Suspension Training Quotes

Whereas during those months of separation time had never gone quickly enough for their liking and they were wanting to speed its flight, now that they were in sight of the town they would have liked to slow it down and hold each moment in suspense, once the breaks went on and the train was entering the station. For the sensation, confused perhaps, but none the less poingant for that, of all those days and weeks and months of life lost to their love made them vaguely feel they were entitled to some compensation; this present hour of joy should run at half the speed of those long hours of waiting.

The door slid towards them like a freight train. One huge leap and they were clear with inches to spare. Icy water filled her white, leather sneakers and seeped into her denim jeans like kerosene rising in a wick.

If that was the last time we met, I was satisfied with my parting words. But if that was the case, why was I crying on the way back to the train as if I'd experienced a death?

Callan sucked in a breath. As a sniper, he’d been trained by the Marines to know and recognize moments.  Moments when all the training—his focused mind, muscle memory, weapon knowledge . . .  When all the preparation—target reconnaissance, angle of attack, position scouting . . .  When all the setup—hidden amid the terrain, barrel aimed, trajectory known . . .  When everything came together in one crucial moment—when the sniper squeezed the trigger and took his shot.

Max’s childhood had been full of abuse and constant training since his father had been grooming him to take over as boss of the Melbourne Bratva from a young age. Max could shoot the wings off a fly from a hundred feet away. He was a black belt in several martial arts including Krav Maga and if his father knew what he’d done to his business he would have come back from the grave to haunt him and kill him.

As Vice President of Acquisitions, Mr. Lang,” she asked. “Just what is it you are supposing to acquire?” At the very most, are you seeking a compliment in return? Of course, you are! Men are always hoping for what they seldom get.” With that, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek—the freight train of doom had passed him by on a parallel track. Doubt is good. It keeps the doors open to proof of promise. Is that why she had changed into that incredibly tantalizing little blue-black dress driving the Whaler bar crowd toward a frenzy?

Sir, I cannot say I am ninja trained, but I have a brown belt in karate. That was while I was a fourteen-year-old. I have not kept myself in much of a practice, but I know a trick-or-two.

Yeah, he'd been trained to be good with details, but once his dick started working, his brain generally shifted to standby.

every man there had been trained from childhood in the brutal schools, as assassins. They were all looking for a new life and trying to figure out the rules of society. They knew they'd never fit perfectly, but they were doing their best.

Keto wasn’t just any dog. He was vicious, trained to be a killing machine when called on. Pack had invested much time and effort into training Keto. He hadn’t barked before attacking the murderer. It was close to a stealth attack. Probably flew through the air the final eight or ten feet. Mouth open wide, upper and lower incisors ready to rip the prey apart painfully, efficiently.  And the killer’s screams weren’t just any screams. They were shrieks, the kind arising from sheer terror. Knowing your means of defense are dead, as dead as you soon will be.  

Luna had never been good at coping with death. After all she had gone through, she knew she should’ve been trained. But she wasn’t. She was regrettably human.

As escamas caíram. Andava cega e de olhos vendados. Tu não sabias.

Gunfire doesn’t startle real Texans, particularly those from rural towns. Miranda’s children mastered pistols, shotguns, and rifles like magicians master top hats, rabbits, and playing cards. Texas bravado aside, however, fully automatic gunfire wasn’t kosher. Not even close. Mirandites cowered at the ominous sounds of hoodlums firing M-16s and AK-47s from train cars barreling through the town’s arteries on largely secluded tracks. 

For some people the experience of crossing by carriage was positively terrifying. “You drive over to Suspension Bridge,” wrote Mark Twain, “and divide your misery between the chances of smashing down two hundred feet into the river below, and the chances of having a railway-train overhead smashing down onto you. Either possibility is discomforting taken by itself, but, mixed together, they amount in the aggregate to positive unhappiness.

...We were pulling into the next station, when the woman suddenly got to her feet and made a move to squeeze past me. As her knees made contact with mine, she turned towards me. Her eyes locked straight onto mine, her eyelids pinned back, with a look I could only describe as sheer dread. In the next second, deep tram-lines formed between her eyebrows and her expression shifted. It was as if she was silently imploring me, entreating me. To do what? I had no idea. I was immobile, her gaze pressing me into my seat by some centrifugal force and I held her stare, unsure of how to react. Just as swiftly, she dropped her eyes and the moment passed. With one final glance behind her, she was swallowed up in the bodies at the door. She was getting off. Something wasn’t right.

