Struck A Nerve Quotes

I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it. I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear dagger proof tunics, and as a dagger proof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguised and until every home is rebuilt from the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try. I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where we once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and now matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.

Shock and desire have my nerves tingling like I've been struck by horny lightning.

It would perhaps not be amiss to point out that he had always tried to be a good dog. He had tried to do all the things his MAN and his WOMAN, and most of all his BOY, had asked or expected of him. He would have died for them, if that had been required. He had never wanted to kill anybody. He had been struck by something, possibly destiny, or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor.

Look. This has been… fun.” Lie. This had been nerve-racking and I needed to go masturbate. “But I have to go. I’ve got stuff to do before I head out again.” Masturbate. “Wizard stuff. Like… secret wizard stuff.” Masturbate.

Adam: "I guess I struck a nerve." Gordon: "Suck my cock and choke on it.

What do you envision for your future, Anna?” His abrupt question struck a nerve in me. It was the same question I'd been asking myself for months. “I don't know,” I said. “I used to know what I wanted, but not anymore.” He considered this, watching me with curiosity. “What did you want?” I reached down and touched the water. “A family, mostly.” “And you no longer want that?” I dried my hands on my jeans, trying not to get emotional. At one time, I wanted a loving husband and a houseful of kids more than anything in the world. But I'd let go of those dreams. I couldn't even adopt a child. What would the Dukes say if they caught me playing house? “I can't have those things,” I told him, still avoiding his stare. “And I'm tired of wanting things I can't have.” His voice was low when he responded. “Perhaps children are out of the question, but you could still have a husband, in secret.” My eyes flew up to his, and my skin sizzled as his words settled over me. I opened my mouth, but couldn't speak. His light eyes played chicken with mine, not backing down from his claim. “It's too dangerous,” I said. “You are young.” He didn't state it in a condescending way, but I still bristled. “Someday you may agree that there are dangers worth facing.” I swallowed, wishing my crazy heart would stop trying to break out of my rib cage.

When I encountered these haunting words from Franz Kafka, I realized exactly why this light sermon about the search for God had struck such a nerve: "Everyday life is the greatest detective story ever written. Every second, without noticing, we pass by thousands of corpses and crimes. That's the routine of our lives.

In the meantime the groans changed into the protracted, thunderous roar by which all living creatures are struck with terror, and the nerves of people, who do not know what fear is, shake, just as the window-panes rattle from distant cannonading.

Now and then, all of this struck me as being not so much ridiculous as faintly ominous. What if, by chance, these early-stage symptoms didn’t pass? If the hints at hysteria, delusion, weak nerves and so on, that I thought I could detect in what she said, ended up leading to something more?

The Landscape" I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer those lilacs and roses whose breath filled the broad woods, where the sail of a flame lay at the end of each arrow-straight path. I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer that storm whose white nerve sparked the castle towers, or left the mind unrhymed, or flared an instant, just where the road forked. It is the star struck under my heel in the night. It is the vvord no book on earth defines. It is the foam on the wave, the cloud in the sky. As they age, all things grow rigid and bright. The streets fall nameless, and the knots untie. Now, with this landscape, I fix; I shine.

I am struck by what a tawdry magician’s trick Time is after all. I am sixty-six years old. Viewed from your coign of vantage—facing toward the future—sixty-six years is a great deal of time. It is all of the experience of your life more than three times over. But, viewed from my coign of vantage—facing toward the past—this sixty-six years was the fluttering down of a cherry petal. I feel that my life was a picture hastily sketched but never filled in . . . for lack of time. Only yesterday—but more than fifty years ago—I walked along this river with my father. I can remember how big and strong his hand felt to my small fingers. Fifty years. But all the insignificant, busy things—the terribly important, now forgotten things that cluttered the intervening time collapse and fall away from my memory. And I remember another yesterday when my daughter was a little girl. We walked along here. At this very moment, the nerves in my hand remember the feeling of her chubby fingers clinging to one of mine.

One night, when Violet’s parents had gone out, he teased her about it, whispering against her throat, “I should probably be dating girls my own age now that you’ll be over-the-hill.” Jay was stretched out on Violet’s bed as she curled against him. Violet laughed, rising to the bait. “Fine,” she challenged, pulling away and leaning up on her elbow. “I’m sure there are plenty of men my own age who would be willing to finish what you’ve started.” Jay stiffened, and Violet realized that she’d struck a nerve. “What is it?” He shook his head, and Violet thought he might say, “Nothing,” so when he answered, his words caught her off guard. “Is there someone else, Vi?” Violet frowned, baffled by the unfamiliar jealousy she saw on his face. She wondered what in the world he meant as she reached down and smoothed a strand of hair from his forehead. “What are you talking about, Jay?” His eyes met hers. “I saw you with that guy at the movies, Vi. Who was he?” Violet closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready yet. She didn’t want to tell him about the FBI, about Sara and Rafe or what she’d learned about Mike’s mother. She wondered briefly if he knew about Mike’s mom-if his friend had ever confided in him. But somehow she doubted it. Jay wasn’t like her; he didn’t keep secrets. “It’s not like that,” she explained, hoping that would be enough. Jay got up and went to the window, pushing the curtain aside. Every muscle in his body was rigid. “Like what, Vi? What’s going on? Something’s been bothering you lately. Why can’t you tell me?” He was right. She owed it to him to at least try. “I don’t know how to explain, but I just feel like everything’s changed between us-“ “Of course it’s changed, Violet, what’d you expect?” Violet tried to ignore the bitterness in his voice, telling herself she had no right to be hurt. “It used to be that I would never keep secrets from you. You were my best friend. But now that we’re dating, it’s just…different. I feel like I have to watc what I say, or you get all worried. Sometimes I just want you to be the old Jay again, so I can talk to you.” Violet crept up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back.

The glee of it. The ecstasy of It. I can't speak about this It because I know no word. It is just there, It is always there, like death in life. In this instant I know that something terrible is rising that must be seized and turned back upon itself before it twists outward into violence. But that knowing always comes too late, a wild unraveling is under way and I am caught up in it like a coyote seen late one afternoon in an Arkansas tornado-a toy dog spinning skyward, struck white by a ray of sun against black clouds, then black, then white, then gone and lost forever. The wind dies. A dead stillness. Mirror water. That ecstasy that shivered every nerve replaced by the precise knowing that what this self perpetrated is as much a part of the universal will as erupting lava that subsides once more into the inner earth.

consumed books about social policy and the working poor. One book in particular, a study by eminent sociologist William Julius Wilson called The Truly Disadvantaged, struck a nerve. I was sixteen the first time I read it, and though I didn’t fully understand it all, I grasped the core thesis. As millions migrated north to factory jobs, the communities that sprouted up around those factories were vibrant but fragile: When the factories shut their doors, the people left behind were trapped in towns and cities that could no longer support such large populations with high-quality work. Those who could—generally the well educated, wealthy, or well connected—left, leaving behind communities of poor people. These remaining folks were the “truly disadvantaged”—unable to find good jobs on their own and surrounded by communities that offered little in the way of connections or social support.

