do you want, then?” He twisted the purple ribbon in his hands, looking bewildered, confused, lost. “Ask, Maeve, and you shall have it.

Ruth: Grounding Bondi's flights of fancy By Daniel Ruth, Times Columnist | 722 words Could this be the final call for Pam Bondi's reign as the attorney general of feedbags? For the past four years, Bondi has used her office as if it were a subsidiary of Expedia, jetting off hither and yon to attend fancy-pants soirees at resorts and hotels that were organized by the Republican Attorneys General Association. She was so good at navigating the buffet line, the group named her its president (or is it Dom Perignon-in-chief?) for 2015.

Will you be traveling to London for the Season?” Sir Lester was asking Lady Rose. A footman had arrived with the tea and refreshments. Rose poured each of them a cup, and Iain declined cream or sugar. She turned her attention back to Sir Lester. “My mother wishes to go to London, but she isn’t well right now. I do not think it is possible.” “When she recovers, perhaps?” The baronet was clearly wanting Lady Rose to return to the city. “Have you no wish to join the gatherings? Even with your condition, I would think that you would prefer being amid the social circles and the other young ladies.” Rose shook her head, wincing slightly. “I would rather not face society just yet. I am certain you can understand this.” “Of course. But . . . if I may be so bold, does this mean that you have parted company with Lord Burkham?” Iain’s curiosity was piqued. He leaned forward, wanting to know more about Lady Rose’s intended. “No,” she answered. “I have reason to believe that he will offer for me, eventually.” The baronet sighed. “Lady Rose, any number of men would be glad to marry you. That is, if it is your wish.” The smile on his face suggested that he wanted to be one of them. “I do not think I shall marry for some time.” Her voice was calm, but beneath it, Iain detected an air of frustration. “Lady Rose, do not let one man’s folly dissuade you from enjoying the Season,” Sir Lester reassured her. “Were I to have the honor of accompanying you to a soiree, rest assured, I would have no desire to leave your side.” She sent him a weary smile. “You are very kind, sir.” It was doubtful that kindness had anything to do with it. The baronet was besotted with her and made no secret of that fact. But Lady Rose was not finished. “The truth is, I do not wish to return to London until I can walk again. And I do not know how long it will take.” “Oh.” Sir Lester appeared startled by this revelation, but then he brightened. “Then you will be here, in Yorkshire. I would be glad to assist you in any way that I can.” Though it was none of his affair, Iain didn’t miss the look of discomfort on Rose’s face. He wiped his hands upon a linen napkin and rose to his feet. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Sir Lester. But I should be taking Lady Rose home again before it rains.” “I could drive both of you back in my coach,” the baronet suggested. “It would be no trouble at all.” “No, thank you. I enjoy riding.” Rose dismissed the idea and added, “Lord Ashton was good enough to escort me here, so I will be fine. But if you would send word to your groom to prepare our horses, it would be greatly appreciated.” She sent him a nod, and with that, Iain lifted her into his arms. It gave him a slight satisfaction to note the discomfited expression upon the baronet’s face. “It will . . . take some time for my groom to saddle your horses,” the baronet said. “Would you rather wait a little longer, perhaps?” Lady Rose flushed, but she shook her head. “Thank you, but I really should be going. By the time Lord Ashton brings me outside, I will only need to wait a few minutes.” Iain

Every month she opened the alleys for a fete. Beer and beef, oysters, pints of ice cream, brandy, a cake riddled with cherries, pies of all sorts (pork, treacle, kidney), more beer. Each fete lasted the entire day, was serially every kind of gathering: in the morning, a party for children, then a ladies' lunch, then a tea, cocktails, then (as the day began to unravel) a light supper, a frolic, a soiree, a carousal, a blowout, a dance, and as people began to drink themselves sober, a conversation, an optimistic repentance, a vow for greatness, love.

