Talented Daughter Quotes

Bidding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look — one of the gnomes actually bit me!” “How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial!” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched finger and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today — perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish — do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!” Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a loud snort.

That is why historians surprise me. They seem to have no talent for the likeliness of any situation. They see history like a peepshow; with two-dimensional figures against a distant background.

Titles are inherited, talent might be blood-bound, but true greatness lies within.

From Genesis to Revelation, holy text is all about relationships and the limitless flavors of those relationships. It is the duty of mankind to tap into our women's unique talents--their genius for 'relationships.' pg vii

Gather up your loins, daughter. You named Lillian Florence Jones after my mother. A toughter lady never lived. Find your talent and drive it.

I will never be someone's last choice, second option, narcissistic supply, doormat, ego booster, sidekick, secret, last time or after thought. I am a Daughter of God that stands for truth. I know my beauty, my talents, my accomplishments, what I have to offer and who leads my life purpose: my Heavenly Father. But, most of all I know my value and I will never let any man define my worth.

Felicia- Tell me, are my whiskers on straight? Cora- I truly never thought I'd be having that question asked by my daughter, but yes, they're on straight.

If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful achievement.

Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good-nature, otherwise it will create you many enemies.” —John Gregory A Father’s Legacy to His Daughters, 1774

Greatness is finding your natural talent, fueling it with passion, planting it in well-nourished soil, and toiling in the garden until it breaks through the earth and reaches for the stars.

The daughter of Lithuanian immigrants, born with a precocious scientific intellect and a thirst for chemical knowledge, Elion had completed a master's degree in chemistry from New York University in 1941 while teaching high school science during the day and preforming her research for her thesis at night and on the weekends. Although highly qualified, talented, and driven, she had been unable to find a job in an academic laboratory. Frustrated by repeated rejections, she had found a position as a supermarket product supervisor. When Hitchings found Trudy Elion, who would soon become on of the most innovative synthetic chemists of her generation (and a future Nobel laureate), she was working for a food lab in New York, testing the acidity of pickles and the color of egg yolk going into mayonnaise. Rescued from a life of pickles and mayonnaise…

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Her father sat her down and spoke to her with great seriousness. "You are not a witch, Katerina. There is magic in the world, and some of it is wholesome, and some of it is not, but it is a thing that is in the blood, and it is not in yours. "The foolish will always treat you badly, because they think you are not beautiful," he said, and she knew this was true. Plain Kate. She was a plain as a stick and thin as a stick and flat as a stick. Her nose was too long and her brows too strong. Her father kissed her twice, once above each brow. "We cannot help what fools think. But understand, it is your skill with a blade that draws this talk. If you want to give up your carving, you have my blessing." "I will never give it up," she answered.

You might not get the apology you deserve. You might not get answers to explain the actions of others. You might not get truth that makes sense to you. You might not get people to understand what you went through because of them. You might not get communication. You might not get maturity. You might not get mercy or even common decency. You might not get respect or the chance to explain your side of the story. However, you do get to choose how people treat you. God loves you enough to bring people into your life who won't hurt you, abuse you, betray you, lie and gossip about you, psycho analyse you, break your heart or make you an option or choice. He will bring people into your life that will love you, respect you, fight for you, show gratitude for your love and want to be a part of your life mission. The best part of this is you don't have to convince them of your worth. They want to be there. They know your value. They know your struggles. They are in touch with their own faults and understand you struggle just like everyone else. They won't hold you to a greater standard then they do themselves. They care about you and don't want to see you cry, feel discouraged or give up on this life. When you know the power of who you are and what you have to accomplish you will scratch your head in disbelief that you allowed other people to dictate who you are based on little knowledge of what God knows about you and your life purpose. Letting go isn't about accepting defeat or acknowledging you were wrong. Sometimes letting go is realizing that God has something better in store for you.

And what happens to daughters whose mothers betray them? They don’t become huggable like Sadie, Taiwo thinks. They don’t become giggly, adorable like Ling. They grow shells. Become hardened. They stop being girls. Though they look like girls and act like girls and flirt like girls and kiss like girls—really, they’re generals, commandos at war, riding out at first light to preempt further strikes. With an army behind them, their talents their horsemen, their brilliance and beauty and anything else they may have at their disposal dispatched into battle to capture the castle, to bring back the Honor. Of course it doesn’t work. For they burn down the village in search of the safety they lost, every time, Taiwo knows.