I consumed books about social policy and the working poor. One book in particular, a study by eminent sociologist William Julius Wilson called The Truly Disadvantaged, struck a nerve. I was sixteen the first time I read it, and though I didn’t fully understand it all, I grasped the core thesis. As millions migrated north to factory jobs, the communities that sprouted up around those factories were vibrant but fragile: When the factories shut their doors, the people left behind were trapped in towns and cities that could no longer support such large populations with high-quality work. Those who could—generally the well educated, wealthy, or well connected—left, leaving behind communities of poor people. These remaining folks were the “truly disadvantaged”—unable to find good jobs on their own and surrounded by communities that offered little in the way of connections or social support. Wilson’s

When he was in college, a famous poet made a useful distinction for him. He had drunk enough in the poet's company to be compelled to describe to him a poem he was thinking of. It would be a monologue of sorts, the self-contemplation of a student on a summer afternoon who is reading Euphues. The poem itself would be a subtle series of euphuisms, translating the heat, the day, the student's concerns, into symmetrical posies; translating even his contempt and boredom with that famously foolish book into a euphuism. The poet nodded his big head in a sympathetic, rhythmic way as this was explained to him, then told him that there are two kinds of poems. There is the kind you write; there is the kind you talk about in bars. Both kinds have value and both are poems; but it's fatal to confuse them. In the Seventh Saint, many years later, it had struck him that the difference between himself and Shakespeare wasn't talent - not especially - but nerve. The capacity not to be frightened by his largest and most potent conceptions, to simply (simply!) sit down and execute them. The dreadful lassitude he felt when something really large and multifarious came suddenly clear to him, something Lear-sized yet sonnet-precise. If only they didn't rush on him whole, all at once, massive and perfect, leaving him frightened and nerveless at the prospect of articulating them word by scene by page. He would try to believe they were of the kind told in bars, not the kind to be written, though there was no way to be sure of this except to attempt the writing; he would raise a finger (the novelist in the bar mirror raising the obverse finger) and push forward his change. Wailing like a neglected ghost, the vast notion would beat its wings into the void. Sometimes it would pursue him for days and years as he fled desperately. Sometimes he would turn to face it, and do battle. Once, twice, he had been victorious, objectively at least. Out of an immense concatenation of feeling, thought, word, transcendent meaning had come his first novel, a slim, pageant of a book, tombstone for his slain conception. A publisher had taken it, gingerly; had slipped it quietly into the deep pool of spring releases, where it sank without a ripple, and where he supposes it lies still, its calm Bodoni gone long since green. A second, just as slim but more lurid, nightmarish even, about imaginary murders in an imaginary exotic locale, had been sold for a movie, though the movie had never been made. He felt guilt for the producer's failure (which perhaps the producer didn't feel), having known the book could not be filmed; he had made a large sum, enough to finance years of this kind of thing, on a book whose first printing was largely returned.

Even for Joan, there was a familiarity, by now, to the workings of the military machine. The noise was deafening. The roar of the Armagnac cannon was answered by artillery blasts from the walls above; whenever a Parisian gunner struck his target, the screams of mutilated horses and men added a nerve-shredding counterpoint to the shouts of the soldiers who toiled in the moat, hurling bundles of wood into the standing water at the bottom in an attempt to build a makeshift pathway to the foot of the walls.

My back hit the wall. He closed in with an almost terrifying intensity. His muscular body boxed me in. “Rogan,” I warned. In my head, a song played over and over, singing to me in a seductive voice, Rogan, Rogan, Rogan, sex . . . want . . . “Remember that dream you had?” His voice was low, commanding. “Rogan!” The delicious warmth danced around my neck. “Where I had no clothes?” The warmth split and slid over me, over the sensitive nerves in the back of my neck, over my collarbone, around my breasts, cupping them and sliding fast to the tips, tightening my nipples, then sliding down, over my stomach, over my sides and butt, down between my legs. It was everywhere at once, and it flowed over me like a cascade of sensual ecstasy, overloading my senses, overriding my reason, and rendering me speechless. I hurtled through it, trying to sort through the sensations and failing. My head spun. He was right there, masculine, hot, sexy, so incredibly sexy, and I wanted to taste him. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted him to press himself against the aching spot between my legs. His arms closed around me. His face was too close, his eyes enticing, compelling, excited. “Let’s talk about that dream, Nevada.” I was trapped. I had nowhere to go. If he kissed me, I would melt right here. I would moan and beg him, and I would have sex with him right here, in the Galleria, in public. A spark of pain drained down my arm, driven by pure instinct. I grabbed his shoulder. Feathery lightning shot out and singed him. Agony exploded in me, cleansing like an ice-cold shower. Rogan’s body jerked, as if struck by an electric current. It lasted only a second, and I didn’t push as hard as I could have. I was learning to control it. Rogan whipped back to me, his eyes feral. His voice was a ragged growl. “Was that supposed to hurt?” “It was supposed to get your attention.” I pushed him back with my hand. “You were getting really excited.” “‘No’ would’ve been sufficient.” “I wasn’t sure.” I pushed from the wall and headed for the exit. “I said ‘once.’ That was more than once. I wanted you to stop.” “I was encouraged by you breathlessly moaning my name.” I spun on my foot. “I wasn’t moaning your name. I was shrieking in alarm.” “That was the sexiest throaty shrieking I’ve ever heard.” “You need to get out more.” My cheeks were burning.

I consumed books about social policy and the working poor. One book in particular, a study by eminent sociologist William Julius Wilson called The Truly Disadvantaged, struck a nerve. I was sixteen the first time I read it, and though I didn’t fully understand it all, I grasped the core thesis. As millions migrated north to factory jobs, the communities that sprouted up around those factories were vibrant but fragile: When the factories shut their doors, the people left behind were trapped in towns and cities that could no longer support such large populations with high-quality work. Those who could—generally the well educated, wealthy, or well connected—left, leaving behind communities of poor people. These remaining folks were the “truly disadvantaged”—unable to find good jobs on their own and surrounded by communities that offered little in the way of connections or social support. Wilson’s book spoke to me. I wanted to write him a letter and tell him that he had described my home perfectly. That it resonated so personally is odd, however, because he wasn’t writing about the hillbilly transplants from Appalachia—he was writing about black people in the inner cities.

