Stoke Sayings And Quotes

If your actions don't live up to your words, you have nothing to say.

We are not killers,” Gideon says firmly. “In my experience everyone is a killer.” Baz’s eyes go cold. He leans back against the wall. “Or a victim. Some people just need a little coaxing to choose a side.

When you're dealing with frauds and liars, listen more to what they don't say than what they do.

Impossibility is a thing that begs to be disproven," said Ned brightly. "Perhaps it hasn't been possible for years, perhaps it's not even possible right now, but that doesn't mean it can't be. It doesn't mean it won't be. You say the magic guttered, the flame went out. But what if it simply needed to be stoked?

No,” Gideon says. “No guns. The most dangerous weapon you have is your brain. Give someone a gun and they tend to quit using it.

You can’t explain love with experiments and MRIs. I don’t care what your research says. Some things are bigger than science.

When a country with less than five percent of the world's population has nearly half of the world's privately owned guns and makes up nearly a third of the world's mass shootings, it's time to stop saying guns make us safer.

To us, reality is just raw footage: Unclear. Desultory. Too shocking or not quite shocking enough. It’s ironic that making something more real involves making it less real, but Gideon always says people don’t want real. They want the idea of real, which involves production.

Well, my dads are always saying I’m the handsome one in the family, but it’s always nice to hear a girl say it, too. Especially if she’s under fifty.

Saying something is 'politically correct' is often a way of dismissing the voices of the oppressed.

Saying gun control hurts our freedom is a false argument amounting to propaganda. Gun laws don't curtail freedom any more than speed limits or seat belts. You still get to drive your car and have guns, we're just trying to save lives as you do.

Say whatever you want about Stoke Jones, you could depend on him to put a little f/u into your day.

You know what I regret the most?” Trinity says, her voice just above a whisper. I don’t answer. All I can think about is how crappy it is that my fourteen-year-old sister already has regrets.

Racism isn't just what you say, think, do, and feel. It is also what you allow.

There are so many different ways for someone to say your name. I’m not sure I ever realized that before I met Jesse. Prior to him, it was just Rose calling out to me with love and affection or Gideon relaying his quiet approval or disapproval. Crisp, clear notes. When Jesse says my name, it’s a chord, a mash-up of several intense emotions all reflected in two syllables.

Bigots often like to say they're the ones being hurt as they oppress and hurt others. Never fall for the 'pity the privileged' routine.

Political correctness' as 'over-sensitivity' is code for saying the privileged shouldn't have their unearned privileges questioned.

Not sure how you can get them to him without looking like a crazy stalker chick," Micah says. "You think I'm a crazy stalker chick?" "You're using an ancient war manual to try to win back your boyfriend. I think you're a girl who will do whatever it takes to get what she wants," he says. "Hey, at least you're committed.

Without ever exactly putting his mind to it, he's come to believe that loss is the standard trajectory. Something new appears in the world-a baby, say, or a car or a house, or an individual shows some special talent-with luck and huge expenditures of soul and effort you might keep the project stoked for a while, but eventually, ultimately, its going down. This is a truth so brutally self-evident that he can't fathom why it's not more widely percieved, hence his contempt for the usual public shock and outrage when a particular situation goes to hell. The war is fucked? Well, duh. Nine-eleven? Slow train coming. They hate our freedoms? Yo, they hate our actual guts! Billy suspects his fellow Americans secretly know better, but something in the land is stuck on teenage drama, on extravagant theatrics of ravaged innocence and soothing mud wallows of self-justifying pity.

Nothing will be the same without him." Micah nods slowly. "I know what you're saying. I guess I'm just wondering how we know when to give up and move on." I shake my head. "Not yet. I'm not ready to quit fighting.

The rule apparently is – once a social revolution takes place there’s no need to stoke the boiler. But I ask you: why, when this whole business started, should everybody suddenly start clumping up and down the marble staircase in dirty galoshes and felt boots? Why must we now keep our galoshes under lock and key? And put a soldier on guard over them to prevent them from being stolen? Why has the carpet been removed from the front staircase? Did Marx forbid people to keep their staircases carpeted? Did Karl Marx say anywhere that the front door of No. 2 Kalabukhov House in Prechistenka Street must be boarded up so that people have to go round and come in by the back door? What good does it do anybody? Why can’t the proletarians leave their galoshes downstairs instead of dirtying the staircase?’ ‘But the proletarians don’t have any galoshes, Philip Philipovich,’ stammered the doctor.

You see that honky McNamara on television? He says, "Yes, we are going to draft thirty percent of the Negroes in the Army. This is where they can have equal opportunity. Yeah. Yes… it's true that they are only ten percent of the population, but this is a better chance for them." When that honky talk about drafting thirty percent black people, he's talking about black urban removal—nothing else.

Whites saying 'make America white again' is like millionaires saying 'make the wealthy rich again.

No really, Lainey. Give it a chance. Millions of readers can't be wrong." "That's like saying millions of boy-band fans can't be wrong," I mutter, but I flip through a few more pages.

White liberals are always saying, "What can we do?” I mean, they’re always coming to help black people. I thought of an analogy. If you were walking down the street and a man had a gun on another man – let’s say both of them were white – and you had to help somebody, whom would you help? It’s obvious to me that if I were walking down the street, and a man had a gun on another man, and I was going to help, I’d help the man who didn’t have the gun, if the man who had the fun was just pulling the gun on the other man for no apparent reason – if he was just going to rob him or shoot him because he didn’t like him. The only way I could help is either to get a gun and shoot the man with the gun, or take the gun away from him – join the fellow who doesn’t have a gun and both of us gang up on the man with the gun. But white liberals never do that. When the man has the gun, they walk around him and they come to the victim, and they say “Let me help you,” and what they mean is “help you adjust to the situation with the man who has the gun on you." If indeed white liberals are going to help, their only job is to get the gun from the man and talk to him, because he is a sick man. The black man is not the sick man, it is the white man who is sick, he’s the one who picked up the gun.

We are not killers,” Gideon says. “In my experience everyone is a killer.” Baz’s gray eyes go cold. He leans back against the wall. “Or a victim. Some people just need a little coaxing to choose a side.

Mama always used to say that love is never lost, even if it’s not returned in the way you hope or expect. “Put it on out there,” she said. “Lay your heart on the line, and don’t be afraid of getting it broken. Broken hearts heal. Guarded hearts just turn to stone.

As a rule, almost all of them are Midwesterners...This area of the country, what are we to say of this area of the country, Ms. Beadsman?...Both in the middle and on the fringe. The physical heart and the cultural extremity. Corn, a steady waning complex of heavy industry, and sports. What are we to say? We feed and stoke and supply a nation much of which doesn't know we exist. A nation we tend to be decades behind, culturally and intellectually. What are we to say about it?

Jesse stirs again. This time his fingers twitch. As much as I want to see him open his eyes, I can’t be here for that. It’ll make leaving him too hard. I turn toward the doorway and I’m outside in the main room of the ICU when I hear his weakened voice say, “Winter?” I hurry back to the waiting area. Hopefully he’ll think he dreamed me. Maybe he did. Sometimes I feel like I’m not even real anymore

you’re currently living, I’ll say, just remember that as long as you’re attempting to not be a dick and doing your best to do good things, you’re worthy of a good life, one that you’re proud of and that when you wake up every morning makes you stoked to be yourself. And if you don’t wake up stoked to be you, figure out the first step you can take toward that life you want. Once you’ve taken that first step, then figure out the next step, and so on. It might feel like a long journey (it is), but for me, that was the most important part, because once I got to where I wanted to be, I was confident in my ability to grab that opportunity by the balls and make it my bitch.

The room was made even smaller by the fact that two walls were stacked to the bottom of the window frame with mismatched books. "You know," Loki said, toeing a volume that had tumbled from the pile. "You'd have more room if you kept fewer books." Theo hung his cane on the edge of the grate beside the small fireplace and began to stoke the ashes. "I'd rather have books than space." "Well, when the floor caves in, don't say I didn't warn you.