Because the Mughals did not follow a system of primogeniture, any Mughal prince, sufficiently ambitious and talented, could hope to ascend the throne one day.

Kay Cannon was a woman I’d known from the Chicago improv world. A beautiful, strong midwestern gal who had played lots of sports and run track in college, Kay had submitted a good writing sample, but I was more impressed by her athlete’s approach to the world. She has a can-do attitude, a willingness to learn through practice, and she was comfortable being coached. Her success at the show is a testament to why all parents should make their daughters pursue team sports instead of pageants. Not that Kay couldn’t win a beauty pageant - she could, as long as for the talent competition she could sing a karaoke version of ‘Redneck Woman’ while shooting a Nerf rifle.

As I come to understand the many talents and characteristics of women, I realize how needed their strengths are in this dispensation. We must remember that we are daughters of God here to provide nurturing care for one another, family and friends--loving care to soften the changes of life felt by all. What a great opportunity we have to fill our God-given role. He has given us the privilege to shape the lives of those entrusted to our care. Even those of us who have not been blessed to have children of our own can still be influential as trainers and nurturers. It does not matter where we live, whether we are rich or poor, whether our family is large or small. Each of us can share that Christ-like love in our "motherly ministry.

Every day I wake up is a day I’ve fought for. Every mistake, every laugh, every tear, and every sunrise; I’ve earned through the years of abuse and pain. I carry those memories with me as a reminder of who I am and what’s truly worth fighting for. And if you aren’t able to see that, I’m afraid your soul searching talents are highly suspect.

Dear Daughter, No one is born more special than others. Everyone is born with a special gift. Know yours and nurture it.

How long shall the fair daughters of Africa be compelled to bury their minds and talents beneath a load of iron pots and kettles?”2

most common people oft he market-place much prefer light literature to improving books. The problem is, that so many romances contain slanderous anecdotes about sovereigns and ministers or cast aspersions upon man’s wives and daughters so that they are packed with sex and violence. Even worse are those writers of the breeze-and-moonlight school, who corrupt the young with pornography and filth. As for books of the beauty-and-talented-scholar type, a thousand are written to a single pattern and none escapes bordering on indecency. They are filled with allusions to handsome, talented young men and beautiful, refined girls in history; but in order to insert a couple of his own love poems, the author invents stereotyped heroes and heroines with the inevitable low character to make trouble between them like a clown in a play, and makes even the slave girls talk pedantic nonsense. So all these novels are full of contradictions and absurdly unnatural.

Generations of parents have upheld this line if thinking. When a daughter showed a promise of talent, they saw it as a curse and worried that she would die young. Eventually, the very lack of talent became a sure sign of virtue for women.

My wife's name was Mala. The marriage had been arranged by my older brother and his wife. I regarded the proposition with neither objection nor enthusiasm. It was a duty expected of me, as it was expected of every man. She was the daughter of a schoolteacher in Beleghata. I was told that she could cook, knit, embroider, sketch landscapes, and recite poems by Tagore, but these talents could not make up for the fact that she did not possess a fair complexion, and so a string of men had rejected her to her face. She was twenty-seven, an age when her parents had begun to fear that she would never marry, and so they were willing to ship their only child halfway across the world in order to save her from spinsterhood.

Joanna, like her daughters, was neither old nor young, and yet their physical appearances corresponded to their particular talents. Depending on the situation, Freya could be anywhere from sixteen to twenty-three years of age, the first blush of Love, while Ingrid, keeper of the Hearth, looked and acted anywhere from twenty-seven to thirty-five; and since Wisdom came from experience, even if in her heart she might feel like a schoolgirl, Joanna's features were those of an older woman in her early sixties.

It’s universal. The mother-in-law respects the daughter-in-law because her income has improved the life of the family. When we women can use our talent and energy, we begin to speak in our own voices for our own values, and that makes everybody’s life better.

I use the word “suit” because I am writing in English, but the French tailleur—she would naturally think of clothes in French—makes intelligible that one would travel from Marrakech to the Outer Hebrides to examine the work of a number of weavers, perhaps to establish a relationship with a weaver of real gifts. It makes intelligible that one would bring one’s daughter, so that she might develop an eye for excellence in the fabric, know the marks of workmanship of real quality, observe how one develops an understanding with a craftsman of talent. The word “suit,” I think, makes this look quite mad.