His hands came to her wrists, squeezed reflexively, before he got quickly to his feet. "You're mixing things up." Panic arrowed straight into his heart. "I told you sex complicates things." "Yes,you did.And of course since you're the only man I've been with, how could I knew the difference between sex and love? Then again, that doesn't take into account that I'm a smart and self-aware woman, and I know the reason you're the only man I've been with is that you're the only man I've loved.Brian..." She stepped toward him, humor flashing into her eyes when he stepped back. "I've made up my mind.You know how stubborn I am." "I train your father's horses." "So what? My mother groomed them." "That's a different matter." "Why? Oh, because she's a woman.How foolish of me not to realize we can't possibly love each other, build a life with each other.Now if you owned Royal Meadows and I worked here, then it would be all right." "Stop making me sound ridiculous." "I can't." She spread her hands. "You are ridiculous.I love you anyway. Really, I tried to approach it sensibly.I like doing things in a structured order that makes a beeline for the goal.But..." She shrugged, smiled. "It just doesn't want to work that way with you.I look at you and my heart,well, it just insists on taking over.I love you so much,Brian. Can't you tell me? Can't you look at me and tell me?" He skimmed his fingertips over the bruise high on her temple. He wanted to tend to it, to her. "If I did there'd be no going back." "Coward." She watched the heat flash into his eyes,and thought how lovely it was to know him so well. "You won't push me into a corner." Now she laughed. "Watch me," she invited and proceeded to back him up against the steps. "I've figured a lot of things out today,Brian.You're scared of me-of what you feel for me. You were the one always pulling back when we were in public, shifting aside when I'd reach for you.It hurt me." The idea quite simply appalled him. "I never meant to hurt you." "No,you couldn't.How could I help but fall for you? A hard head and a soft heart.It's irresistable. Still, it did hurt. But I thought it was just the snob in you.I didn't realize it was nerves." "I'm not a snob, or a coward." "Put your arms around me.Kiss me. Tell me." "Damn it." he grabbed her shoulders, then simply held on, unable to push her back or draw her in. "It was the first time I saw you, the first instant. You walked in the room and my heart stopped. Like it had been struck by lightning.I was fine until you walked into the room." Her knees wanted to buckle.Hard head, soft heart, and here, suddenly, a staggering sweep of romance. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you make me wait?" "I thought I'd get over it." "Get over it?" Her brow arched up. "Like a head cold?" "Maybe." He set her aside, paced away to stare out at the hills. Keeley closed her eyes, let the breeze ruffle her hair, cool her cheeks. When the calm descended, she opened her eyes and smiled. "A good strong head cold's tough to shake off.

Eccles had reached for him, it felt like, out of the ground. The minister’s voice had sounded tinny and buried. Ruth’s bedroom is dim; the streetlamp like a low moon burns shadows into the inner planes of the armchair, the burdened bed, the twisted sheet he tossed back finally when he realized the phone would never stop. The bright rose window of the church opposite is still lit: purple red blue gold like the notes of different bells struck. His body, his whole frame of nerves and bone, tingles, as if with the shaking of small bells hung up and down his silver skin. His spent groin tingles. He wonders if he had been asleep, and how long, ten minutes or five hours. He finds his underclothes and trousers draped on a chair and fumbles with them; his white shirt seems to crawl, like a cluster of glowworms in grass. He hesitates a second before poking

He paused and eyed her as if she were an agate discovered in gravel. "But what a very sharp tongue you have for a housekeeper." Bridget's heart sank- she knew better than to speak so frankly. It was never good for a servant to be noticed by a master- particularly this master. "Come." He beckoned her closer with his forefinger and she saw the flash of a jeweled gold ring on his left thumb. She swallowed and opened her right hand, silently dropping the miniature to the lush carpet. As she walked toward him she nudged the little painting under the enormous bed with the side of her foot. She stopped a pace away from him. His lips curved, sly and sensual. "Closer." She stepped nearer until her plain, practical black linsey-woolsey skirts were crushed against his purple velvet knees. Her heart beat hard and swift, but she was confident her expression didn't show her fear. Still smiling, he held out his hands, palms upward. His hands were long-fingered and elegant. The hands of a musician- or a swordsman. She stared down at them a moment, confused. He quirked an eyebrow and nodded. Bridget placed her hands on top of his. Palm to palm. She expected searing heat or deathly cold and was a little surprised to instead feel human warmth. She'd been hired little more than a fortnight before the duke had supposedly been banished. In that time he had never struck her as human- or humane. "Ah," His Grace murmured, cocking his head with interest. "What feminine hands you have, despite your station in life." His blue eyes flashed at her from under dark eyelashes, a secretive smile playing about his mouth. She met his gaze stonily. His lips quirked and he looked down again. "Small, plump, with neat, round nails." He turned her hands over so that they now rested palms-up in his. "I once knew a Greek girl who swore she could read a man's life story from the lines on his hands." He dropped her left hand to trace the lines on her right palm with a forefinger. His touch sent a frisson along her nerves and Bridget couldn't hold back a shudder.

It was just a simple meeting of the eyes. There was nothing to it. She had done so with countless people. And she had stared at his eyes before, back at the cinema. But there was something different at that exact time, in that exact situation, with exactly the same person. It was like being struck by lightning. Sudden, electric, paralyzing. And she knew he felt it too. For some inexplicable reason, they both found themselves unable to look away, powerless to deny the pull. Hypnotized by each other’s brown irises, without knowing nor caring who wielded the magic wand of trance which put them into some kind of conscious stupor. While the world and everything in it faded in the background and the noises outside were hushed, Alex was achingly aware of herself. Of how drawn she was to the deep, swirling pools of dark honey staring into her soul, magnetic and mystic at the same time. Of how every nerve and every cell of her body were ablaze, tongues of flame flittering over them, singeing her with a torturous warmth. Of the blaring sound of her pulse pounding heavily beneath the onslaught of his sensual thumb. It was a scintillating torment she didn’t want to end.

Does your husband dictate where you can and cannot go?” The woman looked as though she expected to be proven right. “My husband would never do that.” Rose informed her coolly. “Although there will always be unsavory characters at any social gathering, my husband trusts me to decide the ones I wish to attend.” The woman flushed, and Rose felt a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing that her barb had struck a nerve. “If that’s true, he must have changed immensely since the days when we were acquainted.” Ahh. Now the claws came out. No wonder the woman had made such vile aspirations earlier. She was jealous. “He has.” Rose held the other woman’s gaze, not caring a whit for how she said the word “acquainted.” This woman had slept with her husband, and oddly enough she wasn’t the least bit jealous. She did, however, feel sorry for the woman because Grey had been a different man back then. “My husband is very attentive and courteous to my wishes. I couldn’t be more satisfied with my situation.” Oh God, had she actually said that? The innuendo practically stood up on its own and waved to everyone in the room. What was it about Grey-no, about this woman-that made her feel as though she had to defend her marriage, and brag about her sex life? It was just so pretty. “You were once a friend of the duke’s, were you not, Lady Devane?” The woman-whose name Rose could not remember-slanted a devious glance in the blonde woman’s direction. Everyone looked at Lady Devane, because everyone knew the rumors and everyone wanted to see not only Rose’s reaction, but Lady Devane’s as well. Vultures. Eve pressed her knee against Rose’s, giving her some well-needed support. “I was, Lady Gosling,” Lady Devane replied smoothly. “But that was a long time ago, back when he was a man who never thought to marry.” She smiled at Rose. “And then he met the one woman who could tempt him. I believe you must be an extraordinary woman, Your Grace.” Rose could have kissed her, for in that one moment, the woman who could have easily become her enemy proved herself a friend. And not only a friend, but she let every woman in that room know what she thought of their vicious tongues. “Thank you, Lady Devane.” Rose flashed a genuine smile. “But I feel that I am the fortunate one.” Lady Gosling-what a ridiculous title!-said nothing. Tight-lipped, she turned away and went off in search of other prey. Yes, Rose thought, as Eve discreetly squeezed her hand and whispered, “Old hag,” she was fortunate. But Grey was obviously the smarter of the two of them, because he had enough sense to stay the hell at home.