News channels have worked tirelessly to kill India's democratic ideals, with the result that vast numbers of the Indian people follow channels that ask no questions of the government. These channels have trained their viewers to watch only a particular kind of TV where nothing is demanded of them, except a willing and complete suspension of belief. And absolute amorality. Elected representatives can garland killers, ministers can lie, news anchors can read out government press releases as news. It bothers no one enough.

Foreboding” might have been the appropriate word. “Dread.” The PROMISE of fear. It was tangible fear... smellable... the stale odor soaking into the dirt and lingering in the windless jungle of dead branches and train tracks to nowhere; lovelier than angst, kinder than panic.

MOST TRAVEL, AND CERTAINLY the rewarding kind, involves depending on the kindness of strangers, putting yourself into the hands of people you don’t know and trusting them with your life. This risky suspension of disbelief is often an experience freighted with anxiety. But what’s the alternative? Usually there is none.

For some twisted reason, she found his bruises more attractive than a pretty face. With windblown red-blond hair, unshaven face, and cocky bearing, he had that James Dean Rebel Without a Cause look going for him. He exuded the same kind of innate strength her brother had had. It wasn't something the Army trained into a man. A man was born with it.

The thing that weighed on him most, however, was the irrationality of the world in which he now found himself. To some extent he was a prisoner of his own training. As a historian, he had come to view the world as the product of historical forces and the decisions of more or less rational people, and he expected the men around him to behave in a civil and coherent manner. But Hitler’s government was neither civil nor coherent, and the nation lurched from one inexplicable moment to another. Even the language used by Hitler and party officials was weirdly inverted. The term “fanatical” became a positive trait. Suddenly it connoted what philologist Victor Klemperer, a Jewish resident of Dresden, described as a “happy mix of courage and fervent devotion.” Nazi-controlled newspapers reported an endless succession of “fanatical vows” and “fanatical declarations” and “fanatical beliefs,” all good things. Göring was described as a “fanatical animal lover.” Fanatischer Tierfreund. Certain very old words were coming into darkly robust modern use, Klemperer found. Übermensch: superman. Untermensch: sub-human, meaning “Jew.” Wholly new words were emerging as well, among them Strafexpedition—“punitive expedition”—the term Storm Troopers applied to their forays into Jewish and communist neighborhoods. Klemperer detected a certain “hysteria of language” in the new flood of decrees, alarms, and intimidation—“This perpetual threatening with the death penalty!”—and in strange, inexplicable episodes of paranoid excess, like the recent nationwide search. In all this Klemperer saw a deliberate effort to generate a kind of daily suspense, “copied from American cinema and thrillers,” that helped keep people in line. He also gauged it to be a manifestation of insecurity among those in power. In late July 1933 Klemperer saw a newsreel in which Hitler, with fists clenched and face contorted, shrieked, “On 30 January they”—and here Klemperer presumed he meant the Jews—“laughed at me—that smile will be wiped off their faces!” Klemperer was struck by the fact that although Hitler was trying to convey omnipotence, he appeared to be in a wild, uncontrolled rage, which paradoxically had the effect of undermining his boasts that the new Reich would last a thousand years and that all his enemies would be annihilated. Klemperer wondered, Do you talk with such blind rage “if you are so sure of this endurance and this annihilation”?

Fierce and sexy, former Marine Travis Sanchez has always held himself back from the rest of the world, using his tattoos and piercings as armor. But when the woman he’s wanted for months is threatened, he knows it's time to strip away the bad boy image and show her just how much he wants to be with her. As one of Red Stone Security’s best contractors, Travis is trained for almost any situation. But nothing prepares him for the most dangerous threat of all: the one to his heart.

That was when reality kicked back in and reminded Xander that the woman he'd just spent the past fifteen minutes mentally undressing was going to be in his squad, and that he was going to be her supervisor. He was in so much trouble. There was no way he could be her boss. It wouldn't be fair to her or his team, and it sure as hell wasn't something he could handle. He'd end up spending all his time gazing at her like a lovesick puppy instead of training her on weapons and tactics.

Her lips curved up then, as if she liked his answer. “Are you working tomorrow?” Dax nodded. “Yeah. Training stuff.” He was running weapons-training exercises with three of his guys and a small team of DEA agents. They liked to do joint operations, especially in Miami, where there was a smorgasbord of government agencies. But he couldn’t tell her that. “When do you get off?” The way she said “get off” brought up all sorts of images. Hannah must have read his expression, because she shook her head. “Pervert,” she muttered. He grinned, liking the camaraderie between them, as if part of that wall she’d erected had been knocked down.