He was scowling. "What the hell? If I had a daughter and she was dating a guy like me, I'd take him out back and threaten him with a shotgun to make sure he treated her right." Kit's mouth fell open. "You?" "Yeah." He folded his arms, his scowl growing heavier. "Jeez, Kit, he didn't even tell me to be good to you. That's bullshit." Realizing he was dead serious, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "Where did you pick up this chivalrous instinct?" "My father," he said, the sneer that usually accompanied any mention of Robert St. John missing from his voice. "He's a son of a bitch, but he brought me up to look after any women under my care." "Under your care?" Kit raised an eyebrow. "Chauvinistic much?" He shrugged. "Yeah, well, maybe it is, but I'm not changing. My imaginary daughters are never dating musicians. Ever." Stomach somersaulting at the idea of little girls with Noah's features and talent, she shook her head. "Noah St. John, bad boy of rock and concerned father of imaginary daughters. Hell hath frozen over and become an ice rink.

During the ten-day voyage Tom lived in a peculiar atmosphere of doom and of heroic, unselfish courage. He imagined strange things: Mrs. Cartwright’s daughter falling overboard and he jumping after her and saving her. Or fighting through the waters of a ruptured bulkhead to close the breach with his own body. He felt possessed of a preternatural strength and fearlessness.

He leaned toward her father. “ ’Tis true, I am a murderer, a liar, and a thief. ’Tis equally true that I will use whatever monstrous talents I possess to keep your daughter at my side. You can take Avalene to a convent at the ends of the earth and I will find her and steal her away again. I will lie to God, himself, to free her. I will protect her with my life, and I will murder anyone who threatens her.

No amount of black girl magic, no repeated proclamations of our worth can fully treat the wound – although acknowledging its persistence is a beginning. The ultimate remedy, as I see it is supernatural. I look daily toward heaven for restoration, for spiritual healing. My true identity isn’t rooted in our history, grievous and glorious as it is. It is grounded in my designation as a Child of God, the Daughter of the Great Physician. In His care I find my cure. My hope for you is the same one I carry for myself. I pray that amid the heartache of our ancestry you can grant yourself the grace so seldom extended to us. I pray that you can pass that compassion on to your children and to their children so that it slathers comfort on our sore spots. I pray that, as a people, we can give ourselves a soft place to land. I pray even as we rightly express our fury as being regarded as sub-human, that we don’t dwell in that space. That we don’t allow anger to poison our spirits. That we embrace love as our One True Antidote. I hope, too, that you recognize your specialness, the distinctiveness the Creator has imbued us with. I see you as clearly as history has, and in unison with it, I nod. I know that swivel in your hips, that fervor in your testimony, that ebullience in your stride, that flair in your song. The fact that others are constantly trying to diminish you, ever attempting to dismiss your talents even as they mimic you, is proof of your uniqueness! No one bothers to undermine you unless they recognize your brilliance. More than anything, I pray that you can carve out a purpose for yourself, a calling beyond your own survival, a sweet offering to the world. You gain a life by giving yours away. Not everyone is meant to raise a picket sign, and yet each of us can choose a path of impact. Rearing your children with affection and warmth is a form of activism. Honoring your word impeccably is a way to raise your voice. Performing your job with excellence, with your chin high and your standards higher is as powerful as any protest march. Sowing into the lives of young people is a worthy crusade. That is what it means to leave this world of ours more lit up than we found it. It’s also what it means to lead a magnificent life, even if an unlikely one.

The engulfing mother smothers, seemingly unaware of her daughter’s unique needs or desires. Perhaps you were raised like this. If so, it is likely that the natural talents you had, the dreams you wanted to pursue, and maybe even the relationships most important to you were rarely nurtured. Your mother constantly sent messages to you about who she needed you to be, instead of validating who you really were. Desperate to merit her love and approval, you conformed, and in the process, lost yourself.

I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay figures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others.