Chronic anxiety is systemic; it is deeper and more embracing than community nervousness. Rather than something that resides within the psyche of each one, it is something that can envelope, if not actually connect, people. It is a regressive emotional process that is quite different from the more familiar, acute anxiety we experience over specific concerns. Its expression is not dependent on time or events, even though specific happenings could seem to trigger it, and it has a way of reinforcing its own momentum. Chronic anxiety might be compared to the volatile atmosphere of a room filled with gas fumes, where any sparking incident could set off a conflagration, and where people would then blame the person who struck the match rather trying to disperse the fumes. The issues over which chronically anxious systems become concerned, therefore, are more likely to be the focus of their anxiety rather than its cause. This is why, for example, counselors, educators, and consultants who offer technical solutions for how to manage whatever brought the family in—conflict, money, parents, children, aging, sex—will rarely succeed in changing that family in any fundamental way. The anxiety that drives the problem simply switches to another focus. Assuming that what a family is worried about is what is “causing” its anxiety is tantamount to blaming a blown-away tree or house for attracting the tornado that uprooted it. As

Didn’t you ever notice that whatever you wanted or whatever you set out to do, Cora wanted to do it too?” Noah asked. “She wasn’t like that.” “She was, Mer. And it’s okay to admit it. One of the hardest things about Cora dying is that everyone wants to erase her—the real Cora. They talk about her as though she were perfect. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t talk ill of the dead,’ people say. But if we aren’t truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren’t really remembering them. We’re creating someone who didn’t exist. Cora loved you. She loved me. But what she did was not okay. And I’m pissed off about it.” Mercedes reeled back, stunned. “Geez, Noah. Tell me how you really feel. She still deserves our compassion,” she rebuked. He nodded. “Everyone deserves compassion. And I know suicide isn’t always a conscious act. Most of the time it’s sheer desperation. It’s a moment of weakness that we can’t come back from. But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to. I expect more of my patients, and when I expect more—lovingly, patiently—they tend to rise to that expectation. Maybe not all the way up, but they rise. They improve because I believe they can, and I believe they must. My mom was sick. But she didn’t try hard enough to get better. She found a way to cope—and that’s important—but she never varied from it. Life has to be more than coping. It has to be.” Mercedes nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to his impassioned face. She’d struck a nerve, and he wasn’t finished. “I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.” Mercedes was silent, studying his handsome face, his tight shoulders, and his clenched fists. He was weary, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t wrong. “Begets?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what beget means.” “In the Bible, beget means to give birth to. I wouldn’t mind giving birth to a diamond,” she mused. “You ruin all my best lectures.” There was silence from the kitchen. Silence was not good. “Gia?” Noah called. “What, Daddy?” she answered sweetly. “Are you pooping in your new princess panties?” “No. Poopin’ in box.” “What box?” His voice rose in horror. “Kitty box.” Noah was on his feet, racing toward the kitchen. Mercedes followed. Gia was naked—her Cinderella panties abandoned in the middle of the floor—and perched above the new litter box. “No!” Noah roared in horror, scooping her up and marching to the toilet. “Maybe it won’t be a turd, Noah. Maybe Gia will beget a diamond,” Mercedes chirped, trying not to laugh. “I blame you, Mer!” he called from the bathroom. “She was almost potty-trained, and now she wants to be a cat!

To this day, I am still not sure what it was about Chip Gaines that made me give him a second chance--because, basically, our first date was over before it even started. I was working at my father’s Firestone automotive shop the day we first met. I’d worked as my dad’s office manager through my years at Baylor University and was perfectly happy working there afterward while I tried to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. The smell of tires, metal, and grease--that place was like a second home to me, and the guys in the shop were all like my big brothers. On this particular afternoon, they all started teasing me. “You should go out to the lobby, Jo. There’s a hot guy out there. Go talk to him!” they said. “No,” I said. “Stop it! I’m not doing that.” I was all of twenty-three, and I wasn’t exactly outgoing. She was a bit awkward--no doubt about that. I hadn’t dated all that much, and I’d never had a serious relationship--nothing that lasted longer than a month or two. I’d always been an introvert and still am (believe it or not). I was also very picky, and I just wasn’t the type of girl who struck up conversations with guys I didn’t know. I was honestly comfortable being single; I didn’t think that much of it. “Who is this guy, anyway?” I asked, since they all seemed to know him for some reason. “Oh, they call him Hot John,” someone said, laughing. Hot John? There was no way I was going out in that lobby to strike up a conversation with some guy called Hot John. But the guys wouldn’t let up, so I finally said, “Fine.” I gathered up a few things from my desk (in case I needed a backup plan) and rounded the corner into the lobby. I quickly realized that Hot John was pretty good-looking. He’d obviously just finished a workout--he was dressed head-to-toe in cycling gear and was just standing there, innocently waiting on someone from the back. I tried to think about what I might say to strike up a conversation when I got close enough and quickly settled on the obvious topic: cycling. But just as that thought raced through my head, he looked up from his magazine and smiled right at me. Crap, I thought. I completely lost my nerve. I kept on walking right past him and out the lobby’s front door. When I reached the safety of my dad’s outdoor waiting area, I realized just how bad I’d needed the fresh air. I sat on a chair a few down from another customer and immediately started laughing at myself. Did I really just do that?

On the topic of drinking and jollying, I would like to congratulate you on the birth of your new child…” A sinister smile crossed his face. His words struck a nerve within the king and queen, which might as well have been his intention. “Our twins, you mean. Two lovely girls,” Mary clarified. “Apologies. My mistake,” the old man chuckled. “That’s wonderful news. Twins – twice the fun. I will definitely drink to that.

Donald Trump’s foreign policy was framed by his hostility to Western democratic leaders and a bizarre attraction to former KGB agent and current Russian president Vladimir Putin. Trump let pass no opportunity to undermine NATO, a bulwark against Russian aggression since its founding. Trump also, in effect, ceded Syria to Putin, giving Russia its first beachhead in the Middle East since 1973. And his constant attacks on America’s most faithful ally during the Cold War, Germany, led to the American president playing into Russia’s hands again by withdrawing troops from the country. While Trump’s “America First” theme initially struck a nerve with voters, his ignorance of history and lack of diplomatic skill prevented

Apparently, I struck a chord somewhere. An open nerve.... "No, the nerve was how recognizable it was. Every parent's nightmare. Children who look normal in a school picture may turn out to be killers.

Because I am a gentleman. And I’ll respect her wishes, even when I don’t like them. I clearly struck a nerve. So, I urge my horse into a jog and offer her a casual tip of my hat on the way past.

Most important, having traits of a personality disorder doesn’t necessarily mean that a person meets the criteria for an official diagnosis. From time to time—on a doozy of a bad day or when pushed until a fragile nerve is struck—everyone exhibits a tad of this or that personality disorder, because each is rooted in the very human wish for self-preservation, acceptance, and safety. (If you don’t think this applies to you, just ask your spouse or best friend.) In other words, just as I always try to see the whole person and not just the snapshot, I also try to see the underlying struggle and not just the five-digit diagnosis code I can put on an insurance form. If I rely on that code too much, I start to see every aspect of the treatment through this lens, which interferes with forming a real relationship with the unique individual sitting in front of me. John may be narcissistic, but he’s also just . . . John.