...She froze in the doorway of her kitchen. And nearly swallowed her tongue. Ivan leaned against the counter, wearing nothing but dark jogging pants and holding a cup of coffee. His blond hair was spiked adorably, as if he hadn't combed it yet. the sculpted muscles of his chest and shoulders stood out as he raised the cup to his mouth, a bright tattoo of intricate artwork wrapping around one shoulder and over one pec. What she'd imagined he might look like was nothing compared to the reality of the Viking god in her kitchen. Her gaze trained on that ridiculously muscular chest and it was like she'd lost the ability to speak. Or breathe. Or, you know, think.

His life coiled back into the brown murk of the past like a twined filament of electric wire; he gave life, a pattern, and movement to these million sensations that Chance, the loss or gain of a moment, the turn of the head, the enormous and aimless impulsion of accident, had thrust into the blazing heat of him. His mind picked out in white living brightness these pinpoints of experience and the ghostliness of all things else became more awful because of them. So many of the sensations that returned to open haunting vistas of fantasy and imagining had been caught from a whirling landscape through the windows of the train. And it was this that awed him — the weird combination of fixity and change, the terrible moment of immobility stamped with eternity in which, passing life at great speed, both the observer and the observed seem frozen in time. There was one moment of timeless suspension when the land did not move, the train did not move, the slattern in the doorway did not move, he did not move. It was as if God had lifted his baton sharply above the endless orchestration of the seas, and the eternal movement had stopped, suspended in the timeless architecture of the absolute. Or like those motion-pictures that describe the movements of a swimmer making a dive, or a horse taking a hedge — movement is petrified suddenly in mid-air, the inexorable completion of an act is arrested. Then, completing its parabola, the suspended body plops down into the pool. Only, these images that burnt in him existed without beginning or ending, without the essential structure of time. Fixed in no-time, the slattern vanished, fixed, without a moment of transition. His sense of unreality came from time and movement, from imagining the woman, when the train had passed, as walking back into the house, lifting a kettle from the hearth embers. Thus life turned shadow, the living lights went ghost again. The boy among the calves. Where later? Where now? I am, he thought, a part of all that I have touched and that has touched me, which, having for me no existence save that which I gave to it, became other than itself by being mixed with what I then was, and is now still otherwise, having fused with what I now am, which is itself a cumulation of what I have been becoming. Why here? Why there? Why now? Why then? The fusion of the two strong egotisms, Eliza’s inbrooding and Gant’s expanding outward, made of him a fanatical zealot in the religion of Chance. Beyond all misuse, waste, pain, tragedy, death, confusion, unswerving necessity was on the rails; not a sparrow fell through the air but that its repercussion acted on his life, and the lonely light that fell upon the viscous and interminable seas at dawn awoke sea-changes washing life to him. The fish swam upward from the depth.

THE IRIS OF THE EYE WAS TOO BIG TO HAVE BEEN FABRICATED AS A single rigid object. It had been built, beginning about nine hundred years ago, out of links that had been joined together into a chain; the two ends of the chain then connected to form a loop. The method would have seemed familiar to Rhys Aitken, who had used something like it to construct Izzy’s T3 torus. For him, or anyone else versed in the technological history of Old Earth, an equally useful metaphor would have been that it was a train, 157 kilometers long, made of 720 giant cars, with the nose of the locomotive joined to the tail of the caboose so that it formed a circular construct 50 kilometers in diameter. An even better analogy would have been to a roller coaster, since its purpose was to run loop-the-loops forever. The “track” on which the “train” ran was a circular groove in the iron frame of the Eye, lined with the sensors and magnets needed to supply electrodynamic suspension, so that the whole thing could spin without actually touching the Eye’s stationary frame. This was an essential design requirement given that the Great Chain had to move with a velocity of about five hundred meters per second in order to supply Earth-normal gravity to its inhabitants. Each of the links had approximately the footprint of a Manhattan city block on Old Earth. And their total number of 720 was loosely comparable to the number of such blocks that had once existed in the gridded part of Manhattan, depending on where you drew the boundaries—it was bigger than Midtown but smaller than Manhattan as a whole. Residents of the Great Chain were acutely aware of the comparison, to the point where they were mocked for having a “Manhattan complex” by residents of other habitats. They were forever freeze-framing Old Earth movies or zooming around in virtual-reality simulations of pre-Zero New York for clues as to how street and apartment living had worked in those days. They had taken as their patron saint Luisa, the eighth survivor on Cleft, a Manhattanite who had been too old to found her own race. Implicit in that was that the Great Chain—the GC, Chaintown, Chainhattan—was a place that people might move to when they wanted to separate themselves from the social environments of their home habitats, or indeed of their own races. Mixed-race people were more common there than anywhere else.

