Surname Love Quotes

Jace: Herondale, on the other hand, is melodic. Dulcet, one might say. Think of the sound of 'Clary Herondale.' Clary: Oh, my god, that sounds horrible. Jace: We all must sacrifice for love.

Some of the people who hate me love some of the sentences that I have written, until they get to the name of the person to whom the sentences are attributed.

Soul is like a surname in this time and space matrix. It’s the ever loving, abiding, and continuous connection to your auspicious origin. You can’t sell it or give it up. It is not possible. Soul is you.

Then she will marry the man whom she is currently trying to find both online and in real life, the man with the smile lines and the dog and/or cat, the man with an interesting surname that she can double-barrel with Jones, the man who earns the same as or more than her, the man who likes hugs more than sex and has nice shoes and beautiful skin and no tattoos and a lovely mum and attractive feet. The man who is at least five feet ten, but preferably five feet eleven or over. The man who has no baggage and a good car and a suggestion of abdominal definition although a flat stomach would suffice. This man has yet to materialize and Libby is aware that she is possibly a little over-proscriptive.

He did not need to ask how she knew his surname; she had taken it from him along with certain other things, such as his heart, when he had kissed her.

What you can do, has nothing to do with your parents' last name! What you can do has nothing to do with the colour of your skin! What you can do is fully determined by God! It’s simple!

You and I are the stuff that dreams are made of, my darling,” he tells me, his voice strong yet there’s a rasp to it, too. “We are what the stars envy, what the moon longs for, and what the legends of old tell tales of. Our love is more than this world, Lilly. More than a piece of paper with a new surname. And it will remain long after we are gone from the earth.

Fathers and sons, probably one of the most emotionally deep, human relationships. Probably one of the most intense human equations. Words alone cannot describe what a father and son feel for each other, simply because there are such few words in this relationship. So much is left unsaid between the two of them. Communication, or rather a lack of it, always broadens the gap between the two of them. There’s always a gap between a father and son, always a gap between a name and a surname. I’ve always asked myself and today I address this question to all of you sons out there: Why did you stop hugging your father after a certain age? Why did you stop expressing, and being affectionate to your father after a certain age? Why is there this inexplicable awkwardness between a father and son? Why are all your emotions, your innermost thoughts, your tears, always reserved for your mother, your sister and then your wife? Why? Because you then become a father, and then you bottle up, just like your father did, and this vicious circle continues. Who is going to break this vicious circle? I realized, and I’m sure this applies to all of you as well, that, like everybody else, I too had issues, minor issues with my father, like every other son. You could call it a generation gap, you could call it a difference of opinion, you could call it anything. But what I also realized was that I was subconsciously being the man my father is. I was talking like him, feeling like him, loving like him—I was just being him. I then realized that a father not only gives his son his name, he also gives him his personality. So somewhere, if you have a problem with your father, you actually have a problem with yourself. Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve had this realization and this opportunity to express myself, and I wish with all my heart, that one day you do too. My father is my conscience, my father is my strength, my father is my support, my father is my hero. I don’t say it often enough to you, Dad, but what better than this global platform to say, I love you. I love you very, very, very much. And I wish I could love you as much as you love me, but I don’t think I’m capable of such unconditional love. I love you. You are my world. And then Amit uncle, who was there, said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think whatever needed to be said about Mr Yash Johar, his son Karan has very ably done.