What? No. I'm not just saying this because you nearly died, Max. I'm saying it because I mean it. I've meant it for ages and just struggled to say it out loud because—" "Because the last person you said it to died?" His words were quiet, but they struck a nerve as sure as a sharp blade. He was right. The last person I'd loved had died—brutally and just six feet away as I cowered in a closet and cried silently.

The story of Blue 52 roaming the oceans, singing its own deep-sea version of a high lonesome, has struck a nerve with a great many individuals. And it’s no wonder. Its loneliness touches the loneliness we sometimes feel when we’re sending signals into the void.

I consumed books about social policy and the working poor. One book in particular, a study by eminent sociologist William Julius Wilson called The Truly Disadvantaged, struck a nerve. I was sixteen the first time I read it, and though I didn’t fully understand it all, I grasped the core thesis. As millions migrated north to factory jobs, the communities that sprouted up around those factories were vibrant but fragile: When the factories shut their doors, the people left behind were trapped in towns and cities that could no longer support such large populations with high-quality work. Those who could—generally the well educated, wealthy, or well connected—left, leaving behind communities of poor people. These remaining folks were the “truly disadvantaged”—unable to find good jobs on their own and surrounded by communities that offered little in the way of connections or social support.

We remained thus motionless for more than half a minute in a silence broken only by his blasphemous mutterings. Then, quite suddenly, he stood up and began to flash his lantern on the stairs and about the hall until at length its light fell full on my face which was within a foot of his own. And at that apparition he uttered a most singular cry, like that of a young goat, and started back. Another moment and he would have raised his pistol arm, but I had foreseen this and was beforehand with him. Even as his hand rose, the concussor struck the outer side of his arm, between the shoulder and the elbow, on the exact spot where the musculo-spiral nerve turns round the bone. The effect was most interesting. The sudden nerve stimulus produced an equally sudden contraction of the extensors. The forearm straightened with a jerk, the fingers shot out straight and the released revolver flew clattering along the hall floor.

The surviving burglar stood petrified, stooping over his comrade, with the lantern in one shaking hand and the revolver still grasped in the other; and as he stood, he poured out, in a curious, whimpering undertone, an unending torrent of incoherent blasphemies, as appears to be the habit of that type of man when frightened. I stepped silently behind him and looked over his shoulder at the expiring criminal, speculating on what he would do next. At the moment he was paralyzed and imbecile with terror, and I had a strong inclination to dispatch him then and there; but the same odd impulse that I had noticed on the last occasion constrained me to dally with him. Again I was possessed by a strange, savage playfulness like that which impels a cat or leopard to toy daintily and tenderly with its prey for a while before the final scrunch. "We remained thus motionless for more than half a minute in a silence broken only by his blasphemous mutterings. Then, quite suddenly, he stood up and began to flash his lantern on the stairs and about the hall until at length its light fell full on my face which was within a foot of his own. And at that apparition he uttered a most singular cry, like that of a young goat, and started back. Another moment and he would have raised his pistol arm, but I had foreseen this and was beforehand with him. Even as his hand rose, the concussor struck the outer side of his arm, between the shoulder and the elbow, on the exact spot where the musculo-spiral nerve turns round the bone. The effect was most interesting. The sudden nerve stimulus produced an equally sudden contraction of the extensors. The forearm straightened with a jerk, the fingers shot out straight and the released revolver flew clattering along the hall floor. "Anatomy has its uses even in a midnight scuffle.

I rolled my hands along the sides of the coffee cup, busying myself, steadying my nerves. “I’m listening.” “So, I don’t actually live in New York. I live in L.A.” My eyes flew up to his. “Oh. I didn’t know that.” I tried not to sound disappointed. He had the Viper booked every Tuesday, but I supposed that didn’t mean that he was actually present every week. So how often was he in town? As if reading my mind, he said, “I’m here every week. For work. I take a red-eye to New York on Monday, and Thursday night I take a red-eye back.” Thank the Lord. While I was curious about what he did for a living that had him working on two coasts, it was another part of his statement that struck me. “But today is Friday.” “I skipped my flight last night.” My stomach flipped. “Why?” “For you.” I

I had not yet gotten around to the sociobiologist E. O. Wilson’s Consilience. When I did read it, I discovered on page 286 that people follow religion because it is “easier” than empiricism. That struck a nerve, and provoked a response I shall be candid enough to report. Mr. Wilson: When you have endured an eight-day O-sesshin in a Zen monastery, sitting cross-legged and motionless for twelve hours a day and allowed only three and one-half hours of sleep each night until sleep and dream deprivation bring on a temporary psychosis (my own nondescript self); When you have attended four “rains retreats” at the Insight Buddhist Meditation Center in Barre, Massachusetts, for a total of one complete year of no reading, no writing, no speaking, and eyes always downcast (my wife); When you have almost died from the austerities you underwent before you attained enlightenment under a bo tree in India; When you have been crucified on Golgatha; When you have been thrown to lions in the Roman coliseum; When you have been in a concentration camp and held on to some measure of dignity through your faith; When you have given your life to providing a dignified death for homeless, destitute women gathered from the streets of Calcutta (Mother Teresa), or played out her counterpart with the poor in New York City (Dorothy Day); When, Mr. Wilson, you have undergone any one of these trials, it will then be time to talk about the ease of religion as compared with the ardors of empiricism.

4. The Third Step in the Mental Training. To be the lord of mind is more essential to Enlightenment, which, in a sense, is the clearing away of illusions, the putting out of mean desires and passions, and the awakening of the innermost wisdom. He alone can attain to real happiness who has perfect control over his passions tending to disturb the equilibrium of his mind. Such passions as anger, hatred, jealousy, sorrow, worry, grudge, and fear always untune one's mood and break the harmony of one's mind. They poison one's body, not in a figurative, but in a literal sense of the word. Obnoxious passions once aroused never fail to bring about the physiological change in the nerves, in the organs, and eventually in the whole constitution, and leave those injurious impressions that make one more liable to passions of similar nature. We do not mean, however, that we ought to be cold and passionless, as the most ancient Hinayanists were used to be. Such an attitude has been blamed by Zen masters. "What is the best way of living for us monks?" asked a monk to Yun Ku (Un-go), who replied: "You had better live among mountains." Then the monk bowed politely to the teacher, who questioned: "How did you understand me?" "Monks, as I understood," answered the man, "ought to keep their hearts as immovable as mountains, not being moved either by good or by evil, either by birth or by death, either by prosperity or by adversity." Hereupon Yun Ku struck the monk with his stick and said: "You forsake the Way of the old sages, and will bring my followers to perdition!" Then, turning to another monk, inquired: "How did you understand me?" "Monks, as I understand," replied the man, "ought to shut their eyes to attractive sights and close their ears to musical notes." "You, too," exclaimed Yun Ka, "forsake the Way of the old sages, and will bring my followers to perdition!" An old woman, to quote another example repeatedly told by Zen masters, used to give food and clothing to a monk for a score of years. One day she instructed a young girl to embrace and ask him: "How do you feel now?" "A lifeless tree," replied the monk coolly, "stands on cold rock. There is no warmth, as if in the coldest season of the year." The matron, being told of this, observed: "Oh that I have made offerings to such a vulgar fellow for twenty years!" She forced the monk to leave the temple and reduced it to ashes.[FN#238]