The emphasis was on “soft.” No matter what else happened, the wranglers were to stay soft while riding the horses. Soft hands, soft seat, and soft legs. There was to be absolutely no hitting, kicking, slapping, or yelling at any time for any reason. The penalty for doing such things was to be placed on a two-day suspension. A second offense would lead to termination. Neither penalty was ever needed. At times it wasn’t easy to stay quiet with the horses because so many of them had been “used up” over the years, dulled to any form of cue. However, we remained consistent in our focus and the horses responded. The wranglers were instructed to ride the horses with the softest cues possible, often using nothing more than a light squeeze to get forward movement and a shift of weight in the saddle, along with light pressure on the reins, for a stop. They were also instructed to look for, find, and then release their cues at the slightest try from the horse—something they all became very adept at doing. With everyone riding in the same manner from one day to the next, all the horses began to respond within a few weeks. Before we knew it, all of our horses, including the very old ones that had been in the program for years and years, became responsive to the lightest of cues. We’d taught our horses to be responsive to these light cues, but a question remained. How could we keep them that way, particularly with the hundreds of different people who would be riding each horse over the summer? The answer was simple. Everyone needed to remain consistent. So, instead of expecting our horses to respond to the conflicting cues that each new rider was bound to give, we taught each rider how to communicate with our horses. Each week when a new batch of guests arrived at the ranch, we held an orientation in the riding arena. During this orientation, we explained how our horses were trained and what was expected of them as a rider of one of our horses. We gave them a demonstration in the saddle of proper seat and hand position, so they could keep their balance. We showed them the cues for walk, stop, trot, lope, and turn, using a horse right out of the string. Once we had demonstrated how our horses worked, we got everyone on horseback in the arena and helped them to practice giving the cues, allowing the horse to respond, and releasing the cues so that the horse would remain responsive. Of note is the fact that after

this thing—his thing—still well and alive inside me. # I dreamed of clawed hooks and sexual abandon. Faces covered in leather masks and eyeliner so dark I could only see black. Here the monsters would come alive, but not the kind you have come to expect. I watched myself as if I were outside my own flesh, free from the imprisonment of bone and conscience. Swollen belly stretch-marked and ugly; my hair tethered and my skin vulnerable. Earthquake beats blared from the DJ booth as terrible looking bodies thrashed, moshed and convulsed. Alone, so alone. Peter definitely gone, no more tears left but the ones that were to come from agony. She was above me again, Dark Princess, raging beauty queen, and I was hers to control. The ultimate succession into human suspension. Like I’d already learned: the body is the final canvas. There is no difference between love and pain. They are the same hopeless obsession. The hooks dived, my legs opened and my back arched. Blood misted my face; pussy juice slicked my inner thigh as my water suddenly broke. # The next night I had to get to the club. 4 A.M. is a time that never lets me down; it knows why I have nightmares, and why I want to suspend myself above them. L train lunacies berated me once again, but this time I noticed the people as if under a different light. They were all rather sad, gaunt and bleary. Their faces were to be pitied and their hands kept shaking, their legs jittering for another quick fix. No matter how much the deranged governments of New York City have cleaned up the boroughs, they can’t rid us of our flavor. The Meatpacking District was scarily alive. Darkness laced with sizzling urban neon. Regret stitched up in the night like a black silk blanket. The High Line Park gloomed above me with trespassers and graffiti maestros. I was envious of their creative freedom, their passion, and their drive. They had to do what they were doing, had to create. There was just no other acceptable life than that. I was inside fast, my memories of Peter fleeting and the ache within me about to be cast off. Stage left, stage right, it didn’t matter. I passed the first check point with ease, as if they already knew the click of my heels, the way my protruding stomach curved through my lace cardigan. She found me, or I found her, and we didn’t exchange any words, any warnings. It was time. Face up, legs open, and this time I’d be flying like Superman, but upside down. There were many hands, many faces, but no

c) Taking a view as to whether there is any need to keep the delinquent employee under suspension (d) Taking a view on the preliminary investigation report and deciding about the future course of action thereon, such as warning, training, counseling, initiation of major or minor penalty proceeding, prosecution, discharge simpliciter, etc.(e) Consultation with the Central Vigilance Commission (CVC) where necessary (f) Deciding whether there is any need to issue of charge sheet or penalty may be imposed dispensing with inquiry under the appropriate provision (g) Issue of charge sheet where necessary - Rule 14(3) (h) In the case of minor penalty proceedings, deciding, either suo motu or based on the request of the delinquent employee, as to whether it is necessary to conduct a detailed oral hearing.(i) In the case of minor penalty proceedings, forming tentative opinion about the quantum of penalty based on the representation of the delinquent employee, if any, and ordering for a detailed oral hearing where necessary.(j) After issue of charge sheet, deciding as to whether there is any need to conduct inquiry, or the matter may be closed, or the penalty can be imposed, based on the unambiguous, unconditional and unqualified admission by the delinquent employee.(k) Passing final order imposing penalty or closing the case, based on the response of the delinquent employee (l) Appointment of Inquiry Authority and Presenting Officer, where necessary (m)Taking a view on the request, if any, of the delinquent employee for engagement of a Legal Practioner as Defence Assistant (n) Making originals of all the listed documents available to the Presenting Officer so that the same could be presented during the inspection of documents.(o) Examination of the inquiry report to decide as to whether the same needs to be remitted back to the inquiry authority - Rule 15(1) (p) Deciding as to whether the conclusion arrived at by the Inquiring Authority is acceptable and to record reasons for disagreement if any – Rule 15(2) 6