And Ash had said to that mother, “Well, if she’s thinking about going into directing, she has to really, really want it. That’s the first thing. Because if she doesn’t, then there’s no point in putting herself through all of this, because it’s incredibly hard and dispiriting. But if she does really, really want it, and if she seems to have a talent for it, then I think you should tell her, ‘That’s wonderful.’ Because the truth is, the world will probably whittle your daughter down. But a mother never should.

Once, a few years earlier, Jules had gone to see a play at Ash’s theater, and afterward, during the “talkback,” when the audience asked questions of the playwright and of Ash, who’d directed the production, a woman stood up and said, “This one is for Ms. Wolf. My daughter wants to be a director too. She’s applying to graduate school in directing, but I know very well that there are no jobs, and that she’s probably only going to have her dreams dashed. Shouldn’t I encourage her to do something else, to find some other field she can get into before too much time goes by?” And Ash had said to that mother, “Well, if she’s thinking about going into directing, she has to really, really want it. That’s the first thing. Because if she doesn’t, then there’s no point in putting herself through all of this, because it’s incredibly hard and dispiriting. But if she does really, really want it, and if she seems to have a talent for it, then I think you should tell her, ‘That’s wonderful.’ Because the truth is, the world will probably whittle your daughter down. But a mother never should.

Religion has torn a lot of people to pieces. Whenever it has embarked on a quest for purity, crusaded for certainty, strived for survival, religion has done so at a great cost, asking so many humans to ignore their conscience, to pretend to believe things they don't really believe, to squeeze into ill-fitting gender roles and cultural norms, to snuff out desires and squander talents, to live one way during the week and another on Sunday morning, to sacrifice sons and daughters on the altar of conformity, to feign certainty, to fake happiness, to strive for perfection, to look the other way in the presence of injustice - indeed, to renounce some aspect of their very humanity.

Finally, this is, in many ways, a book about a young man’s long journey back to a place he can call home. Writing his story has reminded me again and again that no one is more blessed by his home life than I am. I want to thank the three lovely and intelligent women who make it so: my daughters, Emi and Bobi—each of whom has lent her own unique talents to the making of this book—and my wife, Sharon. Her thoughtful reading of the manuscript, her many conversations with me about it, and her deeply insightful comments and suggestions have vastly improved it on every conceivable level. Her love, her confidence, and her continual support have made writing it possible in the first place. Without her, there would be no books.

I kept so many things, and consumed the wrong things, all because I never felt like I was good enough. I wasn’t smart enough or professional enough or talented enough or creative enough. I didn’t trust that who I was or what I brought to the table in any situation was already unique, so I bought things that could make me better. Then I spent a year sorting through the mess and figuring out who I really was. A writer and a reader. Hiker and traveler. Dog owner and animal lover. Sister, daughter, and friend. It turned out I had never been someone who valued material objects. I valued the people in my life and the experiences we shared together. None of that could be found in the belongings in my home. It had always been in my heart.

Sumptuary laws were passed by the Senate limiting expenditure on banquets and clothing, but as the senators ignored these regulations, no one bothered to observe them. “The citizens,” Cato mourned, “no longer listen to good advice, for the belly has no ears.”9 The individual became rebelliously conscious of himself as against the state, the son as against the father, the woman as against the man. Usually the power of woman rises with the wealth of a society, for when the stomach is satisfied hunger leaves the field to love. Prostitution flourished. Homosexualism was stimulated by contact with Greece and Asia; many rich men paid a talent ($3600) for a male favorite; Cato complained that a pretty boy cost more than a farm.10 But women did not yield the field to these Greek and Syrian invaders. They took eagerly to all those supports of beauty that wealth now put within their reach. Cosmetics became a necessity, and caustic soap imported from Gaul tinged graying hair into auburn locks.11 The rich bourgeois took pride in adorning his wife and daughter with costly clothing or jewelry and made them the town criers of his prosperity. Even in government the role of women grew. Cato cried out that “all other men rule over women; but we Romans, who rule all men, are ruled by our women.”12 In 195 B.C.. the free women of Rome swept into the Forum and demanded the repeal of the Oppian Law of 215, which had forbidden women to use gold ornaments, varicolored dresses, or chariots. Cato predicted the ruin of Rome if the law should be repealed. Livy puts into his mouth a speech that every generation has heard:

The bond between the narcissistic father and their child exists, but it is unhealthy and not based on mutual respect and love, but on shame and guilt. Such a father projects his deepest fears of inadequacies, shame and rejection on their children, but they also do the same for their ambitions, unrealistic qualities, imagined authority and false sense of personal power, grandiosity and success. Based on these two they give their children the roles of the scapegoat and the golden child where the first one becomes the embodiment of the narcissistic fathers’ fears and the second one becomes the embodiment of their ideals. Neither of these are based in reality and are never a reflection of a child's real potential, skill, character or talent. The scapegoated child is the one who is ultimately the greatest threat to a narcissist's false sense of self-importance, and so that child will be the one to be discarded and rejected.

Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly of their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

However this future evolves, we will have to answer a pressing question: How will writers (or anyone else who creates content that can be digitized, from movies to music to apps to journalism) make a living in an era in which digital content can be freely replicated? That is now my greatest worry as I contemplate the so-called writing life that I hope to continue—and that I hope my daughter and all future generations will continue. For three hundred years, ever since the Statute of Anne was established in Britain, there has been a system under which people who created things, such as books or articles or music or pictures, had a right to benefit from copies that were made of them. Because of this “copyright” system, we have encouraged and rewarded three centuries of creativity in various fields of endeavor, and this has produced a flourishing economy based on the creation by talented individuals of intellectual property. Among other things, this allowed all sorts of people, ranging from Walker Percy on down to me, to make a living at the so-called writing life. May the next generation enjoy that delightful opportunity as well.

Mr Plornish to the Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law's difficulties coming to that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour. But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and no Old Men's Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter's admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father's talents as she could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; and for Mrs Plornish

5236 rue St. Urbain The baby girl was a quick learner, having synthesized a full range of traits of both of her parents, the charming and the devious. Of all the toddlers in the neighbourhood, she was the first to learn to read and also the first to tear out the pages. Within months she mastered the grilling of the steaks and soon thereafter presented reasons to not grill the steaks. She was the first to promote a new visceral style of physical comedy as a means of reinvigorate the social potential of satire, and the first to declare the movement over. She appreciated the qualities of movement and speed, but also understood the necessity of slowness and leisure. She quickly learned the importance of ladders. She invented games with numerous chess-boards, matches and glasses of unfinished wine. Her parents, being both responsible and duplicitous people, came up with a plan to protect themselves, their apartment and belongings, while also providing an environment to encourage the open development of their daughter's obvious talents. They scheduled time off work, put on their pajamas and let the routines of the apartment go. They put their most cherished books right at her eye-level and gave her a chrome lighter. They blended the contents of the fridge and poured it into bowls they left on the floor. They took to napping in the living room, waking only to wipe their noses on the picture books and look blankly at the costumed characters on the TV shows. They made a fuss for their daughter's attention and cried when she wandered off; they bit or punched each other when she out of the room, and accused the other when she came in, looking frustrated. They made a mess of their pants when she drank too much, and let her figure out the fire extinguisher when their cigarettes set the blankets smoldering. They made her laugh with cute songs and then put clothes pins on the cat's tail. Eventually things found their rhythm. More than once the three of them found their faces waxened with tears, unable to decide if they had been crying, laughing, or if it had all been a reflex, like drooling. They took turns in the bath. Parents and children--it is odd when you trigger instinctive behaviour in either of them--like survival, like nurture. It's alright to test their capabilities, but they can hurt themselves if they go too far. It can be helpful to imagine them all gorging on their favourite food until their bellies ache. Fall came and the family went to school together.

You might expect that if you spent such an extended period in twelve different households, what you would gather is twelve different ideas about how to raise children: there would be the strict parents and the lax parents and the hyperinvolved parents and the mellow parents and on and on. What Lareau found, however, is something much different. There were only two parenting “philosophies,” and they divided almost perfectly along class lines. The wealthier parents raised their kids one way, and the poorer parents raised their kids another way. The wealthier parents were heavily involved in their children’s free time, shuttling them from one activity to the next, quizzing them about their teachers and coaches and teammates. One of the well-off children Lareau followed played on a baseball team, two soccer teams, a swim team, and a basketball team in the summer, as well as playing in an orchestra and taking piano lessons. That kind of intensive scheduling was almost entirely absent from the lives of the poor children. Play for them wasn’t soccer practice twice a week. It was making up games outside with their siblings and other kids in the neighborhood. What a child did was considered by his or her parents as something separate from the adult world and not particularly consequential. One girl from a working-class family—Katie Brindle—sang in a choir after school. But she signed up for it herself and walked to choir practice on her own. Lareau writes: What Mrs. Brindle doesn’t do that is routine for middle-class mothers is view her daughter’s interest in singing as a signal to look for other ways to help her develop that interest into a formal talent. Similarly Mrs. Brindle does not discuss Katie’s interest in drama or express regret that she cannot afford to cultivate her daughter’s talent. Instead she frames Katie’s skills and interests as character traits—singing and acting are part of what makes Katie “Katie.” She sees the shows her daughter puts on as “cute” and as a way for Katie to “get attention.