Another young man also used to appear at these soirees, one Virginsky,

I met St. John at Clara Lee’s soiree—she was great friends with my mother, and at that time I had to keep meeting people and meeting people in case one of them was someone I could marry.

She tilted her head back to look up at him, her face tense with worry, not for herself but for him. “How did he find out we were acquainted?” “One of his men followed me and saw us at the night market. From now on, Jenkyn will try to use you to manipulate me. He fancies himself a chess master, and all the rest of us pawns. He knows I’d do anything to protect you.” Garrett blinked at that. “Should we pretend to have a falling-out?” Ethan shook his head. “He’d see through that.” “Then what’s to be done?” “You can start by leaving the soiree. Tell Lady Tatham you have the vapors, and I’ll find a carriage for you.” Garrett stepped back from him and gave him an indignant glance. “The ‘vapors’ is a term for a hysterical fit. Do you know what it would do to my career if people thought I might succumb to vapors in the middle of a medical procedure? Besides, now that Sir Jasper knows about our mutual attachment, I wouldn’t be any safer at home than I am here.” Ethan looked at her alertly. “Mutual?” “Why else would I be lurking with you in a servants’ stairwell?” she asked dryly. “Of course it’s mutual, although I haven’t your pretty way of putting things—” She would have continued, but his mouth had fastened on hers.

Why would someone scream at a soiree?” Annandale persisted, scowling. Christopher maintained a bland expression. Since it most likely involved one of the Hathaways, it could have been anything. “Shall I go and find out?” Audrey asked, clearly desperate to escape her grandfather-in-law. “No, you may stay here, in case I need something.” Audrey suppressed a sigh. “Yes, my lord.” Beatrix entered the parlor and made her way through the clustered guests. Reaching Christopher, she said in a low tone, “Your mother just met Medusa.” “My mother was the one who screamed?” Christopher asked. “What was that?” Annandale demanded, remaining seated on the settee. “My daughter screamed?” “I’m afraid so, my lord,” Beatrix said apologetically. “She encountered my pet hedgehog, who had escaped from her pen.” She glanced at Christopher, adding brightly, “Medusa’s always been too plump to climb the walls of her box before. I think her new exercise must be working!” “Were any quills involved, love?” Christopher asked, repressing a grin. “Oh, no, your mother wasn’t stuck. But Amelia is taking her to one of the upstairs rooms to rest. Unfortunately Medusa gave her a headache.” Audrey glanced heavenward. “Her head always aches.

It had been a long time since she had been served such exquisite food. The lukewarm offerings at the London soirees and parties couldn't begin to compare to this feast. In the past few months the Peyton household been able to afford much more than bread, bacon, and soup, with the occasional helping of fried sole or stewed mutton. For once she was glad not to have been seated next to a sparkling conversationalist, as it allowed her long periods of silence during which she could eat as much as she liked. And with the servants constantly offering new and dazzling dishes for the guests to sample, no one seemed to notice the unladylike gusto of her appetite. Hungrily she consumed a bowl of soup made with champagne and Camembert, followed by delicate veal strips coated in herb-dressed sauce, and tender vegetable marrow in cream... fish baked in clever little paper cases, which let out a burst of fragrant steam when opened... tiny buttered potatoes served on beds of watercress... and, most delightful of all, fruit relish served in hollowed-out orange rinds.