But later, just as we're turning the corner into my road, and I'm beginning to panic about the pain and difficulty of the impending conversation, I see a woman on her own, Saturday-night-smart, off to meet somebody somewhere, friends, or a lover. And when I was living with Laura, I missed... what? Maybe I missed somebody traveling on a bus or tube or cab, *going out of her way*, to meet me, maybe dressed up a little, wearing more makeup than usual, maybe even slightly nervous; when I was younger, the knowledge that I was responsible for any of this, even the bus ride, made me feel pathetically grateful. When you're with someone permanently, you don't get that: if Laura wanted to see me, she only had to turn her head, or walk from the bathroom to the bedroom, and she never bothered to dress up for the trip. And when she came home, she came home because she lived in my flat, not because we were lovers, and when we went out, she sometimes dressed up and sometimes didn't, depending on where we were going, but again, it was nothing whatsoever to do with me. Anyway, all this is by way of saying that the woman I saw out of the cab window inspired me and consoled me, momentarily: maybe I am not too old to provoke a trip from one part of London to another, and if I ever do have another date, and I arrange to meet that date in, say, Islington, and she has to come all the way from Stoke Newington, a journey of some three to four miles, I will thank her from the bottom of my wretched thirty-five-year-old heart.

Tiff like in Breakfast at Tiffany's,' he says. 'Right?' I couldn't be more shocked. 'Um... yes, that's right - it's an old movie.' 'Is it? Don't watch that much TV. I've only heard of the book - got it at home. I bought it 'cause Truman Capote wrote it. I was stoked by In Cold Blood. He wrote that, too. You read it?' 'No.' 'Aw, you gotta. It rocks.' I look away as if I've been suddenly distracted by something out the window. It's my version of the pause button. There's a lot of information to process. Here's a boy my own age; he shakes my hand, he talks to me - not just to ask directions to the toilet - and he reads books. Heathcliff?

I’m glad you still have your survival instinct.” “We’ve all got something.” I lift my fingertips to the exposed skin on my face. It’s colder than the night sea. Cupping my hands, I blow into them, let my breath warm my nose and cheeks. “I apparently still have a face, which is good.” Holden vaults up onto the wooden platform and I step up after him. “That is good,” he says, pulling me in close. He lifts his gloved hands to my cheeks. “After all, this is one of my favorite faces.” I scrunch my lips into a pretend pout. “One of?” He grins. “Well, you know. I’m a sucker for the classics. Helen of Troy, the Mona Lisa, that—” “Hey. The Mona Lisa isn’t even hot.” I give him a little shove away from me, toward the edge of the platform. “Disagree,” Holden says. “She’s beautiful in her own way. That mischievous smile, those dark, soulful eyes, the way she—” “Fine, whatever.” I cross my arms. “But I insist on being ranked above her.” “Okay, okay,” Holden says. “Yours can be my second-favorite face . . . right after that guy from The Scream.” He pulls me in close again. “You’re such an ass,” I say, as our lips touch. Holden laughs. “My girl Mona Lisa would never be so rude.

Saying it's hard being straight is like complaining to the poor that it's difficult being wealthy.

Some say “it’s impossible”. I say “watch this!” #StokesNotes

Mama always said you could tell your friends from your enemies by the ones who didn’t say “I told you so.

Well, I can tell you what Mom would say: if you’re not ready to talk about it, then you’re not ready to do it.

Without ever exactly putting his mind to it, he's come to believe that loss is standard trajectory. Something new appears in the world—a baby, say, or a car or a house, or an individual shows some special talent—with luck and huge expenditures of soul and effort you might keep the project stoked for a while, but eventually, ultimately, it's going down. This is a truth so brutally self-evident that he can't fathom why it's not more widely perceived, hence his contempt for the usual public shock and outrage when a particular situation goes to hell.

White liberals are always saying, "What can we do?” I mean, they’re always coming to help black people. I thought of an analogy. If you were walking down the street and a man had a gun on another man – let’s say both of them were white – and you had to help somebody, whom would you help? It’s obvious to me that if I were walking down the street, and a man had a gun on another man, and I was going to help, I’d help the man who didn’t have the gun, if the man who had the gun was just pulling the gun on the other man for no apparent reason – if he was just going to rob him or shoot him because he didn’t like him. The only way I could help is either to get a gun and shoot the man with the gun, or take the gun away from him – join the fellow who doesn’t have a gun and both of us gang up on the man with the gun. But white liberals never do that. When the man has the gun, they walk around him and they come to the victim, and they say “Let me help you,” and what they mean is “help you adjust to the situation with the man who has the gun on you." If indeed white liberals are going to help, their only job is to get the gun from the man and talk to him, because he is a sick man. The black man is not the sick man, it is the white man who is sick, he’s the one who picked up the gun.

The raw urgency in Rob’s voice sent fresh blood flooding into Emily’s already swollen sex. She squirmed. feeling her orgasm approaching. Fast. “Say it again,” Rob ground out, dragging one hand up her torso until his fingers found her breast. He cupped its weight, worshipping its form through the soft fabric of her dress. She gasped again, arching her back. “I want you,” she panted, the sensations his fingers on her breast created almost stealing her ability to speak. “I want you. I have from the very—” He didn’t let her finish. His lips claimed hers, his hand squeezing and massaging her breast as his tongue plundered her mouth. He pinched her nipple with hungry force, his tongue matching the ferocity of the caress. Her body burned with pleasure at his feverish actions, the undeniable desire each stoke of his tongue, each flick of his fingers wrought on her body pushing her closer and closer to eruption.

Richard Feynman said: "Science is the belief in the ignorance of experts." Meaning for example that if Einstein had just trusted Newton he would never have heard of general relativity. I don't know a scientist who says: "Oh, so-and-so is such an eminent scientist, I'm just going to believe whatever they say.

I don’t know, if I have to give some sort of advice here to all you sweet baby angels who want more than how you’re currently living, I’ll say, just remember that as long as you’re attempting to not be a dick and doing your best to do good things, you’re worthy of a good life, one that you’re proud of and that when you wake up every morning makes you stoked to be yourself. And if you don’t wake up stoked to be you, figure out the first step you can take toward that life you want. Once you’ve taken that first step, then figure out the next step, and so on. It might feel like a long journey (it is), but for me, that was the most important part, because once I got to where I wanted to be, I was confident in my ability to grab that opportunity by the balls and make it my bitch.

Book publishers needed only to listen to Jeff Bezos himself to have their fears stoked. Amazon’s founder repeatedly suggested he had little reverence for the old “gatekeepers” of the media, whose business models were forged during the analogue age and whose function it was to review content and then subjectively decide what the public got to consume. This was to be a new age of creative surplus, where it was easy for anyone to create something, find an audience, and allow the market to determine the proper economic reward. “Even well meaning gatekeepers slow innovation,” Bezos wrote in his 2011 letter to shareholders. “When a platform is self-service, even the improbable ideas can get tried, because there’s no expert gatekeeper ready to say ‘that will never work!’ And guess what—many of those improbable ideas do work, and society is the beneficiary of that diversity.

A war on any grounds is terrible, but Putin’s dangerous turn to ethnically based imperialism cannot be ignored. Those who say the Ukraine conflict is far away and unlikely to lead to global instability miss the clear warning Putin has given us. There is no reason to believe his announced vision of a “Greater Russia” will end with Eastern Ukraine and many reasons to believe it will not. Dictators only stop when they are stopped, and appeasing Putin with Ukraine will only stoke his appetite for more conquests.

Bravery is a choice. However, you can’t wait until the moment you need to be brave to reach for that bravery. Because if you haven’t been purposefully tending to it, building it up, you may find that it is not there when you need it. You must stoke the fires of courage little by little, day by day, so they are burning bright long before you ever need them. And you fuel or douse those fires—fanning the flames or snuffing them out—with the words you say to yourself. And with the words you allow others to say about you in your presence.

Hero soon lost interest in the conversation, and left her chair to go and look out of the window into the busy street. When the Viscount at last rose to go she was employed in drawing faces on the dusty window-panes. 'If ever I saw such a troublesome chit!' exclaimed Sherry. 'Now look at your glove! What's more, I dare say Stoke don't like to have his windows looking like that.' Mr. Stoke, watching in some amusement her ladyship's conscience-stricken scrutiny of one dirty finger-tip, said that he thought her window sketches brightened the room, and earned a grateful smile.