They can’t, because I control the purse strings, for one thing. None of these future leaders can do anything contrary to what I want, and whatever form the KGB takes, after they have the current version of the Soviet Union collapse. If anyone tries, those people will be taken down through assassinations, coups, or economic collapse. One of my new associates is in the process of training a new form of terrorist, who will kill themselves to destroy a whole host of people; this will also be part of the plan to weaken the western powers.

Everyone who had worked with the KGB, including Gary, knew of McVeigh. McVeigh was a disgruntled U.S. Army vet, and had tried to join every terrorist organization in the world, prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union. McVeigh was considered too unreliable to be taken seriously. When Al Qaeda expanded its operations, McVeigh went to Afghanistan clandestinely, and trained with the terrorists of Al Qaeda, but, didn’t become an actual member of the terrorist group. When he returned, McVeigh decided to blow up one of the federal buildings in one of the Great Plains states, because he thought New York City, Los Angeles, or Chicago was just too obvious of a choice. He decided on the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City, because it housed fourteen federal agencies, all of which he wanted to destroy. He had help from a co-conspirator, Terry Nichols, who thought McVeigh was a supporter of the militia movement.

EXCERPT: THREE A.M.– …AND JARRED OUT OF SLEEP…. “Roan snapped awake. It took a millisecond for him to key his hearing. Moonlight filtered weakly through the semi-opaque curtains pulled across both windows. His six senses were online and he quietly moved out of bed. He wore only a pair of dark blue cotton pajama bottoms, his upper body naked. Twisting the door knob, the door quietly opened. Slipping like a shadow into the darkened hall, he sensed someone moving around out in the kitchen. Shiloh? He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Three a.m. Halting in the living room, he saw Shiloh in the kitchen, putting a copper tea kettle on the stove. Her hair was unruly and she was wearing pale pink silky pajama bottoms and a pink cotton tee that outlined her breasts to perfection. Hell. She looked sleepy, hair tangled and wasn’t exactly graceful with her movements. The sense that she could not really take care of herself came across strongly to Roan. It wasn’t that Shiloh was weak or stupid. And maybe because of his black ops training, he was at the other end of the spectrum; too alert and having that situational awareness that could help save his life. She was obviously sleepy, rubbing her eyes, yawning. There wasn’t anything to dislike about her and Roan’s mouth flexed downward and thinned. Shiloh wasn’t helpless, just not aware of her surroundings. Maybe he could help her open up her awareness a little more since she was being stalked. It could save her life some day.

The most common definition [of the word information] is: "the action of informing; formation or molding of the mind or character, training, instruction, teaching; communication of instructive knowledge. This definition remained fairly constant until the years immediately following World War II, when it came in vogue to use 'information' as a technological term to define anything that was sent over an electric or mechanical channel. 'Information' became part of the vocabulary of the science of messages. And, suddenly, the appellation could be applied to something that didn't necessarily have to inform. This definition was extrapolated to general usage as something told or communicated, whether or not it made sense to the receiver. Now, the freedom engendered by such an amorphous definition has, as you might expect, encouraged its liberal deployment. It has become the single most important word of our decade, the suspense of our lives and our work.

The most common definition of [the word information] is: "the action of informing; formation or molding of the mind or character, training, instruction, teaching; communication of instructive knowledge. This definition remained fairly constant until the years immediately following World War II, when it came in vogue to use 'information' as a technological term to define anything that was sent over an electric or mechanical channel. 'Information' became part of the vocabulary of the science of messages. And, suddenly, the appellation could be applied to something that didn't necessarily have to inform. This definition was extrapolated to general usage as something told or communicated, whether or not it made sense to the receiver. Now, the freedom engendered by such an amorphous definition has, as you might expect, encouraged its liberal deployment. It has become the single most important word of our decade, the suspense of our lives and our work.