So here you are again. Can’t get enough of me, eh?” “Do you know, Captain, I think you take a great and perverse delight in irritating me.” “Aye, I might indeed.” “And so, because I have an equal desire to irritate you, I am not going to respond to your baiting.” “’ Tis a pity, that. I rather like it when ye’re irritated. The way yer eyes flash. The way yer mouth makes a tight line and the roses bloom in yer cheeks.” “All the more reason not to let your odious presence affect me.” “You accuse me of not thinkin’, Lady Nerissa. But I can’t help it. Thinkin’, that is. Thinkin’ that if ye found me so objectionable, ye’d have stayed in the cabin and not sought me out here on deck, eh?” “Yes, well, I am bored.” “’ Tis a pity, that. I have no balls, soirees, fancy dinners or silken sheets to offer ye. Ye’ll have to make do until ye get back to yer fancy lifestyle.” “And how am I supposed to ‘make do’? I have no maid. I have no change of clothing. I am a prisoner.” “Life’s what ye make of it. Ever been on a ship before, Sunshine?” She snorted in contempt. “Of course not.” “Why not?” “What reason would I have to be on a ship? I live out in the country. I do not go anywhere, except to London once in a while or for the Season. I have no need to go anywhere.” “That’s yer life?” “It is a very good life,” she said defensively. “Ah, well, then. I can see why ye’re bored, I can.

Oh, really,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “I thought it was because you couldn’t get rid of me.” “Well, that, too,” she said with an impish grin. She groaned as she scrambled to her feet. “One thing’s clear at least. I’m going to have to go a little easier on all those refreshments at the balls and afternoon teas and soirees. I think they’re starting to take their toll.” “Very true,” I said, my face serious. “I’d been meaning to say something…” She shot me a worried look, and I couldn’t help grinning. “But I figured you’d notice yourself seeing as how you’ve started having to turn sideways to fit through doors.” She took a swipe at me, but I stepped deftly out of her way. “See?” I said, still smiling. “You’re getting slow, too.” She rolled her eyes, and I ducked in close enough to whisper in her ear. “You wouldn’t want to risk looking less than perfect for Miles now, would you?” She exclaimed in outrage and tried once again to catch me. I escaped her easily, and she proceeded to chase me around the fountains, much to the amusement of the children who followed behind us, shrieking encouragement to one or the other of us. I eluded her for several minutes, ducking behind fountains and jumping over benches, purely for the entertainment of our audience. She entered into the drama with equal enthusiasm, pretending to be slower than she really was. When I eventually let her catch me, we both collapsed onto a bench, laughing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the blush,” I whispered, too quietly for the children to hear. “I hope you’re not forgetting who Miles is.” I shot her a warning look, and she met my eyes, her own full of guilt. But Ava approached us before she could reply. “If you two are quite finished, we should probably get back to the castle now.” I jumped to my feet, but she was smiling so I relaxed. “As you command, Your Majesty,” I said, bowing low. The children laughed again, and Ava shook her head at me. We were all still smiling when we left the square. None of us were really in a hurry to get back, so we walked, leading the horses behind us. Ava and Sarah were talking idly about the court when a voice called to Ava from across the street. I turned around and sucked in a sharp breath. It was Anhalt, one arm raised in greeting and a broad smile on his face. I had just enough time to whisper his name to Ava and Sarah before he had crossed over to join us. I was careful to keep my face free of all emotion as Sarah and I dropped back to walk respectfully behind Ava and the count. Anhalt seemed delighted with our chance encounter and determined to make the most of his unexpected audience with the queen. I watched the surrounding streets with my usual vigilance while I wondered if his voice really sounded so oily, or if it was my own feelings painting my perception of them. Sarah was listening intently to their conversation, her eyes never leaving the count’s form. I knew she would be paying attention for any clues, so I stopped listening myself, devoting my full attention to watching for any threat to the queen. I wasn’t sure if it was this extra attentiveness or just a heightened sense of alert due to the count’s presence, but I noticed an odd flicker of movement as we passed a small side alley. It was barely more than a shifting of shadow, and I could easily have missed it. Instead I tensed, my hand flying to my sword hilt. In one step, I placed myself between Ava and the alley. She turned to look at me, surprised out of her conversation by my sudden movement. I spoke to her but kept my eyes trained on the shadows. “It might be nothing, but I think it would be a good idea if we moved a bit faster, Your Majesty.