When he returned to the bed, she drew his mouth to her breast, holding him to her as he electrified every inch of her skin with gentle nips and deep sucking pressure. Her body melted into the bed, as he kissed her all the way down, parting her legs with his broad shoulders to bare her to the magic of his tongue. He knew just where to touch, where to lick, and what she needed to send her over the edge, shattering her world into heat and light and wrenching pleasure. "I want to be inside you." His low, gravelly whisper sent erotic tingles over her skin. Languid with release, yet desperate for more, she answered him with a kiss. He rifled in his pocket for a condom and deftly rolled it on. "Are you hot for me?" He pushed a thick finger inside her and the delicious sensation made her arch off the bed. "Yes." Her words came in a breathless rush. "Now. I want you now." "Say the magic words." Her desire raged, fuzzed her brain with lust. "Please?" "No." Daisy groaned. "No games." "Say my name." This time there were no secrets between them. This time she wanted him for who he was. "Liam," she murmured. "My Liam." His heated gaze never left her as he drew up her legs and thrust deep. Molten heat streamed through her veins, threatening to incinerate her. She cupped his neck, pulling him forward. "Don't stop." "Never." With long, powerful strokes he drove into her, stoking her passion. When her legs began to shake, he took her mouth in a hot, wet kiss, and then he hammered into her, arms corded, hips rocking, sweat beading on his brow. She grabbed his shoulders, caught his rhythm, tension spiraling inside her until she was swept away in a tidal wave of sensation, her insides clenching in a deep, pulsing rush of pleasure. Liam threw his head back, his body going rock hard as he joined her in release.

More recently, Dallas Willard put it this way: Desire is infinite partly because we were made by God, made for God, made to need God, and made to run on God. We can be satisfied only by the one who is infinite, eternal, and able to supply all our needs; we are only at home in God. When we fall away from God, the desire for the infinite remains, but it is displaced upon things that will certainly lead to destruction.5 Ultimately, nothing in this life, apart from God, can satisfy our desires. Tragically, we continue to chase after our desires ad infinitum. The result? A chronic state of restlessness or, worse, angst, anger, anxiety, disillusionment, depression—all of which lead to a life of hurry, a life of busyness, overload, shopping, materialism, careerism, a life of more…which in turn makes us even more restless. And the cycle spirals out of control. To make a bad problem worse, this is exacerbated by our cultural moment of digital marketing from a society built around the twin gods of accumulation and accomplishment. Advertising is literally an attempt to monetize our restlessness. They say we see upward of four thousand ads a day, all designed to stoke the fire of desire in our bellies. Buy this. Do this. Eat this. Drink this. Have this. Watch this. Be this. In his book on the Sabbath, Wayne Muller opined, “It is as if we have inadvertently stumbled into some horrific wonderland.”6 Social media takes this problem to a whole new level as we live under the barrage of images—not just from marketing departments but from the rich and famous as well as our friends and family, all of whom curate the best moments of their lives. This ends up unintentionally playing to a core sin of the human condition that goes all the way back to the garden—envy. The greed for another person’s life and the loss of gratitude, joy, and contentment in our own.

Republican strategist Peter Wehner says, “Trumpism is not a political philosophy; it is a purposeful effort, led by a demagogue, to incite ugly passions, stoke resentments and divisions, and create fear of those who are not like ‘us’—Mexicans, Muslims, and Syrian refugees. But it will not end there. There will always be fresh targets.” Conservative evangelical Wehner contrasts that with the principles of Jesus, saying, “[A] carpenter from Nazareth offered a very different philosophy. When you see a wounded traveler on the road to Jericho, Jesus taught, you should not pass him by. ‘Truly I say to you,’ he said in Matthew, ‘to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of mine, even the least of them, you did it to me.’ . . . At its core, Christianity teaches that everyone, no matter at what station or in what season in life, has inherent dignity and worth.”15 Michael Gerson, a former speechwriter and top policy adviser to George W. Bush, and an originator of “compassionate conservatism,” says, [O]ur faith involves a common belief with unavoidably public consequences: Christians are to love their neighbor, and everyone is their neighbor. All the appearances of difference—in race, ethnicity, nationality and accomplishment

Hero was left with Mr. Stoke, and at once shocked and enchanted him by confiding that she had no notion how many servants she ought to employ, but hoped he would not think it necessary for her to have too many. 'For I dare say I shan't know how to go on at all. At least, just at first I shall not, though I expect I shall soon get into the way of it.' Finally, it was decided that a cook, a butler, two abigails, and a page-boy or footman should, in addition to his lordship's man, her ladyship's personal maid, a coachman, two grooms, and the Tiger, be sufficient to ensure the young couple a moderate degree of comfort. Mr. Stoke engaged himself to interview all menials applying for the various posts, and to hire those he considered the most desirable. He then took his leave of his patrons and went away in an extremely thoughtful mood.

ASIO turned up on Hamza's doorstep a year ago, after he and his mate, both in their mid-twenties, returned from Yemen. They weren't charged with anything but they were placed on no-fly lists. Hamza is convinced ASIO is monitoring their phones and watching their homes. So, as a workaround, he, the paladin dwarf, and his mate, a gnome, skip through forests in World of Warcraft, chatting business over their headsets. I ask him what he was doing in Yemen. 'Okay, now this... what you're getting to now, is a dangerous area.' He pauses. 'I was eating pizza.' He asks for a selfie with me. He says the gnome will be stoked because they had to lie low at one point and were confined to a small apartment in Yemen. They passed the time watching Breaking Bad and John Safran vs God. Pretty chuffed by the inroads I've made into the jihadi demographic.

If I’d had a good week—a real “Christian” week”—I felt close to God. When Sunday came around, I would feel like lifting my head and hands in worship, almost as if to say, “God, here I am . . . I know You’re excited about seeing me this week.” If I’d had a stellar week, I loved being in God’s presence and was sure God was pretty stoked about having me there too. But the opposite was also true. If I hadn’t done a good job at being a real Christian, I felt pretty distant from God. If I’d fallen to some temptations, been a jerk to my wife, dodged some easy opportunities to share Christ, was stingy with my money, forgotten to recycle, kicked the dog, etc. . . . well, on those weeks I felt like God wanted nothing to do with me. When I came to church, I had no desire to lift my soul up to God. I was pretty sure He didn’t want to see me either. I could feel His displeasure—His lack of approval. That’s because I didn’t really understand the gospel. Or, at least I had forgotten it.

How is his temperature?” “He needs to go up one more degree.” “The devil I do,” West said. “With that fire stoked so high, the room is an oven. Soon I’ll be as brown as a Christmas goose. Speaking of that… I’m famished.” “The doctor said we can’t feed you until you’ve reached the right temperature,” Pandora said. “Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked. “I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.” Cassandra smiled. “I’ll ask the doctor if you may have some broth.” “Broth?” he repeated indignantly. “Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.” “Wait,” Kathleen said, frowning. “Isn’t Hamlet supposed to be in the cellars?” “Cook wouldn’t allow it,” Cassandra said. “She said he would find a way to knock over the bins and eat all the root vegetables.” She cast a proud glance at the cheerful-looking creature. “Because he is a very creative and enterprising pig.” “Cook didn’t say that last part,” Pandora said. “No,” Cassandra admitted, “but it was implied.” The twins cleared the dogs and pig from the room and left. Helen extended the thermometer to West. “Under your tongue, please,” she said gravely. He complied with a long-suffering expression.

She thought that she had been seeking a light distraction. But when she heard the clang of metal on metal and saw Arin scraping a shaft of steel across the anvil with one set of tools and beating at it with another, Kestrel knew she had come to the wrong place. “Yes?” he said, keeping his back to her. His workshirt was soaked through with sweat. His hands were sooty. He left the blade of the sword to cool on the anvil and moved to place another, shorter length of metal on the fire, which lined his profile with unsteady light. She willed her voice to be her own. “I thought we could play a game.” His dark brows drew together. “Of Bite and Sting,” Kestrel said. More firmly, she added, “You implied you know how to play.” He used tongs to stoke the fire. “I did.” “You implied that you could beat me.” “I implied that there was no reason a Valorian would want to play with a Herrani.” “No, you worded things carefully so that what you said could be interpreted that way. But that isn’t what you meant.” He faced her then, arms folded across his chest. “I have no time for games.” The tips of his fingers had black rings of charcoal dust buried under the nail and into the cuticle. “I have work to do.” “Not if I say you don’t.” He turned away. “I like to finish what I start.” She meant to leave. She meant to leave him to the noise and heat. She meant to say nothing more. Instead, Kestrel found herself issuing a challenge. “You are no match for me anyway.” He gave her the look she recognized well, the one of measured disdain. But this time, he also laughed. “Where do you propose we play?” He swept a hand around the forge. “Here?” “My rooms.” “Your rooms.” Arin shook his head disbelievingly. “My sitting room,” she said. “Or the parlor,” she added, though it bothered her to think of playing Bite and Sting with him in a place so public to the household. He leaned against the anvil, considering. “Your sitting room will do. I’ll come when I’ve finished this sword. After all, I have house privileges now. Might as well use them.” Arin started to say something else, then stopped, his gaze roving over her face. She grew uneasy. He was staring, she realized. He was staring at her. “You have dirt on your face,” he said shortly. He returned to his work. Later, in her bathing room, Kestrel saw it. The moment she tilted the mirror to catch the low, amber light of late afternoon, she saw what he had seen, as had Lirah, who had tried to tell her. A faint smudge traced the slope of her high cheekbone, darkened her cheek, and skimmed the line of her jaw. It was a handprint. It was the shadow left from her father’s gritty hand, from when he had touched her face to seal the bargain between them.