The travelers after leaving Tlou’s village, where De Villers and his friends were hiding, took a rest under a shady tree at the foot of a hill, where they fell asleep. On awakening they beheld half a dozen Matebele emerging from a thicket in the depression below their hiding place. Naturally, the sight struck terror in them. For a moment they knew not what to do. But the younger man, more resourceful than Lepane, suggested to the elder that they were less likely to be seen if they hid in separate places. So advising Lepane to press close up to the tree-trunk he crawled through the grass and the bushes to find another hiding place. This plan might have worked very well had not Lepane’s nerves unfortunately given way at the near approach of the foe. Terror-stricken, Lepane before being bescried shrieked aloud. ‘Oh, spare me!’ he cried. ‘I will tell you of some undesireable persons in King Mzilikazi’s country. Just let me live, I tell you, I am not alone.’ ‘He’s a liar!’ shouted his astonished companion from the bush hard by: ‘Kill him, he’s alone.’ [128 – 129]

Don’t shoot,” Tom cautioned again. “That brave in the lead has a crooked lance with a white flag. Whatever it is they’re wantin’, it ain’t a fight. You speak any Comanch’?” “Not a word,” Henry replied. “I don’t know much. If they do a lot of tradin’, they can probably talk English, but if they don’t--all we can do is hope my Injun will get us by.” Tom spat a glob of chew onto Rachel’s bleached floor. Then he bellowed, “What do you want?” Loretta’s nerves were strung so taut, she leaped. Nausea surged into her throat as the brown tobacco juice soaked into the floor. Was she losing her mind? Who cared if the puncheon got stained? Before this was over, the house might be burned to the ground. She heard Rachel crying, a soft, irregular whimpering. Terror. The metallic taste of it shriveled her tongue. “What brings you here?” Tom cried again. “Hites!” a deep voice called back. “We come as friends, White-Eyes.” The lead warrior moved some twenty feet in front of his comrades, holding the crooked lance high so the dusty white rag was clearly visible. He sat proudly on his black stallion, gleaming brown shoulders straight, leather-sheathed legs pressed snugly to his mount. A rush of wind lifted his mahogany hair, wisping it across his bronzed, sharply chiseled face. Loretta’s first thought when she saw him was that he seemed different from the others. A closer look told her why. He was unquestionably a half-breed, taller on horseback than the rest, lighter-skinned. If not for his sun-darkened complexion and long hair, he might have passed for a white man. Everything else about him was savage, though, from the cruel sneer on his mouth to the expert way he balanced on his horse, as if he and the animal were one entity. Tom Weaver stiffened. “Son of a--Henry, you know who that is?” “I was hopin’ I was wrong.” Loretta inched closer to get a better look. Then it hit her. Hunter. She had heard his name whispered with dread, heard tales. But until this moment she hadn’t believed he existed. A blue-eyed half-breed, one of the most cunning and treacherous adversaries the U.S. Army had run across. Now that the war had pitted North against South, the homesteaders had no cavalry to keep Hunter and his marauders at bay, and his raiders struck ever deeper into settled country, advancing east. Some claimed he was far more dangerous than a full-blooded Comanche because he had a white man’s intelligence. As vicious as he was, there were stories that he spared women and children. Whether that was coincidence, design, or a lie some Indian lover had dreamed up, no one knew. Loretta opted for the latter.

I'll ring for someone to take my hair down." The tremor in her voice grew stronger and struck both a primal and protective chord in him. "No." He held up his hand to keep her from crossing to the bell at the door. The idea of someone invading their privacy was actually physically painful for him. "I'll do it." "Take my hair down?" Her eyes widened. "You?" Nodding, he motioned to the dressing table. She sat and he found himself staring down at the crown of black satin that was her elaborate hairstyle. Had he ever taken a woman's hair down? He didn't think so, but the scent of lavender that seemed to hang around her addled his mind and filled his senses until he couldn't have moved if she paid him good money. Slowly, he eased his fingers into her hair and she let out a long sigh as he massaged her scalp. "Did I hurt you?" he asked, surprised he could breathe, let alone speak. "N-No." In the mirror, her eyes darkened and dilated. If that was her reaction to his touch, he planned to take her hair down each and every night. With trembling fingers, he set about finding the pins. Finally, her hair cascaded down her back in a long, flowing cloak. It wafted out sweetness as a few strands brushed his legs and fell to her hips. He might have believed he'd died and was in heaven if he weren't so aware of his body's sinful reactions to touching her. "Brush," he requested softly. She complied with shaking hands. Stroke by stroke, he glided the brush bristles through her hair- gently, so as not to hurt her, he smoothed the waves. How had he not known how erotic a woman's hair could be? He prided himself on his experience, but for the first time in a long time, he questioned his prowess. It affected her, too. In the mirror he could see her shut her eyes, and apparently try to bite back soft moans each time his hands weaved through her hair. Triumph coursed through his every nerve and vein.

I have been struck by how families, corporations, and other kinds of institutions are constantly trying to cure their own chronic ills through amputations, “strong medicine,” transfusions, and other forms of surgery, only to find that, even when successful for the moment, the excised tumor returns several years later in “cells” that never knew the “cells” that left.

Have I told you yet just how handsome you look tonight?” He grinned, her stilted attempt at flirtation so out of character that he knew she was flustered. “Are you flirting with me, Mrs. McClare?” he asked with a jut of his brow, laughing out loud when her cheeks fused bright pink. He neatly executed a wide spin, as fluid as if they were one. “And have I ever told you just how adorable you are when you’re nervous?” “I am not nervous,” she said with a thrust of her chin, a flicker of a smile at the edge of her lips. A familiar spark in those mesmerizing green eyes told him he’d struck a nerve. “Ah, now there’s the Caitlyn I know and love.” Palm grazing her shoulder blade, he swept her in a wide arc, her body as graceful and light as the chiffon folds of her dress as they fluttered in the breeze. His smile faded to tender. “This is me, Cait, remember?” he said quietly. “No need to be nervous.” She

His first suspicion came shortly after they were working on their new game for Softdisk, a ninja warrior title called Shadow Knights. Al had never seen a side scrolling like this for the PC. “Wow,” he told Carmack, “you should patent this technology.” Carmack turned red. “If you ever ask me to patent anything,” he snapped, “I’ll quit.” Al assumed Carmack was trying to protect his own financial interests, but in reality he had struck what was growing into an increasingly raw nerve for the young, idealistic programmer. It was one of the few things that could truly make him angry. It was ingrained in his bones since his first reading of the Hacker Ethic. All of science and technology and culture and learning and academics is built upon using the work that others have done before, Carmack thought. But to take a patenting approach and say it’s like, well, this idea is my idea, you cannot extend this idea in any way, because I own this idea—it just seems so fundamentally wrong. Patents were jeopardizing the very thing that was central to his life: writing code to solve problems. If the world became a place in which he couldn’t solve a problem without infringing on someone’s patents, he would be very unhappy living there.