Sometimes after he’s gone I’ve wondered what it would be like to slip into a different story and actually end up being Mrs Vincent Cunningham. You know, Chapter XXXVIII, ‘Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had, he and I, the parson and clerk were alone present.’ (Book 789, Jane Eyre, Penguin Classics, London.) Cunningham is a bad surname, but it’s not dreadful. Not as bad say as Bigg-Wither. Mr Bigg-Wither (not kidding) was Jane Austen’s suitor. He fell in love with the sharp bonnet-pinched look, was very partial to one flattened front hair curl, and tiny black eyes. He pulled in his person and fluffed out his whiskers to propose to her. Now that took courage. You have to grant him that. Proposing to Jane Austen was no walk in the park, was in the same league as Jerry Twomey proposing to Niamh ni Eochadha who had the face and manners of a blackthorn. Still, Bigg-Wither went through with it. He got out his proposal. And Jane Austen accepted. Honestly, she did. She was fiancé-ed. She did her best impression of a Jane Austen smile then retired straight away to bed. Up in the bed she lay in her big nightie and couldn’t sleep, not, surprisingly enough, because of the bonnet, but because of the suffocating way the name Bigg-Wither sat on her. That, and the thought of giving birth to little Bigg-Withers. The following morning when she came down to him negotiating his toast and marmalade in past the whiskers, she said, ‘I cannot be a Bigg-Wither,’ or words to that effect, the engagement was off, and all the world’s Readers sighed with relief. Because a happy Jane Austen would have been useless in the World Literature stakes.

(Eventually, Gordon organized for an exterminator to come in. An East End geezer with, ironically, the surname “Mouser.” When he laid down some traps, I asked him if there was a more humane way of dealing with the problem. “No,” he said, his arms folded in dismay. “OK,” I replied. “It’s just that I’m vegetarian.” “Well, you don’t have to eat it,” he replied.)

You are blood, But you aren’t family. You look like me, But you’re my enemy. You share my surname, But you rob me of my sanity. You are of my lineage, But you created a tragedy.

We don’t turn anyone away, Jew or Christian, baptized or not. Finally, here in my late seventies, I understand the true worth of human life.” His words moved me. He was not apologizing but rather testifying to the power of love over hatred and rage. That priest had become a minister of souls for whom surnames, customs, and creeds had ceased to matter.

By the numbers, Accomack could look like a desolate place to live. The Opportunity Index, a nonprofit measurement of sixteen different indicators of success in every county in America, gives it a forty-three out of one hundred. But numbers can be misleading. To residents, statistics could not account for the deep feeling of belonging that came from being able to find your surname in three hundred-year-old county records. They couldn’t account for how clean the air felt and how orange the sun was setting over the Chesapeake Bay. How do you calculate fish fries in the backyard, kiddie pools in the front yard, and unfettered views of a thousand stars in the night sky? So much of life is intangible, and places don’t feel like they’re disappearing to the people who are living there.

After, presumably, Rosewater found out that Chekhov was not Jewish, he did not bother with any more questions about people with surnames ending with ov. That included my Israeli friend David Shem-tov. I don’t think you can find a more Israeli name than Shem-tov, but I could just imagine the Revolutionary Guards researchers saying to each other, “Chekhov, Molotov, Shem-tov, they are all the same!

How about naming a boy after his papa and his uncle Warrior?” Rachel asked. “Chase Kelly. Chase means hunter, Kelly means warrior.” Loretta lowered her sewing to her lap, her gaze dreamy. “Chase Kelly--Chase Kelly. It has a nice ring, doesn’t it?” “Be nicer with a proper surname,” Rachel commented. “Wolf!” Amy cried. “That’s as close to a last name for Hunter as you’ll get.” “Chase Kelly Wolf.” Loretta rolled the name off her tongue a few times, warming to it. “I like it. What do you think, Aunt Rachel? Wolf as a surname isn’t too strange, is it?” “Sounds like a wonderful name to me. And if Hunter comes back someday, he can’t complain too much. Hunter Warrior is a sight better than Leaky Drawers.” “Running Water,” Loretta corrected. “Whatever.” Rachel smiled. “For a girl, how about Nicole? It means a girl who’s victorious for her people.” “Oh, I like that,” Loretta whispered. “Hunter would love that.” Rachel smiled. “Nicole Wolf. If she has her daddy’s eyes, Indigo would go perfect with it. Nicole Indigo Wolf.” “Doesn’t sound right,” Amy argued. “Indigo Nicole Wolf! That, I like.” “Indigo Nicole.” Tears burned behind Loretta’s eyelids. A girl victorious for her people. “Yes, that’s beautiful, for both worlds.