I’ll tell you what,” he says. “You keep me company while I finish my dinner. I won’t even ask you what you have…or don’t have…under that coat. Deal?” I smile tentatively and smooth down my hair. “Deal.” “You don’t have to do that for me,” he says, gently taking my hand away from my hair. “I’ll get a blanket so you don’t get dirty.” I wait until he pulls a clean light green fleece blanket out of a closet. We sit on the blanket and Alex looks at his watch. “Want some?” he asks, pointing to his dinner. Maybe eating will calm my nerves. “What is it?” “Enchiladas. Mi’amá makes kick-ass enchiladas.” He stabs a small portion with a fork and holds it out to me. “If you’re not used to this kind of spicy food--” “I love spicy,” I interrupt, taking it into my mouth. I start chewing, enjoying the blend of flavors. But when I swallow, my tongue slowly catches on fire. Somewhere behind all the fire there’s flavor, but the flames are in the way. “Hot,” is all I can say as I attempt to swallow. “I told you.” Alex holds out the cup he’d been drinking from. “Here, drink. Milk usually does the trick, but I only have water.” I grab the cup. The liquid cools my tongue, but when I finish the water it’s as if someone stokes it again. “Water…,” I say. He fills another cup. “Here, drink more, though I don’t think it’ll help much. It’ll subside soon.” Instead of drinking it this time, I stick my tongue in the cold liquid and keep it there. Ahhh… “You okay?” “To I wook otay?” I ask. “With your tongue in the water like that, actually, it’s erotic. Want another bite?” he asks mischievously, acting like the Alex I know. “Mo mank ooh.” “Your tongue still burnin’?” I lift my tongue from the water. “It feels like a million soccer players are stomping on it with their cleats.” “Ouch,” he says, laughing. “You know, I heard once that kissin’ reduces the fire.” “Is that your cheap way of telling me you want to kiss me?” He looks into my eyes, his dark gaze capturing mine. “Querida, I always want to kiss you.

How about when you feel as if you are at a treacherous crossing, facing an area of life that hasn’t even been on the map until recently. Suddenly there it is, right in front of you. And so the time and space in between while you first get over the shock of it, and you have to figure out WHAT must be done feels excruciating. It’s a nightmare you can’t awaken from. You might remember this time as a kind of personal D-day, as in damage, devastation, destruction, damnation, desolation – maybe a difficult divorce, or even diagnosis of some formidable disease. These are the days of our lives that whole, beautiful chapters of life go up in flames. And all you can do is watch them burn. Until you feel as though you are left only with the ashes of it all. It is at this moment you long for the rescue and relief that only time can provide. It is in this place, you must remember that in just 365 days – you're at least partially healed self will be vastly changed, likely for the better. Perhaps not too unlike a caterpillar’s unimaginable metamorphosis. Better. Stronger. Wiser. Tougher. Kinder. More fragile, more firm, all at the same time as more free. You will have gotten through the worst of it – somehow. And then it will all be different. Life will be different. You will be different. It might or might not ever make sense, but it will be more bearable than it seems when you are first thrown, with no warning, into the kilns of life with the heat stoked up – or when you get wrapped up, inexplicably, through no choice of your own, in a dark, painfully constricting space. Go ahead, remind yourself as someone did earlier, who was trying miserably to console you. It will eventually make you a better, stronger person. How’d they say it? More beautiful on the inside… It really will, though. That’s the kicker. Even if, in the hours of your agony, you would have preferred to be less beautiful, wise, strong, or experienced than apparently life, fate, your merciless ex, or a ruthless, biological, or natural enemy that has attacked silently, and invisibly - has in mind for you. As will that which your God feels you are capable of enduring, while you, in your pitiful anguish, are yet dubious of your own ability to even endure, not alone overcome. I assure you now, you will have joy and beauty, where there was once only ashes. In time. Perhaps even more than before. It’s so hard to imagine and believe it when it’s still fresh, and so, so painful. When it hurts too much to even stand, or think, or feel anything. When you are in the grip of fear, and you remember the old familiar foe, or finally understand, firsthand, in your bones, what that actually means.

Then he was striding toward me. His mesmerizing gaze pinned me in place as he cupped my face. When his lips covered mine, I gasped. He took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, groaning into the contact. His hands tightened on my face. His sexy groans made my toes curl, muddling my thoughts. Block that out! I was Aric’s wife. I’d wronged him in the past, had consigned him to misery for hundreds—no, thousands—of years. I needed to make this right. Like penance. There was something vaguely threatening about his words. Misgivings about this arose. Too fast. “If you have feelings for him, fight them,” Aric commanded me. “By going to him, you’d be stoking them once more. Don’t you understand? He can find another woman—I cannot. If you choose him, you’ll be consigning me to a hellish fate. As you’ve done again and again. No, this will be even worse, because I’ve had a greater glimpse of what I’ll be missing.” “I just want to talk to him. I’m leaving this weekend,” I said in an unwavering voice. “No, you will not.” His arrogant demeanor back in place, he said, “Understand me, I’m not surrendering the one woman who was born for me alone. Not to a human, not to anyone.” “You can’t keep me here against my will any longer. What are you going to do? Put that cuff back on me?” I held up my hand to stop him. “I understand why you did it. But I won’t be a prisoner anymore.” He snatched up his shirt, threading his arms into the sleeves. “You say you keep your promises now? You made a vow before gods to be my wife. In this life, you will keep your promises to me—before you ever honor one to him!” “You can’t stop me from leaving. I have my powers back. I earned my powers back.” With a cruel curve of his lips, he said, “You promised never to harm me, Empress. Know that you’ll have to kill me before I would ever let you go.” As he strode out the door, I said, “And know that you’ll have to put that cilice on me to keep me prisoner again.” He whirled around, fury in his expression. “You refused—twice—to beg me for your own life, but you’d beg for his?” I whispered, “Yes.” With a calculating gleam in his eyes, he said, “This isn’t an impossible task you ask of me. I could call in ancient favors, contact old allies. They could be here in mere hours. We’d ride out as one.” “T-truly?” “On one condition: you’ll become my wife in truth, mine in every way. Beginning tonight. Comply, and I’ll take on an army for you.” My lips parted with shock. “How can you do this to me?” “Deveaux is lost to you in one way or another. He’ll either be slaughtered by the Lovers—or saved by my female, by her sacrifice.” He offered his hand. “Come with me, and begin this.” “Don’t, Aric! Don’t destroy what I do feel for you.” “I’ll take”—he seized my hand, yanking me close—“what I can get.” Despite myself, I shivered from the contact, from his husky voice. His hold on me was firm, proprietary. Because he believed I was about to become his. The red witch in me whispered, Death thinks he has you at his mercy. But the Empress doesn’t get collared or caged—or controlled. Take his head and pay the Tower. Shut up! “Please, Aric. I’ll grow to hate you for this. I don’t want to feel that way about you. Never again. Don’t force me to do this.” “Force?” Unmoved, he led me toward his bedroom. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. Just as you can’t force me to save your lover’s life. We each make sacrifices to get what we want.” With my heart pounding, I crossed the threshold into his dark world. Black walls, black ceiling, black night beyond his windows. Yet outside I thought I saw . . . a single fluttering snowflake. Like a sign.