Knowing your DUI attorney can eliminate the effect of the return of drunken Driving under the influence of alcohol is a serious offense. It has led to the destruction of countless innocent lives. Including in the United States against the wounded caused countless innocent people, their lives rotation indefinitely. It was carried out connected to the conclusion of households for damage. It has led to a community, the introduction of the unknown nature of the operation of the state, remain concerned with drunken diet. He is optimistic in September, then, that the federal government does not become a frivolous crime. With the repeal of the Step mode, the application of the laws of intoxication and the dishes are made to drunk drivers seem hard regularly. If it difficult to the crime of driving under the influence of alcohol or at least system is the next step in a reliable DUI lawyer, regardless of the guilt or innocence of their weight, protect yourself in the hope of such significant reductions in price, the not confirmed extremely high prices. Sam can throw a lot of money as well, you can get a driver's license, or without, it can be hard to take the prison up to one year. You can avoid because of their own and do not need to get drunk relaxed in the price. As a replacement for all these costs themselves, which is largely a good idea, the help of a DUI lawyer to win? These specialists understand the law and the conditions just mentioned above, compounds containing a labor judge and customer orientation DWI. DUI lawyers can be reduced to a constructive trust or even eliminate visibility into force. Opportunities robbery was accused of drunk again, and notes that you are responsible for the crimes. Even debt includes only the legal capacity and criminal DUI can trained your own navigation of these people to bring models. Sam, I think maybe just dedicated for his crimes while to select your mind and time, but not very simple scenario. A lawyer may reduce the value of the summary court to protect the effects, or even fines, suspensions and aspects of the prison, including research, replaced types of defenses and forage alcohol recovery. DUI lawyers said that before and look small, to see how drunken opportunities and shortcomings that can still influence the courtroom one behind the selling price. You can such a situation it is not possible lack of faith on the inside to create to take the manuscript. DUI lawyers can use our experience and work up shopping application laboratory errors that dominates lead for the detection of respiratory next acceptable display the current situation in the whatever. Unlike pilot’s proposals less effect on the mind, the entire route was to the training room, there are many cases a lot of experience of skilled DUI lawyer can help. All of these experts, the service experience of working in the right direction in order to continue to help customers move only in the courtroom and not too loose, not to keep the customers another law a hand. There are can be drunken very scary encounter billed offer. With the end of the transfer during this procedure of his or very familiar with the other side, while experts, the treatment should be fine. If you come into conflict with the mentioned at this point nation, they do poverty and a little assistance in criminal matters.

You are in training, and therefore your personal taste and opinions are not to be trusted until they are fully and reliably shaped - by me.

He hated that he was putting her through this, but this was the life of a man or woman who loved a member of the military, law enforcement officer, firefighter, or his team. The ones left behind had the difficult jobs. Far more difficult than [his]. He trained. Knew he was well prepared, and that he could do the job. And then he was actively doing it while the woman he loved would sit and wait.

The lovers, indeed, were wholly wrapped up in their fixed idea, and for them one thing only had changed. Whereas during those months of separation time had never gone quickly enough for their liking and they were always wanting to speed its flight, now that they were in sight of the town they would have liked to slow it down and hold each moment in suspense, once the brakes went on and the train was entering the station. For the sensation, confused perhaps, but none the less poignant for that, of all those days and weeks and months of life lost to their love made them vaguely feel they were entitled to some compensation; this present hour of joy should run at half the speed of those long hours of waiting.

A bomb has exploded in the Sydney underground train system at Town Hall Station.

Gothic is the genre of fear. Our fascination with it is almost always revived during times of instability and panic. In the wake of the French Revolution, the Marquis de Sade described the rise of the genre as 'the inevitable product of the revolutionary shock with which the whole of Europe resounded,' and literary critics in the late eighteenth century mocked the work of early gothic writers Anne Radcliffe and Matthew Lewis by referring to it as 'the terrorist school' of writing. As Fred Botting writes in Gothic, his lucid introduction to the genre, it expresses our unresolved feelings about 'the nature of power, law, society, family and sexuality' and yet is extremely concerned with issues of social disintegration and collapse. It's preoccupied with all that is immoral, fantastic, suspenseful, and sensational and yet prone to promoting middle-class values. It's interested in transgression, but it's ultimately more interested in restitution; it alludes to the past yet is carefully attuned to the present; it's designed to evoke excessive emotion, yet it's thoroughly ambivalent; it's the product of revolution and upheaval, yet it endeavors to contain their forces; it's terrifying, but pretty funny. And, importantly, the gothic always reflects the anxieties of its age in an appropriate package, so that by the nineteenth century, familiar tropes representing external threats like crumbling castles, aristocratic villains, and pesky ghosts had been swallowed and interiorized. In the nineteenth century, gothic horrors were more concerned with madness, disease, moral depravity, and decay than with evil aristocrats and depraved monks. Darwin's theories, the changing roles of women in society, and ethical issues raised by advances in science and technology haunted the Victorian gothic, and the repression of these fears returned again and again in the form of guilt, anxiety, and despair. 'Doubles, alter egos, mirrors, and animated representations of the disturbing parts of human identity became the stock devices,' Botting writes, 'signifying the alienation of the human subject from the culture and language in which s/he is located.' In the transition from modernity to post-modernity, the very idea of culture as something stable and real is challenged, and so postmodern gothic freaks itself out by dismantling modernist grand narratives and playing games. In the twentieth century, 'Gothic [was] everywhere and nowhere,' and 'narrative forms and devices spill[ed] over from worlds of fantasy and fiction into real and social spheres.