He senses that the effort would be wasted on a pedant obsessed with etymology and grammar, ignorant of life, and willing to sacrifice the true affection he had for a modest laundress in order to please the despotic Mme Verdurin, who feels insulted by the lowly and in her eyes shameful connection. Her soirees are the only social pleasure he knows. How could he capture the beauty and complexity of a great book?

She didn't appear much at all during her first semester. I began noticing her at parties and soirees in the spring of her first year. She was a mirage: you would see her, but it was hard to get close. She'd disappear. I would feel her eyes on me during these shindigs. And she would continue to look, even after our gazes met. She was not cowed. Her confidence and her silence reminded me of myself when I was younger. She seemed to show up to these events primarily to drink deeply of the unfolding scene and its improbable people and its hyperbolic talk and then retreat to her own inner world, as if the whole thing was an exercise in reconnaissance.

Ha-ho, it is another wonderful day at the Red Pony bar and continual soiree.

De munten vielen uit zijn beurs op de toonbank.

Why wasn't he at his club or at Jackson's Rooms, using his fists to clear his head? Why wasn't he drinking himself into oblivion at some bachelor's private house party with some nameless, faceless trollop perched on his lap, instead of this wide-brimmed bonnet, adorned with a hideous big red poppy? "Rothbury," Charlotte called as she waltzed back into the room, tapping him lightly on the knee with her pointing finger as she passed. Oh, yes, he suddenly remembered. She's why. Abruptly, she snatched the bonnet from his lap, making him jerk in reaction. "You never answered me. Are you coming to the Langleys' soiree this evening?" His eyes dipped down, skimming her bodice, the gentle swell of her bosom, and down further to her narrow hips and firm little bottom. Well, he couldn't really see how firm her bottom was through the fabric of her dress, but he remembered. Sweet Lord, he could almost still feel her in his arms... could almost taste her...

In his autobiography Clerical Error, Kaiser explains that he left the order before ordination because he felt that he could better implement the Jesuits’ goals by working directly for the CIA as Time magazine’s Rome correspondent during the Second Vatican Council. During the soirees he hosted at his posh Rome apartment on Time’s lavish expense account, Kaiser met Malachi Martin, another Jesuit who had also become a double agent. Martin was being paid by both B’nai B’rith and the American Jewish Committee to subvert the Catholic claim that the Jews had killed Christ.

NOVEMBER 29 “Chevalier” Wikoff Lincoln, on this day in 1861, read to his cabinet part of his first annual message to Congress. Subsequently the message—to be delivered on December 3—was, however, prematurely leaked to the press, prompting an investigation of Henry Wikoff and the first lady. In her first year in the White House, Mary Lincoln held evening soirees in the downstairs Blue Room. Her guests were mostly men who doted on her and, as journalist Henry Villard noted, Mary was vulnerable to “a common set of men and women whose bare-faced flattery easily gained controlling influence over her.” One such flatterer was Wikoff, a European adventurer who was an intimate of the French emperor, Napoleon. The New York Herald sent Wikoff to Washington as a secret correspondent for them. Wikoff charmed his way into Mary’s salon to become, as Villard claimed, a “guide in matters of social etiquette, domestic arrangements, and personal requirements, including her toilette.” The “Chevalier” Wikoff escorted Mary on her shopping sprees as an advisor, and repaid the first lady with stories in the Herald about her lavish spending. When the Herald published excerpts of Lincoln’s annual message, it was alleged that Wikoff was the leak and Mary his source. A House judiciary committee investigated and Wikoff claimed that it was not Mary but the White House gardener, John Watt, who was his source, and Watt confirmed Wikoff’s claim. As reporter Ben Poore wrote, “Mr. Lincoln had visited the Capitol and urged the Republicans on the Committee to spare him disgrace, so Watt’s improbable story was received and Wikoff liberated.” In February 1862, a reporter named Matthew Hale Smith of the Boston Journal showed Lincoln proof that Wikoff was working for the Herald. “Give me those papers and sit here till I return,” said the president on his way to confront Wikoff. He returned to tell Smith that the “chevalier” had been “driven from the Mansion [White House] that night.