It was nothing, really," Carly breathed. "Mostly gibberish." "Mmm." His fingers brushed her cheekbone, and he stared down at her, not giving an inch. "Say it again." "Tu set I'womo Piu bello---" Jackson captured her words mid sentence, his mouth brushing hers in a hot, unyielding stroke as her lips parted over a sigh. His fingers tightened in her hair before he moved his palm to cradle her face. The kiss was like a low fire, begging to be stoked, and Jackson obliged on nothing but impulse. His tongue mingled with the supple sweetness of Carly's bottom lip, testing the way and drowning in the magnetic pull of her as he deepened the kiss. Her mouth vibrated against his as she released another small sigh, and it tore through him like an avalanche, prompting his hands up into the thick fall of her hair. Christ, she tasted so sweet and yet so sinful...

When World War II began, the high-octane fuel was used in bombing raids by German pilots. Like Davis, the Koch family benefited from the venture. Raymond Stokes, director of the Centre for Business History at the University of Glasgow in Scotland and co-author of a history of the German oil industry during the Nazi years, Faktor Öl (The oil factor), which documents the company’s role, says, “Winkler-Koch benefited directly from this project, which was designed to help enable the fuel policy of the Third Reich.

Still, in terms of fighting the previous war, I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t realize how quickly the ground was shifting under all our feet. This was the first election where the Supreme Court’s disastrous 2010 Citizens United decision allowing unlimited political donations was in full force but the Voting Rights Act of 1965 wasn’t because of another terrible decision by the court in 2013. I was running a traditional presidential campaign with carefully thought-out policies and painstakingly built coalitions, while Trump was running a reality TV show that expertly and relentlessly stoked Americans’ anger and resentment

As I spent those years saying the same collect for purity, the Nicene Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and various other unchanging parts of the liturgy, I learned that common prayer can open the door to deeper levels of engagement and internalization. Like the lyrics of an old favorite song, the words take up residence deep down in our souls. Every recitation "above the surface" draws from memories and associations that shoot out like roots beneath our conscious thoughts and words.

[W]e need to tell a different story that allows our young people and citizens of all backgrounds and people who are non-citizens, as well, to fit and have a place in a space in that American narrative because the divisions that we are facing are based on this other story, right? It's a story that really is a divisive story. It's a story that accuses anybody who talks about social justice of fomenting dissent and fomenting division, right? And so I think it depends on the story we're going to say. And that's why I do admire Obama, where I think Obama told us a fantastic story, but I just don't think he told us some of the bitter parts of that story enough. And that's why I love Black Lives Matter. But you need both. You can't have just one side of the story. You can't say, you know what, we're the greatest country in the world and we just keep getting better and better. That's the story of American exceptionalism. But you can't also say we are a terrible country and there is no hope for this country because you leave people towards the fearmongerers and the people who are stoking anxiety, right? So we have to tell both.

I’m not saying you need to be an abusive boyfriend, or even to play one on TV. I am saying that the ability of the psychopath to stoke strong emotions is attractive enough that you benefit from using it in whatever manner you deem ethical. Remember, you and you alone define and determine your morality, following legal lines or limits).

Matthew Hopkins: Witchfinder General (1645 – 1647) by Stewart Stafford ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ – Exodus, Nor allow legalised killing too cheaply, Twenty shillings of blood money per witch, A charlatan’s extortion for ‘cleansing.’ Witchcraft, the capital crime of the age, Lawyer Hopkins, parasitising laws, Self-appointed Witchfinder General, A reign of terror brought to God-fearing doors. Evildoing’s hunter was its embodiment; A Judas purse wed brutality’s handmaiden, With Stearne, stoked Essex witch hunt mania, Puritanical zeal’s sadistic cruelty. His victims were cast into dungeon pits; Bloodied and broken in outcast desperation; Disease helped some cheat the hangman; The only fortune anyone deemed fair. Extracting confessions through torture’s pain; Their skin pricked to find Satan’s mark, Victims, forced to run until collapse, Sleepless starvation hastened their bleak end. Then to the wicked ducking stool gauntlet, Lowered into muddy ditches or icy water, A survivor’s noose or drowned exoneration? None met the Witchfinder’s imperious eyes. “I, John Lowes, a minister of God, Was martyred so. Hopkins, thou pestilent knave! Bade me to run, held aloft by mocking hands, Funeral rites as I dug mine own grave.” Sensing his gaslit flames turn back on him, Hopkins went to ground with his ill-gotten gains, Slowly he faded, from infamous to obscure, Scars linger on 300 unmarked graves. Some say that Hopkins was executed as a witch, Or faced a tubercular end in his village, Where he is buried, no one knows or cares, Hexed in a barren field for karmic tillage. Rat-catcher to an imagined pestilence, Communities, not covens, he did churn, A toxic chalice for New World lips, Fanning Salem’s pernicious turn. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Birds of the Western Front Your mess-tin cover's lost. Kestrels hover above the shelling. They don't turn a feather when hunting-ground explodes in yellow earth, flickering star-shells and flares from the Revelation of St John. You look away from artillery lobbing roar and suck and snap against one corner of a thicket to the partridge of the war zone making its nest in shattered clods. History floods into subsoil to be blown apart. You cling to the hard dry stars of observation. How you survive. They were all at it: Orchids of the Crimea nature notes from the trench leaving everything unsaid - hell's cauldron with souls pushed in, demons stoking flames beneath - for the pink-flecked wings of a chaffinch flashed like mediaeval glass. You replace gangrene and gas mask with a dream of alchemy: language of the birds translating human earth to abstract and divine. While machine-gun tracery gutted that stricken wood you watched the chaffinch flutter to and fro through splintered branches, breaking buds and never a green bough left. Hundreds lay in there wounded. If any, you say, spotted one bird they may have wondered why a thing with wings would stay in such a place. She must have, sure, had chicks she was too terrified to feed, too loyal to desert. Like roots clutching at air you stick to the lark singing fit to burst at dawn sounding insincere above the burning bush: plough-land latticed like folds of brain with shell-ravines where nothing stirs but black rats, jittery sentries and the lice sliding across your faces every night. Where every elixir's gone wrong you hold to what you know. A little nature study. A solitary magpie blue and white spearing a strand of willow. One for sorrow. One for Babylon, Ninevah and Northern France, for mice and desolation, the burgeoning barn-owl population and never a green bough left.

One American political figure saw Russia for the growing menace that it was and was willing to call Putin out for his transgressions. During President Obama’s reelection campaign, Mitt Romney warned of a growing Russian strategic threat, highlighting their role as “our number one geopolitical foe.”[208] The response from President Obama, Secretary Clinton, and other Democrats was not to echo his sentiment, but actually to ridicule Romney and support the Russian government. President Obama hurled insults, saying Romney was “stuck in a Cold War mind warp” [209] and in a nationally televised debate mocked the former governor, saying “the 1980s are now calling to ask for their foreign policy back…” [210] When asked to respond to Romney’s comment, Secretary Clinton refused to rebuke the over-the-top and false Obama campaign attacks. Instead, she delivered a message that echoed campaign talking points arguing that skepticism of Russia was outdated: “I think it’s somewhat dated to be looking backwards,” she said, adding, “In many of the areas where we are working to solve problems, Russia has been an ally.”[211] A month after Secretary Clinton’s statement on Romney, Putin rejected Obama’s calls for a landmark summit.[212] He didn’t seem to share the secretary’s view that the two countries were working together. It was ironic that while Obama and Clinton were saying Romney was in a “Cold War mind warp,”[213] the Russian leader was waging a virulent, anti-America “election campaign” (that’s if you can call what they did in Russia an “election”). In fact, if anyone was in a Cold War mind warp, it was Putin, and his behavior demonstrated just how right Romney was about Russia’s intentions. “Putin has helped stoke anti-Americanism as part of his campaign emphasizing a strong Russia,” Reuters reported. “He has warned the West not to interfere in Syria or Iran, and accused the United States of ‘political engineering’ around the world.”[214] And his invective was aimed not just at the United States. He singled out Secretary Clinton for verbal assault. Putin unleashed the assault Nov. 27 [2011] in a nationally televised address as he accepted the presidential nomination, suggesting that the independent election monitor Golos, which gets financing from the United States and Europe, was a U.S. vehicle for influencing the elections here. Since then, Golos has been turned out of its Moscow office and its Samara branch has come under tax investigation. Duma deputies are considering banning all foreign grants to Russian organizations. Then Putin accused U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton of sending a signal to demonstrators to begin protesting the fairness of the Dec. 4 parliamentary elections.[215] [Emphasis added.] Despite all the evidence that the Russians had no interest in working with the U.S., President Obama and Secretary Clinton seemed to believe that we were just a Putin and Obama election victory away from making progress. In March 2012, President Obama was caught on a live microphone making a private pledge of flexibility on missile defense “after my election” to Dmitry Medvedev.[216] The episode lent credence to the notion that while the administration’s public unilateral concessions were bad enough, it might have been giving away even more in private. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Putin didn’t abandon his anti-American attitudes after he won the presidential “election.” In the last few weeks of Clinton’s tenure as Secretary of State, Putin signed a law banning American adoption of Russian children,[217] in a move that could be seen as nothing less than a slap in the face to the United States. Russia had been one of the leading sources of children for U.S. adoptions.[218] This disservice to Russian orphans in need of a home was the final offensive act in a long trail of human rights abuses for which Secretary Clinton failed to hold Russia accountable.