Why is he not here with you now?” Rose shrugged. “He has his duties in Parliament. But he has written to me often. I received a letter just last week.” “Did you, then? And I suppose he’s come to visit you as well?” There was a shadowed look in her eyes. “No. But truthfully, I didn’t want him to visit. Not when I am like this.” Her face grew somber, as if she was embarrassed by her inability to walk. Although he understood her reluctance, he felt compelled to point out, “If I were betrothed to a beautiful woman who fell ill, the demons of hell couldn’t keep me away from her.” “It’s different between Lord Burkham and me. It’s more formal, as is befitting a viscount.” It sounded to Iain as if Lord Too-Busy-Burkham wasn’t at all worthy of a woman like Rose. “Don’t you resent him for staying away?” “Not at all.” She behaved as if nothing was wrong. Yet, Iain sensed that he’d struck a nerve. Her expression remained serene, but in her eyes there was a hint of worry. Iain

Moments later, a particularly harsh scream came from above, followed by the thin, lusty wail of a child.  Charles dropped his glass and bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time as he sprinted to his wife's aid. In his wake, Gareth and Lucien merely exchanged amused glances. "A girl," said Gareth.  "I'll bet you ten pounds on it." "No, no, Gareth.  It will be a boy.  It has to be a boy.  I hope to God it's a boy, since it seems that the next heir to Blackheath is going to have to come down through Charles, not me." "Come now, Luce, you have plenty of time to marry and get an heir of your own." Lucien arched a brow.  "What, and put myself through the hell that you two go through every time you become a father?  I think not . . ." Upstairs, Charles was running headlong down the corridor toward the closed door of Amy's room.  Nerissa stood just outside, arms folded, barring his way.  She saw his panicked face, his wild eyes, as from behind the door, the baby's wailing intensified.  "Really, Charles.  Are you all right?" "Never mind me, are they all right?!" His sister smiled with infuriating sweetness.  "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?" He lunged for the door. Nerissa grabbed the handle, laughing.  "Ah!  Sedately, brother dear!"  He willed himself to calm down, his hands, his body, his very nerves, shaking.  His throat felt dry and he feared his knees were going to give out and he had to take several gulping breaths to get himself under control. Nerissa, smiling, opened the door. And there was Amy, propped up on pillows, her face pale, wan, exhausted — radiant.  Juliet stood beside the bed, sponging her brow and grinning as the midwife wrapped the tiny, squalling bundle in a blanket and placed it on Amy's chest.  The old woman raised her head as she saw the lord of Lynmouth standing there, looking as though the gods had just struck him to stone with a bolt of lightning. "Congratulations, m'lord.  You 'ave a little girl." Charles

He raised her hand to his cheek and the warmth of his skin and the roughness of his stubble chased along her nerves. Fear struck her hard. Every one of his gestures was pushing a wedge between her and that part of herself that kept her safe. He was like a forbidden book, like a glance through a prison window at rolling hills and a gleaming sea beyond. One could not unsee, unread, unfeel such things. He was now part of her.

For example, having been in the rare position of working in the fields of both healing and management, I could not help but notice that the batting average in the war on cancer and the batting average in the struggle to heal chronically troubled institutions are remarkably similar, with cancer perhaps a little ahead. I have been struck by how families, corporations, and other kinds of institutions are constantly trying to cure their own chronic ills through amputations, “strong medicine,” transfusions, and other forms of surgery only to find that, even when successful for the moment, the excised tumor returns several years later in “cells” that never knew the “cells” that left. “New blood” rarely thwarts malignant processes, anywhere. Indeed, with both cancer and institutions, malignant cells that appear to be dead can often revive if they receive new nourishment. Or, to put the problem another way, when we say something has gone into remission, where do we think it has gone?

GV-26 Chinese Point name: Shui Gou;29 English translation: “Water Trough;” Special Attributes: It is the intersection point of the Large Intestine Meridian and the Governing Vessel. It is also listed as one of the 36 Vital Points in the Bubishi; Location: Below in the nose and a little above the midpoint of the philtrum; Western Anatomy: The superior labial artery and vein, the buccal branch of the facial nerve, and a branch of the infraorbital nerve are present; Comments: This point can be struck or pinched. In a situation in which it is necessary to control an individual GV-26 can be pinched between the thumb and the forefinger with great effect. A strike should be aimed upward at a 45-degree angle. This strike, if thrown with force, will also hit GV-25.

CV-17 Chinese Point name: Shan Zhong;20 English translation: “Chest Center;” Special Attributes: Intersection Point of the Spleen, Small Intestine, Triple Warmer and the Conception Vessel. Additionally, it is the alarm point for the Pericardium Meridian; Location: On the centerline of the body on the same level as the nipples; Western Anatomy: Branches of the internal mammary artery and vein are found with the anterior cutaneous branch of the fourth intercostal nerve; Comments: This is a major point of interest to combative martial artists. A blow to CV-17 can affect the electrical pattern of the heart resulting in arrhythmia. Western science refers to this as Commotio cordis and it is documented with strikes to the chest as in a baseball striking the chest of a child. While interviewing a former infantry point man who served in Vietnam confirmation was added to the lethality of a strike to CV-17. According to this individual, a life-long karate practitioner, while he was walking point one night he actually bumped into an enemy soldier who was traveling down the same trail from the opposite direction. The American struck the Viet Cong with a strong punch to CV-17 killing him instantly. His small frame combined with the larger stature of the American allowed for a perfect 45-degree strike (strikes to CV-17 should be downward at a 45-degree angle). These strikes will generally be open palm or hammer fist type strikes given the height of an average sized opponent and the location of the point. Additional energetic disruption can be added by rotating your striking hand outward on contact.

The Yin Heel Vessel starts at KI-6 on the inside of the heel and ascends the inside of the leg until it enters the genital area. From there it continues on an internal path through the abdomen and chest. It emerges again at ST-12 and then continues up the throat, at ST-9, and intersects with the Yang Heel Vessel and the Bladder Meridian at BL-1. It then branches into the brain.4 Yin Heel Vessel Point Descriptions KI-6 Chinese Point name: Zhao Hai;5 English translation: “Shining Sea;” Special Attributes: This bilateral point is an intersection point for the Yin Heel Vessel and the Kidney Meridian. It is one of the 36 Vital Points listed in the Bubishi; Location: About one inch below the inside of the anklebone; and is bilateral. Western Anatomy: The posterior tibial artery and vein and the medial crural cutaneous nerve are present; Comments: This point can be struck, with a number of other points, with low sweeping kicks to the inside of the lower leg and foot. Additionally, once an opponent has become prone on the ground this point can be stomped.