In 1908, English humorist Israel Zangwill staged a play titled The Melting Pot. It told the story of two Russian immigrants, David and Vera, who move to the United States, fall in love, and live happily ever after. This play’s title became a rallying cry for the high aspiration that the United States would be a place of multiethnic assimilation. But long before the United States, the Church was history’s original melting pot. As Acts 13 opens, we meet a group of churchmen who come from notably disparate backgrounds: “Now there were in the church at Antioch prophets and teachers, Barnabas, Simeon who was called Niger, Lucius of Cyrene, Manaen a member of the court of Herod the tetrarch, and Saul” (v. 1). Barnabas was a well-known Jewish teacher and cousin to Mark (cf. Colossians 4: 10). Some believe that at one point he was better known than Paul, for early in Acts, his name is placed first when the two are paired (cf. Acts 11: 30, 12: 25, 13: 7). Simeon and Lucius hailed from Africa. Niger, Simeon’s surname, is a Latin word meaning “black,” indicating possible African origins. Lucius is said to have come from Cyrene, a Roman province on the north coast of Africa. Manaen is “a member of the court of Herod the tetrarch,” that is, Herod Antipas, the ruler who beheaded John the Baptist (cf. Matthew 14: 1–12). The Greek word for “member of the court” is syntrophos, meaning, “brought up with.” Thus, Manaen had probably known Herod all his life. Finally, there is Saul, the famed Jewish antagonist turned evangelist. These are the leaders of the church at Antioch. What a group! And yet, for all their differences, they are united in Christ. Indeed, when the Spirit says, “Set apart for Me Barnabas and Saul for the work to which I called them” (Acts 13: 2), there is no quibbling over the Spirit’s appointments. No one protests, “But I wanted to be set apart!” Rather, they gladly lay their hands on these men, ordaining them into their appointed office (cf. 13: 3). Such is the Church: different people from different backgrounds doing different things under one Head, Who is Christ. The Church is a melting pot. But it is not a melting pot in which people’s individual personalities and gifts are congealed into some bland soup. Rather, people’s unique personalities and gifts are deployed according to the Spirit’s purposes. And we, who are “from every tribe and language and people and nation” (Revelation 5: 9), are part of this Church. What a glorious group we are in Christ!

Another aspect of Aphrodite, with which the buck also must have had something to do, is expressed in such surnames as Melaina and Melainis, “the black one”, and Skotia “the dark one”. In so far as this refers to the darkness that love seeks, this aspect is connected with the aspect already described. But the black Aphrodite can equally well be associated with the Erinyes, amongst whom she was also numbered. Such surnames as Androphonos, “Killer of Men”, Anosia, “the Unholy” and Tymborychos, “the Gravedigger”, indicate her sinister and dangerous potentialities. As Epitymbidia she is actually “she upon the graves”. Under the name of Persephaessa she is invoked as the Queen of the Underworld. She bears the title of Basilis, “Queen”. Her surname of Pasiphaessa, “the far-shining”, associates her also with the moon-goddess. All these characteristics are evidence that at one time there were tales which identified the goddess of love with the goddess of death, as a being comparable to the Venus Libitina of the Romans.

By the numbers, Accomack could look like a desolate place to live. The Opportunity Index, a nonprofit measurement of sixteen different indicators of success in every county in America, gives it a forty-three out of one hundred. But numbers can be misleading. To residents, statistics could not account for the deep feeling of belonging that came from being able to find your surname in three hundred-year-old county records. They couldn't account for how clean the air felt and how orange the sun was setting over the Chesapeake Bay.

Donald John Trump was born on June 14th, 1946. Donald is derived from the word Domhnall meaning 'world leader' or 'leader of the world' (Gaelic dunno, 'world'; val, 'rule'). John is a Hebrew name that means 'God is gracious'. Trump is a German surname meaning 'trumpet' or 'drum' and it is also and Engish verb meaning 'to excel, surpass, or outdo', as well as an early English variant of the word 'triumph '. As Mary Colbert, who co-authored 'The Trump Prophecies describes, "Donald John Trump's name means 'World Leader Under the Grace of God Who's Leadership Will Ecel, Surpass and Outdo in Triumph.