So now that you’re in like with me, do you think we should start color coordinating our outfits?” She rolled her eyes and groaned. During the last half hour of our car ride, I’d hounded her about her confession. Mostly because I liked to see her squirm. Well, and because she liked me. I was freaking stoked. So I teased her about everything from the necessity of pet names to the value of posting couples’ selfies on various forms of social media to suggestions about our “celebrity” name—I was rooting for Macity. “For what it’s worth, I’m in serious dislike of you right now.” I laughed, enjoying this way too much. “We should also start having sleepovers…since you’re in like with me.” She pressed her palms to her forehead then dragged them down her face. “Oh. My. God. I’m going to kill you before we even make it out of this car.” “Tomorrow I’ll run to the store and get extra toothbrushes so we can keep them at each other’s places. Should I get his and hers towels too?” She banged her head on the headrest. “Too soon?” I pulled into the parking lot of the marina. “Okay, only toothbrushes.” “I’m going to murder you with that fucking toothbrush if you don’t stop saying ‘in like’ with you.” I parked the car. “You started it.” The overhead light popped on as I got out. “Mason!” I laughed as the car door shut. Grumbling, she got out, and I greeted her on the passenger side. “One more, then I promise I’m done.” I shut her door and pushed her up against it. “I’m happy you’re finally in like with me because I’ve been in like with you for a while

Can I ask you somethin’?” Lookin’ curious, Reed says, “Yes.” “Those butterfly things… that you feel when you’re near Evie… does it feel like… crickets jumpin’ ‘round inside your stomach?” I inquire. A slow grin spreads over Reed’s face. “Yes, Russell, that’s exactly what it feels like.” “What do you think that means,” I ask. “It would be one way to… recognize someone, even if you cannot remember her,” Reed replies, lookin’ happier than I have ever seen him. “Yeah, but… does it make you want to tear her clothes off?” I ask, feelin’ irritated. “Yes, it does,” Reed affirms, lookin’ even more stoked. “Okay… good talk,” I say awkwardly, feelin’ even more confused than before.

We can say that the universe behaves this way or that way, but just why it behaves this way is something that science isn’t equipped to handle. Of

Writer and internet activist Clay Shirky has noted that "institutions will try to preserve the problem to which they are the solution." Fear is the problem. It's a fear that's stoked by the day's news. As soon as there's a horrific crime or a terrorist attack that supposedly could have been prevented if only the FBI or DHS had had access to some data stored by Facebook or encrypted in an iPhone, people will demand to know why the FBI or DHS didn't have access to that data-why they were prevent from "connecting the dots." And then the laws will change to give them even more authority. Jack Goldsmith again: "The government will increase its powers to meet the national security threat fully (because the People demand it)." We need a better way to handle our emotional responses to terrorism than by giving our government carte blanche to violate our freedoms, in some desperate attempt to feel safe again. If we don't find one, then, as they say, the terrorists will truly have won. One goal of government is to provide security for its people, but in democracies, we need to take risks. A society that refuses risk-in crime, terrorism, or elsewhere-is by definition a police state. And a police state brings with it its own dangers.

It was another watershed event for a woman who had for so long believed herself worthless, with little to offer the world other than her sense of style. Her life in the royal family had been directly responsible for creating this confusion. As her friend James Gilbey says: “When she went to Pakistan last year she was amazed that five million people turned out just to see her. Diana has this extraordinary battle going on in her mind. ‘How can all these people want to see me?’ and then I get home in the evening and lead this mouse-like existence. Nobody says: ‘Well done.’ She has this incredible dichotomy in her mind. She has this adulation out there and this extraordinary vacant life at home. There is nobody and nothing there in the sense that nobody is saying nice things to her--apart of course from the children. She feels she is in an alien world.” Little things mean so much to Diana. She doesn’t seek praise but on public engagements if people thank her for helping, it turns a routine duty into a very special moment. Years ago she never believed the plaudits she received, now she is much more comfortable accepting a kind word and a friendly gesture. If she makes a difference, it makes her day. She has discussed with church leaders, including the Archbishop or Canterbury and several leading bishops, the blossoming of this deep seated need within herself to help those who are sick and dying. “Anywhere I see suffering, that is where I want to be, doing what I can,” she says. Visits to specialist hospitals like Stoke Mandeville or Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children are not a chore but deeply satisfying. As America’s First Lady, Barbara Bush, discovered when she joined the Princess on a visit to an AIDS ward of the Middlesex Hospital in July 1991 there is nothing maudlin about Diana’s attitude towards the sick. When a bed-bound patient burst into tears as the Princess was chatting to him, Diana spontaneously put her arms around him and gave him an enormous hug. It was a touching moment which affected the First Lady and others who were present. While she has since spoken of the need to give AIDS sufferers a cuddle, for Diana this moment was a personal achievement. As she held him to her, she was giving in to her own self rather than conforming to her role as a princess.

Out of so many universes, one of them was sure to produce life from dead matter. And of course, it was ours—after all, if it weren’t, we wouldn’t be marveling at our unbelievable luck (don’t say you’ve never won anything).

Math can say all it wants, but seeing is believing, and the only way to know whether the mathematics is telling the truth is to check the world.

Want some?" he asks, pointing to his dinner. Maybe eating will calm my nerves. "What is it?" "Enchiladas. Mi'ama makes kick-ass enchiladas." He stabs a small portion with a fork and holds it out to me. "If you're not used to this kind of spicy food--" "I love spicy," I interrupt, taking it into my mouth. I start chewing, enjoying the blend of flavors. But when I swallow, my tongue slowly catches on fire. Somewhere behind all the fire there's flavor, but the flames are in the way. "Hot," is all I can say as I attempt to swallow. "I told you." Alex holds out the cup he'd been drinking from. "Here, drink. Milk usually does the trick, but I only have water." I grab the cup. The liquid cools my tongue, but when I finish the water it's as if someone stokes it again. "Water . . . ," I say. He fills another cup. "Here, drink more, though I don't think it'll help much. It'll subside soon." Instead of drinking it this time, I stick my tongue in the cold liquid and keep it there. Ahhh . . . "You okay?" "To I wook otay?" I ask. "With your tongue in the water like that, actually, it's erotic. Want another bite?" he asks mischievously, acting like the Alex I know. "Mo mank ooh.

Erick Erickson built his career on stoking populist rage. But now the man who steers the Tea Party says conservative anger has grown toxic and self-defeating.