All across the state of California, the big growers are taking advantage of the people who work for them. The migrants coming into the state are so desperate to feed their families, they’ll take any wage. There are more than seventy thousand homeless people between here and Bakersfield. Children are dying in the squatters’ camps at a rate of two a day, from malnutrition or disease. It’s not right. Not in America. I don’t care if there is a Depression. Enough is enough. It’s up to us to help them. We have to get them to join the Workers Alliance and stand up for their rights.” There was a roar of approval from the crowd. Loreda nodded. His words struck a nerve with her, made her think for the first time, We don’t have to take this. “Now is the time, comrades. The government won’t help these people. It is up to us. We have to convince the workers to stand up. Rise up. Use any means at our disposal to stop big business from crushing the workers and taking advantage of them. We must stand together and fight this capitalist injustice. We will fight for the migrant workers here and in the Central Valley, help them organize into unions and battle for better wages. The time … is now!

Leonard grew up to be an activist, traveling the globe for Greenpeace. Along the way, she made a short film about pollution and garbage called The Story of Stuff in hopes of teaching people about the consequences of buying and discarding more things than we truly need. It struck a nerve, a big one, and the video has now been viewed online at least 25 million times. The film became a book and evolved into a nonprofit organization. Stephen Colbert had her on his show and referred to her film as a “craze.” Children eventually joined

of the Shroud since its existence.” This struck a nerve with Dolan. “I was told you would not be taking any physical samples from the image areas on the Shroud. Is this true?” Dolan had read in his briefing about the painstaking detail the project team had gone through to define which sections of the Shroud were off limits. It had taken a few years to define them. Everyone agreed that no samples of any kind would be taken within a six-inch outline of the central figure

That Tyler human had the nerve to think that you were one of us, Governor,’ said Blanc. ‘Crazy.’ The Governor stared at them in the flickering blue light, struck dumb with terror.

him leap now, bargain and knives forgotten. Fip fluted a farewell, and Blade absently lifted a hand in response, his attention focused on the leashed energy all but vibrating through Ichys. She said nothing while they cleared the maze of stalls and merchants, and still nothing as they made their way through the twisting halls of Whispering Fear’s den. Once they’d reached Ichys’s alcove, she shoved him down on their shared nest of cushions and fabric, and closed them inside. He was fairly sure this meant neither attack, nor that he’d been found out, nor that she’d simply needed to mate, and so he waited, watching the surge of nerves and emotions ripple through her. “The simplest way to join a clan is by being taken as a mate,” she said, pacing in the small space, her eyes fixed on his. “I would hardly call it simple, if done properly,” he demurred, wondering if she was about to ask him something formal. Wondering what he would say if she did. “No jokes.” She waved at him impatiently, paced two more paths through the alcove, then came to a stop and took a breath. “I’m pregnant.” Shock struck, his every claw briefly extended, ears flattened in confusion. He stared back at her for several long moments, not a single thought moving through his usually busy mind. Then he realized the import, and moved, launching across the room, stopping just short of her, and winding his body around hers. “I did it all to secure a life with Whispering Fear,” he said in her ear, taking the buffet of her front leg against his head as his due for such a ridiculous comment. He wanted, more than anything, to tell his dama, and to see Susa’s face brighten in that Human way it had when they had unbearably good news. The inability to do so, to not even discuss Susa with Ichys, made him want to leave the room, find Dirrys, and bury his claws

Suddenly the thought struck MacVeagh: President (Mark) Hollenbach must not be allowed to go into the conference with Zuchek (Russian premier). My God, Mark might be capable of anything. Who knew what Zuchek, a patient, steel-nerved negotiator, utterly devoted to Russia’s self-interest, vs Hollenbach, whose once brilliant mind now was obsessed with fancied tormentors and played like a child’s with the toy blocks of destiny.

Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously collecting for something … yes, that would be it.

Sometimes a struck nerve was more telling than the words a person said out loud.

It was a simple arrangement! It wasn’t like we signed in blood or something, which was evident since you’ve changed the terms. And besides, it sounds like this is more about you than me. It’s your duty that’s important to you, your ability to control those around you, and not my actual safety that’s so critical.” His nostrils flared, and I got the sense I’d struck a nerve.

Email: spartantech (@) cyberservices . c o m  OR  support (@) spartantechgroupretrieval . o r gWebsite: h t t p s : / / spartantechgroupretrieval . o r gWhatsApp:+1 ( 9 7 1 )  4 8 7- 3 53 8Telegram:+1 ( 5 8 1 )  2 8 6 - 8 0 9 2I Thought It Was All Over! It is my responsibility to handle our finances at home as my wife courageously serves in the armed forces. I had accrued our Bitcoin reserves discreetly during the past several years to $180,000 via cautious trading, my modest contribution towards our future. It was going to be our nest egg when she came home. But one insane morning, disaster struck. I was juggling breakfast, emails, and a diaper change when our toddler, energized by endless enthusiasm and chaos, hit high speed. In the blink of an eye, his little hands grabbed my coffee cup and hurled it across the room. Hot coffee splashed over my laptop, sizzling as it crept into the keys. I jumped to grab it, but  too late. The screen flickered, fizzled, and went black. My stomach plummeted. Worst of all, the backup drive, which I foolishly had sitting alongside it, also received a caffeine bath. Panic set in. That $180,000 was everything I owned. My wife was overseas deployed, so she was out of it at home. How was I supposed to tell her that I had sunk our nest egg in coffee? Desperate for help, I found SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL in a commercial on a parenting podcast. I thought at first it was just another internet craze. With nothing to lose (save everything), I phoned. Much to my surprise, their team responded right away. They were polite, patient, and, above all, judgment-free. They reassured me that toddler-induced tech disasters were more frequent than I was aware. That reassured me somewhat, but I was still sweating bullets. The recovery process was similar to surgery on my financial future. They drilled data off of my soggy hard drive like a pair of brain surgeons. Every day, they'd update me on their progress in plain, non-geeky language, no mysterious technology mumbo-jumbo. That was wonderful, since my own nerves were fried.Seven days later, I received the call. They had recovered my wallet. Every satoshi remained. Relief enveloped me so intensely I came close to weeping. That $180,000, my wife's deployment bonus was included, was secure. I cannot thank SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL sufficiently. They rescued my savings, my pride, and potentially my marriage. I learned my lesson: always back up your backup, and keep your coffee at a distance from your laptop!

It would perhaps not be amiss to point out that he had always tried to be a good dog. He had tried to do all the things his MAN and his WOMAN, and most of all his BOY, had asked or expected of him. He would have died for them, if that had been required. He had never wanted to kill anybody. He had been struck by something, possibly destiny, or fate, or only a degenerative nerve disease called rabies. Free will was not a factor.

Luckily for Alexios, the same paralysis had not struck Auro, who crossed the room to collide with Alexios, full force. At the first taste of Auro’s mouth, Alexios’s nerves vanished

excitedly together. Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously collecting for something … yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills. Mr Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped

From time to time—on a doozy of a bad day or when pushed until a fragile nerve is struck—everyone exhibits a tad of this or that personality disorder, because each is rooted in the very human wish for self-preservation, acceptance, and safety.

Life on the blue part of the globe for eight years had suited me - the wild open spaces, the bliss of buoyancy, the volatile, soul-powered wind. Sailing had struck a nerve both primal and poetic. On and near the ocean life made sense, It made every sense work.