Our fascination with the gothic peaks in times of anxiety, panic, and upheaval. The Victorian gothic revival of the 1890s was stoked by scientific, technological, and social change. Industrialization and urbanization sparked feelings of alienation. Darwin's theories of evolution and the changing roles of women fanned racist, misogynistic, homophobic, and colonialist fears of 'primitivism,' moral decay, and sexual depravity. In the nineteenth century, terror-inducing imagery had shifted away from crumbling castles to crime-infested cities, and fear of villains and ghosts was supplanted by a fear of madness and degeneration. In the twentieth century, we celebrated/mourned the death of authorship, of the grand narrative, of the self, 'going-one-better in eschatological eloquence,' as Jacques Derrida put it, 'the end of history...the end of subject, the end of man, the end of the West, the end of Oedipus, the end of the earth, Apocalypse Now.' A few years into the new millennium, we were zombie hordes, stalking social media for brains. The gothic is the fucked-either-way-and-freaking-the-fuck-out school of artistic interpretation, the hysterical framework of doom. And this tension between horror as morality tale and horror as decadent spectacle is, I believe, what fueled the pandemic of tabloid stories about wayward starlets that raged throughout 2006 and 2007. Celebrity train wreck stories begin, conservatively, as cautionary tales. A young woman, unprotected or legally emancipated, has moved alone from the relatively sheltered and secluded condition of parent-managed child stardom (because who, nowadays, is more cut off from the world than a child star?) into a corrupt and dangerous world, where her beauty, fame, youth, fortune, and sexual allure are regarded with a charged, ambivalent awe. She is instantly besieged with dangers, and preyed upon by unscrupulous adults. Until they can be contained again, by marriage or paternal protection, she exists in a constant state of uncertainty and peril. The peril is created, of course, by the 'author' - the media outlets that shape the train wreck's life, again and again, into thrilling, chilling tales of suspense.

If you hear someone at the water cooler say, “black people are always late,” you can definitely say, “Hey, that’s racist” but you can also add, “and it contributes to false beliefs about black workers that keeps them from even being interviewed for jobs, while white workers can be late or on time, but will always be judged individually with no risk of damaging job prospects for other white people seeking employment.” That also makes it less likely that someone will brush you off saying “Hey, it’s not that big of a deal, don’t be so sensitive.” Tying racism to its systemic causes and effects will help others see the important difference between systemic racism, and anti-white bigotry. In addition, the more practice you have at tying individual racism to the system that gives it power, the more you will be able to see all the ways in which you can make a difference. Yes, you can demand that the teacher shouting racial slurs at Hispanic kids should be fired, but you can also ask what that school’s suspension rate for Hispanic kids is, ask how many teachers of color they have on staff, and ask that their policies be reviewed and reformed. Yes, you can definitely report your racist coworker to HR, but you can also ask your company management what processes they have in place to minimize racial bias in their hiring process, you can ask for more diversity in management and cultural sensitivity training for staff, and you can ask what procedures they have in place to handle allegations of racial discrimination. When we look at racism as a system, it becomes much