In September 1942, a month after Gandhi was jailed, Winston Churchill wrote to the secretary of state for India, Leo Amery: ‘Please let me have a note on Mr.Gandhi’s intrigues with Japan and the documents the Government of India published, or any other they possessed before on this topic.’ Three days later, Amery sent Churchill the note he asked for, which began: ‘The India Office has no evidence to show, or suggest, that Gandhi has intrigued with Japan.’ The ‘only evidence of Japanese contacts [with Gandhi] during the war’, the note continued, ‘relates to the presence in Wardha of two Japanese Buddhist priests who lived for part of 1940 in Gandhi’s Ashram’. Before the Quit India movement had even begun, Churchill had convinced himself that Gandhi was intriguing with the Japanese. In February 1943, when Gandhi went on a fast in jail, Churchill convinced himself that Gandhi was secretly using energy supplements. On 13 February, Churchill wired Linlithgow: ‘I have heard that Gandhi usually has glucose in his water when doing his various fasting antics. Would it be possible to verify this.’ Two days later, the viceroy wired back: ‘This may be the case but those who have been in attendance on him doubt it, and present Surgeon-General Bombay (a European) says that on a previous fast G. was particularly careful to guard against possibility of glucose being used. I am told that his present medical attendants tried to persuade him to take glucose yesterday and again today, and that he refused absolutely.’ On 25 February, as the fast entered its third week, Churchill wired the viceroy: ‘Cannot help feeling very suspicious of bona fides of Gandhi’s fast. We were told fourth day would be the crisis and then well staged climax was set for eleventh day onwards. Now at fifteenth day bulletins look as if he might get through. Would be most valuable [if] fraud could be exposed. Surely with all those Congress Hindu doctors round him it is quite easy to slip glucose or other nourishment into his food.’ By this time, the viceroy was himself increasingly exasperated with Gandhi. But there was no evidence that the fasting man had actually taken any glucose. So, he now replied to Churchill in a manner that stoked both men’s prejudices. ‘I have long known Gandhi as the world’s most successful humbug,’ fumed Linlithgow, ‘and have not the least doubt that his physical condition and the bulletins reporting it from day to day have been deliberately cooked so as to produce the maximum effect on public opinion.’ Then, going against his own previous statement, the viceroy claimed that ‘there would be no difficulty in his entourage administering glucose or any other food without the knowledge of the Government doctors’ (this when the same government doctors had told him exactly the reverse). ‘If I can discover any firm of evidence of fraud I will let you hear,’ said Linlithgow to Churchill, adding, somewhat sadly, ‘but I am not hopeful of this.’ This prompted an equally disappointed reply from Churchill: ‘It now seems certain that the old rascal will emerge all the better from his so-called fast'.

long scar down the left side of her face, she nodded. “Bravery is a choice. However, you can’t wait until the moment you need to be brave to reach for that bravery. Because if you haven’t been purposefully tending to it, building it up, you may find that it is not there when you need it. You must stoke the fires of courage little by little, day by day, so they are burning bright long before you ever need them. And you fuel or douse those fires—fanning the flames or snuffing them out—with the words you say to yourself. And with the words you allow others to say about you in your presence.

But who could yearn to be on the wrong end of the knife and fork? That’s his real interest here. They’re out there…and dear god, he finds them. “I’ve always lost myself in other people,” says a nervous young woman in an empty room with peeling windowsills. “It’s never enough. Why not carry it all the way?” A middle-aged man on a park bench leers into the camera, something lascivious in his gaze, as if he’s filming for a dating profile. He squeezes his thigh. “I’m thick. I’m meaty. Juicy. Who wouldn’t want me?” A couple, too. The man looks smaller than the Amazonian woman to begin with, the contrast exaggerated by the way he hunches on the floor beside her wrought iron chair. He strokes the leather of her knee-high boots. She stokes his hair the way she would a favored pet. “I want to be in her belly,” he whispers. “I want to pass through her. I want to become a part of her. Then neither of us will ever have to be lonely again.

I’m sorry for your loss? Why do people say that? The loss is the least of your problems. It’s the pain that follows we should be sorry for. A loss is an event, a moment in time. But grief is relentless—a simmering flame that can be stoked by a whisper. It burrows down in the deep recesses of your heart, then surges up like bile, filling your lungs until it hurts to breathe.

At one point on the tapes, Mark started to talk about playing on people’s “hopes and fears.” He even went so far as to say, “It’s no good fighting an election campaign on the facts; it’s fought on emotion.” Hearing it worded like that made me cry. Was microtargeting just a way to play with people’s emotions? Cambridge hadn’t served persuadables the facts about candidates and their policies so they could make their own decisions. No, it had given them emotional garbage ads to stoke fear or give people false hope.

This was also my introduction to the kind of prayer called a "collect" (KA-lict, emphasis on the first syllable). A collect is a short written prayer that gathers up (or collects) similar prayer concerns and articulates them in a broad, general way. Put differently, it crystallizes or condenses a variety of similar ideas into one prayer that... is something that an entire communion can lift up together.

My favorite of {Netflix's] descriptors is "chosen family." A big part of the evergreen appeal of big hits like The Office, Parks and Recreation, New Girl, 30 Rock, etc., is the way in which a bunch of ragtag misfits commit to being not just "workplace proximity associates" or roommates or friends of friends, but people who are inextricably, irremovably interwoven into one another's lives on a daily basis... For me, that's family crystallized.

One thing I've learned is that when I say, "Hey so-and-so, I'm struggling with loneliness right now and could really use a chat with you because I love you,"... I almost always get a quick and tender response.

A daily self-examination that I've landed on in the past couple of months is, "Did I give God my faithful act of service today?"... it is so tempting to evaluate the success of the meeting by attendance, or enthusiasm, or my own reaction to the discussion.

This is not my attempt to find a way to avoid disagreement, tension, conflict, or personal unfulfillment in my vocation and in the church that I'm committing to. This is an attempt to follow the Holy Spirit as he leads me to a place where I can take up all of those crosses without surrendering my integrity.

Nevertheless, Spinoza does find a way of making room for a kind of freedom, though it is not of the sort that philosophers are used to. Each individual, says Spinoza, is a localised concentration of the attributes of reality, really a quasi-individual, since the only true individual is the universe in totality. Insofar as the quasi-individual is ruled by his emotions, he is unfree and at the mercy of finite understanding. To become free, the individual must, by means of rational reflection, understand the extended causal chain that links everything as one. To become aware of the totality of the universe is to be freed, not from causal determinism, but from an ignorance of one’s true nature.

In a quiet abode, where shadows weep, Lived the saddest grandmother, her sorrow ran deep. Once a home filled with laughter and cheer, Now echoes silence, a symphony of tears. Her eyes, like windows to a weathered soul, Glistened with memories that took their toll. A tale unfolded of love's sweet refrain, Now stained with loss, an enduring pain. Beside the hearth where warmth once thrived, Loneliness lingered, love deprived. A husband's absence, a void untold, Left her heart shattered, bitter and cold. Her family, once a vibrant bouquet, Now scattered petals, drifting away. The echoes of laughter, a distant sound, In the vast emptiness that sorrow found. Photographs whispered of days long past, A love that forever seemed to last. But time, a cruel and relentless stream, Carved lines of grief in a once joyous dream. Through tear-stained letters and faded attire, The saddest grandmother stoked love's dwindling fire. A matriarch cradled in solitude's embrace, Longing for the touch of her love's warm grace. Her children, grown and scattered like leaves, Each carried a piece of the pain she conceives. Yet, united by grief, a bittersweet thread, Bound by the love that time hadn't shed. In twilight's embrace, she wept in despair, A tapestry woven with threads of wear. The saddest grandmother, weathered and gray, Whispered to the wind the words she couldn't say. For in the echoes of her silent plea, Lingered the remnants of love's decree. A tale of loss, etched in the lines, Of the saddest grandmother, where sorrow resigns.

We need to form deep friendships, so that we can fight the battles Jesus calls us to with comrades bu our sides. We need them there to brace us for the onslaught, stoke our joy and celebrate the victories along the way. But we also need our friends, so that when we slump down under the weight of all our frailty and failure, there will be someone there to ask us, "Are you crying?" and we'll have the courage to say, "Yes.

Are you decent?" "Depends who you ask." "You are not naked. I'm crushed." "It's chilly in here." "I could stoke the fire." "Believe me," she purred, "you do." He grinned at her jest, but Kate refused to blush and sent him a sultry, sparkling look. Mistresses, after all, could say that sort of thing. Then he swept into the room, bringing her breakfast on a tray like her very own cavaliere servente. "Hungry?" "For what?" she shot back. "My goodness," he drawled. "I've created a monster. I'm so pleased." She laughed as he set the large tray on the bed, then sauntered over to her at the window nook. At once, he leaned down, captured her face between his hands, and gave her a long, luscious kiss after their short separation. Though he had only been gone about twenty minutes, Kate had missed him desperately. She sighed with pleasure, caressing his arms, as Rohan slowly ended the kiss. "Done being sore yet, by chance?" he whispered with a wicked gleam in his pale eyes. "Almost." "Very well, replenish your strength.