2014 Continuation of Andy’s message   On a different note, this is how I remember Baron Pierre’s 1967 ‘G’ A-go-go soiree. Like you, I had no idea where the busload of young bucks and sassy striplings had come from. All I knew was that I was tempted to bed a number of them.☺ Hence, I asked Dubois to watch you during and after your go-go performance. Yet somehow, your professor neglected to tell me that he had presented you to a mystery admirer, who tailgated us all the way to London and Daltonbury Hall after your encounter. He would have abducted you to god only knows where if I hadn’t told him to back off.

After our sexual soiree, Ubaid drove us home in his Porsche. I asked our friend how his evening had been. Smiling, he said, “It’s been a very interesting evening." I was curious to find out if he had had a similar experience as us, so I probed, "How so?" The Arab continued, "It turns out that the two Parisians were Lady Boys, and I had a lot of fun with them. They knew just how to make me feel good. I wouldn't mind visiting them at Le Crazy Horse de Paris. They are showgirls.

As big political names and a few Post staffers streamed in, they were greeted by a woman clad in a “napkin dress” from whose slinky bodice they were to pluck off a napkin. This attire was so inappropriate that the soiree became known as “The grab ’em by the napkin” party.

All the boys are out there looking for a god to thank. We call her boy 'Big Mike' although he's six foot two, And he likes to be the boy behind the barbecue. It's a good time, and a big free-for-all... Or it was until the moment that the zombies came to call. So run for the river, run for the trees, Run faster than the next guy, honey, if you please. We came out to the lakeside for a holiday, Now it seems we're in the wrong in 'predator and prey'. We came out for the fish, we came out for the fun, But we're captives now in the zombie river run. Well, Dave was first to see them, took it for a joke; He was standing by the forest sucking down a Coke. When they grabbed and started chewing he was real surprised, And that's about the time we came to realize That the locals had decided to crash our soiree Despite their state of fairly well-advanced decay. It wasn't very social at all... But that's the crap that happens when the zombies come to call. We tried to hold them off, but they would not turn back, It was another stupid clip from 'When the Dead Attack'. Then Mike got real annoyed and started spitting flames, While Suzy summoned demons by their secret names. Bambi shed her skin and started to constrict, And that's when all those zombies knew that they'd been tricked. We aren't all that normal at all... I guess this is the last time that the zombies come to call. So run for the river, run for the trees, Run faster than the next guy, honey, if you please. We came out to the lakeside for a holiday, Now it seems we're in the wrong in 'predator and prey'. We came out for the fish, we came out for the fun, But we're captives now in the zombie river run. We're a simple little family, and we like our lake, And if you want to make us cranky, that's a big mistake, Because we bring the whole damn family out every year, And we only want our peace -- I hope I've made that clear. It's not hard to form a posse when you've got a brood, And I only hope this warning won't be misconstrued, Because if anybody bugs us at all... You'll be wishing things were clear as when the zombies came to call. Written on: 2006-07-26. “Zombie River Run” Copyright © 2006 Seanan McGuire

They were already out of her lands, and in another day Yorkshire would be behind them altogether. By the end of the week she'd be in London, resuming her life as if this trip had never happened. Three or four months from now, Harry, acting as her land steward, might write to ask if she wanted him to present his report on her lands in person. And she, having just returned from another soiree, might turn the letter over in her hand and muse, Harry Pye. Why, I once lay in his arms. I looked up into his illuminated face as he joined his flesh with mine, and I was alive. She might toss the letter on her desk and think, But that was so long ago now and in a different place. Perhaps it was only a dream. She might think that. George closed her eyes. Somehow she knew that there would never come a day when Harry Pye was not her first memory when she woke and her last thought as she drifted into sleep. She would remember him all the days of her life. Remember and regret.