There are times for the tearless cry, There are times for the voiceless words we say.. There are times for the unjustified sorrow.. There are times for the empty diaries And the white similar days.. There are weeks for suspense, Nights for insomnia, And long hours for annoyance.. There are times for folly, others for repentance, Times for passion and others for pain.. There are times unrelated to seasons. There are times for the letters that will never be written, For that phone that will never ring, For the confessions that will never be made, For a lifetime that must be spent in a moment of wager.. There is a wager where we bet our hearts on a gambling table.. There are brilliant players practicing failure with distinction... There are beginnings of years similar to ends, There are weekends longer than all weeks.. There are gray mornings of days unrelated to autumn.. There are storms of passion leaving no place for a tent, And a furnished memory that can't be used for rent.. There are trains that will travel without us, And airplanes that will take us no further than ourselves. Deep inside us; there is a corner where rain never stops.. There are rains that water only notebooks.. There are poems that will never be signed by poets, There are inspiring people who sign a life of a poet, There are writings more wonderful than their writers, There are love stories more beautiful than their lovers, There are lovers who mistook their path to love, There is a love which mischose its lovers.. There is a time that is not created for passion, There are lovers who are not created for this time, There is a love which is created to stay, There is a love that sweeps everything away.. There is a love as fierce as hate, There is a hate unmatched by any love.. There is a forgetfulness more visible than memory, There are lies more honest than truth.. There is me, There is you, There are imaginary dates more delightful than all dates, There are love plans more beautiful than any love story, There is a farewell more delicious than thousands of meetings, There are clashes prettier than any peace.. There are moments that pass as an age.. There is an age dying in a moment.. There is me and there is you, There is always an impossibility that begins with every love.

Nightbeat was a superior series that focused as much on people as predicament. Frank Lovejoy, a distinctive radio voice, played the role of a reporter who cared about the human interest angle, and about the people who suffered through life’s hard knocks. In a Jan. 13, 1950, audition program, the character was named “Lucky” Stone: he prowled Chicago after sundown, looking for a story “that grabs your heart and shakes it until it hollers uncle.” He could be found “peering into blank alleys, wandering through the bright neon, listening to the sounds of the city at night … the whisper of footsteps, the shattering roar of an el-train, the sob of an ambulance siren.” He stumbled across “the wino dreaming of a muscatel paradise in cold dark doorways … painted little dames defying the world with their brassy laughter … the homeless, the hopeless.” Stone didn’t try to outsmart the police, said Radio Life; nor did he have a sidekick. Killings were minimized, but the suspense was tense and delicious. There were crime stories, tender stories, tales of the common man in trouble, races against time. Then, having wrapped it up for another night, Stone sat at his desk, pounded out his story, and briskly called, “Copy boy!

Keep in mind, her medical training is from watching soap operas.

Anchise regardait son maître avec des yeux pleins de gratitude, on aurait cru qu’il comprenait leur conversation et qu’il était en train de vivre le plus beau jour de sa vie.

Katya stood in the doorway at the rear of Mr Kidder’s studio and could not seem to step out onto the terrace and run away. Panting like a dog that has been trained by his master and can’t break out of his training, though his training has hurt, humbled, humiliated him and enslaved him.

Waiting is a large part of living. Great, passive, negative chunks of our time are consumed by waiting, from birth to death. Waiting is a special kind of activity - if activity is the right word for it - because we are held in enforced suspension between people and places, removed from the normal rhythms of our days and lives. We wait for trains, planes, doctors, dentists, business and social appointments, and services of all kinds; we stand and wait or we sit and wait; we do it in a variety of settings that range from gorgeous to grim. Real serious waiting is done in waiting rooms, and what they all have in common is their purpose, or purposelessness, if you will; they are places for doing nothing and they have no life of their own.

Did anyone speak out? After a sermon denouncing the T–4 program by Catholic Archbishop Clemens Von Galen in August 1941 was publicized, Hitler quietly ordered a suspension of the gassing program, though valuable lessons in mass murder had been learned. The killing of children and other undesirables resumed a year later under more decentralized circumstances, with perhaps 200,000 killed before the end of the war.[16] Later,

Solotol is a city of arches and bridges, where steps and pavements wind past tall buildings and lance out over steep rivers and gullies on slender suspension bridges and fragile stone arches. Roadways flow along the banks of water courses, looping and twisting over and under them; railways splay out in a tangle of lines and levels, swirling through a network of tunnels and caverns where underground reservoirs and roads converge, and from a speeding train passengers can look out to see galaxies of lights reflecting on stretches of dark water crossed by the slants of underground funiculars and the piers and ways of subterranean roads.

He was a Rider. A shadow rider. It was who he was. What he was. A rider no choice but to do what he'd been trained for from the age of two -- even before that. It was in his bones, in his blood, he couldn't live without it. He dispensed justice to those the law couldn't touch.

Gerard drove her to the train station in New Port Sound last evening. Something about shooting with flamingos. Oh, I do hope she meant with cameras and not guns. Henry, do people actually hunt flamingos? I suppose they would be easy to spot. Perhaps that’s what pink camo is for. Oh, dear…” - Aunt Edith

He was born a shadow rider and trained from the time he was two. There was no other job or interest for him. It was considered a sacred duty and no rider, if he was capable, would ever walk away from it, no matter how difficult.