Few people wanted to hear that, despite appearances, since the end of slavery our nation has remained trapped in a cycle of reform, backlash, and reformation of systems of racialized social control. Things have changed since then. As I write this, Donald Trump is president of the United States. For many, this feels like whiplash. After eight years of Barack Obama in the White House—a man who embraced the rhetoric (though not the politics) of the Civil Rights Movement—we now have a president who embraces the rhetoric and the politics of white nationalism. This is a president who openly stokes racial animosity and even racial violence, who praises dictators (and likely aspires to be one), who behaves like a petulant toddler on Twitter, and who has a passionate, devoted following of millions of people who proudly say they want to “make America great again” by taking us back to a time that we’ve left behind. We are now living in an era of unabashed racialism, a time when many white Americans feel free to speak openly of their nostalgia for an age when their cultural, political, and economic dominance could be taken for granted—no apologies required. It can no longer be denied that the colorblind veneer of early twenty-first-century American democracy was just that: a veneer. Right beneath the surface lay an ugly reality that many Americans were not prepared to face. In so many respects, this book was written in a different world. It was written before a seventeen-year-old black teenager named Trayvon Martin was killed in a gated community by a self-appointed

change. I’m sure we’ll need your help from time to time, and maybe one of these days we’ll be able to return the favor.” Higgins felt that bubble of word vomit rise in his throat and spill out of his mouth before he could help himself. “Beirut,” he said. There was a change in the atmosphere as soon as the word slipped out, but he hammered on. “You lost a lot of Marines.” “Higgins.” Zyga’s voice was sharp. Stokes’ voice was colored with sadness as he said, “I keep telling myself we could’ve done something to prevent it.” “That’s why you’re here,” Higgins said. “When Director Thatcher told me about this program, I jumped at the chance to help build a better relationship between the Marine Corps and the CIA. My colleagues aren’t thrilled at the idea of getting into bed with your lot, but I have a great deal of respect for what you do. That’s why I’m here. Like the CIA, some of us in the Marine Corps are planning for the future. Terrorism will only grow in the coming years. Beirut was just the beginning. Lucky for me, your bosses and I agree.” He looked from one team member to another. “I heard about your first mission, and I’m glad it was a success. I’m glad you all made it out of there alive.” “Major Stokes will be stopping by every so often to check on our progress and offer additional advice and support,” Decker said. “I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but this man has seen it all. Don’t let his dumb grunt act fool you. His help will be invaluable to us as we move forward.” “Now we just need to get the Feds on board.” Stokes laughed, and the room joined him. “Good luck with that,” Abrams called out. “They hate us more than you do.” “That they do,” Stokes said. “They’ve been working on their program since the late ‘70s. Same sort of deal. If you can get into the mind of a killer, really understand how your enemy works, then you have a better chance of catching him before he hurts anyone else. We’re usually sent in after it’s too late. I want to change that.” “Might put you out of a job,” Higgins joked. Stokes laughed again. “Honestly, I don’t think that’d be so bad. Maybe I’ll join up with you. Maybe in a perfect world.” “In a perfect world, there wouldn’t be a need for any of us,” Higgins said. “You’re exactly right, Mr. Higgins.” “Doctor,” Higgins corrected automatically. His face flushed. “Ignore him,” Abrams said, reaching across Spencer to whack Higgins in the stomach. “He thinks just because he has two doctorates that he’s better than us.” “I do not,” Higgins mumbled. He felt his face grow even hotter. Stokes held up a hand in surrender. “You earned those degrees, Dr. Higgins. Wear them with pride.” Higgins shot a look at Abrams while the rest of the room continued to chuckle. Thatcher looked down at his watch. “It seems my time is up here,” he said. “I assume you can find your way back, Major?” “I’ll try not to steal any secrets on the way out.” “See that you don’t,” Thatcher said, shaking Stokes’s hand again before exiting the room. Everyone took their turn introducing themselves to Major Stokes, except Higgins, who hung back to observe how this new player interacted with everyone in the room. Where Higgins lacked interpersonal skills, Stokes excelled in the area. He could joke with Abrams in one breath and rein it in to speak in serious undertones with Spencer in the next. He and Johnson exchanged battle scars, and when it came to York, Stokes found a fellow intellectual to converse with. Higgins detected no condescension or disrespect in his voice even though she was the only woman in the room. As the personal introductions were finishing up, Stokes broke off from the group and walked over to where Higgins was still seated at the front of the room and sat down next to him. “More of an observer than a talker, right?” “You could say that.” “Should I be worried?” Higgins smiled.

There was something about Stokes—about its straight, clean aisles and the warm people who worked there—that made me feel calm and happy. It’s a strange thing to say about a grocery store, but it felt like home.

The problem with erecting a political regime on people power, Alexis de Tocqueville and others had long since observed, is that the people’s desire for equality does not always jibe with liberty, toleration, and minority rights. Careful listeners might have detected tension between Castro stoking popular enthusiasm (“What is legal right now is what the people say is legal”), while counseling restraint.

People like to say that struggle builds character, but that's not true. Struggle attacks you from all angles. It chips away at your will to live.

How is his temperature?” “He needs to go up one more degree.” “The devil I do,” West said. “With that fire stoked so high, the room is an oven. Soon I’ll be as brown as a Christmas goose. Speaking of that…I’m famished.” “The doctor said we can’t feed you until you’ve reached the right temperature,” Pandora said. “Will you take another cup of tea?” Cassandra asked. “I’ll have a brandy,” West retorted, “along with a wedge of currant pie, a plate of cheese, a bowl of potato and turnip mash, and a beefsteak.” Cassandra smiled. “I’ll ask the doctor if you may have some broth.” “Broth?” he repeated indignantly. “Come along, Hamlet,” Pandora said, “before West decides he wants bacon as well.” “Wait,” Kathleen said, frowning. “Isn’t Hamlet supposed to be in the cellars?” “Cook wouldn’t allow it,” Cassandra said. “She said he would find a way to knock over the bins and eat all the root vegetables.” She cast a proud glance at the cheerful-looking creature. “Because he is a very creative and enterprising pig.” “Cook didn’t say that last part,” Pandora said. “No,” Cassandra admitted, “but it was implied.

In an address before Congress on September 20, 2011, President Bush stoked the embers of a common bond, telling Americans we would come together against the threat of violence from terrorists. “We will not tire, we will not falter, and we will not fail.” Now imagine the scenario played out differently. Pretend that instead of resolve, Bush expressed skepticism after 9/11. Imagine that, as smoke rose from the Twin Towers, he questioned whether al-Qaeda really orchestrated the attacks; he dismissed the intelligence community’s conclusions as “ridiculous”; he suggested the hijackers on Todd Beamer’s flight could have been from “a lot of different groups”; he fanned the flames of conspiracy theory by calling the incident a “hoax” and a “ruse”; he declared at a press conference, “Osama bin Laden says it’s not al-Qaeda. I don’t see why it would be,” in response to increasingly irrefutable evidence of the terror group’s responsibility; and he urged Americans that it would be a mistake to go after “al-Qaeda because the United States had the potential for a “great relationship” with them. If that’s what Bush had done, the political explosion would have torn the country to shreds. That’s effectively what happened when the United States was attacked in 2016.

Although I have to say, the sweet taste of Leonie still lingering on my tongue was well worth being tardy. The greedy Kitten…” ~ Roger Steele

Things have changed since then. As I write this, Donald Trump is president of the United States. For many, this feels like whiplash. After eight years of Barack Obama in the White House—a man who embraced the rhetoric (though not the politics) of the Civil Rights Movement—we now have a president who embraces the rhetoric and the politics of white nationalism. This is a president who openly stokes racial animosity and even racial violence, who praises dictators (and likely aspires to be one), who behaves like a petulant toddler on Twitter, and who has a passionate, devoted following of millions of people who proudly say they want to “make America great again” by taking us back to a time that we’ve left behind.

Populism is ultimately always sustained by the frustrated exasperation of ordinary people, by the cry "I don’t know what is going on, but I’ve just had enough of it! It cannot go on! It must stop!" Such impatient outbursts betray a refusal to understand or engage with the complexity of the situation, and give rise to the conviction that there must be somebody responsible for the mess—which is why some agent lurking behind the scenes is invariably required. Therein, in this refusal-to-know, resides the properly fetishistic dimension of populism. That is to say, although at a purely formal level fetishism involves a gesture of transference (onto the object-fetish), it functions as an exact inversion of the standard formula of transference (with the "subject supposed to know"): what fetishism gives body to is precisely my disavowal of knowledge, my refusal to subjectively assume what I know. That is why, to put it in Nietzschean terms which are here highly appropriate, the ultimate difference between a truly radical emancipatory politics and a populist politics is that the former is active, it imposes and enforces its vision, while populism is fundamentally re-active, the result of a reaction to a disturbing intruder. In other words, populism remains a version of the politics of fear: it mobilizes the crowd by stoking up fear of the corrupt external agent.