The wedding of David and Michal was a glorious affair. Though Saul was normally stingy with his money, he was not so with his daughters. Michal had started the day with a bath followed by a bodily anointing of oil. She wore a linen and silk dress with embroidered cloth of Phoenician purple. Her hair was brushed to a soft perfection and placed beneath her Tyrian style crown of gold. She was bedecked with gold and silver jewelry from Egypt. Bracelets, necklaces, ear coverings and a ring on her nose. She walked through the Gibeah streets in fine calf leather sandals, surrounded by a cadre of dozens of virgin bridesmaid companions dressed in white linen. A band of minstrels led her with rejoicing on tambourine, flute, and lyre. She felt like a queen. She would be a queen one day. She knew that she was marrying the mightiest warrior in all of Israel. The gibborim who had killed the giant Rephaim Philistine, who her own father, the anointed warrior king, could not conquer. All she could think of the entire journey to the palace were the lyrics she first heard her from the lips of her bridegroom upon their first acquaintance. She had never forgot them. They were burned into her heart. He had sung a song of virginal submission to a manly king as a sample of his musical talent to her father. But she knew he had sung those words for her. She knew by the look in his eyes, his unquenchable stare of desire for her. It was like a prophecy. Now those words were coming true, she was going to be living them out any moment. Hear, O daughter, and consider, and incline your ear: forget your people and your father’s house, and the king will desire your beauty. Since he is your lord, bow to him. The people of Israel lined the streets and cheered their beautiful princess as she approached the entranceway to the palace. She could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. Would he sing to her on their wedding night? Would he seduce her with his musical talent before he ravished her? All glorious is the princess in her chamber, with robes interwoven with gold. In many-colored robes she is led to the king, with her virgin companions following behind her. With joy and gladness they are led along as they enter the palace of the king.

As Frank promised, there was no other public explosion. Still. The multiple times when she came home to find him idle again, just sitting on the sofa staring at the rug, were unnerving. She tried; she really tried. But every bit of housework—however minor—was hers: his clothes scattered on the floor, food-encrusted dishes in the sink, ketchup bottles left open, beard hair in the drain, waterlogged towels bunched on bathroom tiles. Lily could go on and on. And did. Complaints grew into one-sided arguments, since he wouldn’t engage. “Where were you?” “Just out.” “Out where?” “Down the street.” Bar? Barbershop? Pool hall. He certainly wasn’t sitting in the park. “Frank, could you rinse the milk bottles before you put them on the stoop?” “Sorry. I’ll do it now.” “Too late. I’ve done it already. You know, I can’t do everything.” “Nobody can.” “But you can do something, can’t you?” “Lily, please. I’ll do anything you want.” “What I want? This place is ours.” The fog of displeasure surrounding Lily thickened. Her resentment was justified by his clear indifference, along with his combination of need and irresponsibility. Their bed work, once so downright good to a young woman who had known no other, became a duty. On that snowy day when he asked to borrow all that money to take care of his sick sister in Georgia, Lily’s disgust fought with relief and lost. She picked up the dog tags he’d left on the bathroom sink and hid them away in a drawer next to her bankbook. Now the apartment was all hers to clean properly, put things where they belonged, and wake up knowing they’d not been moved or smashed to pieces. The loneliness she felt before Frank walked her home from Wang’s cleaners began to dissolve and in its place a shiver of freedom, of earned solitude, of choosing the wall she wanted to break through, minus the burden of shouldering a tilted man. Unobstructed and undistracted, she could get serious and develop a plan to match her ambition and succeed. That was what her parents had taught her and what she had promised them: To choose, they insisted, and not ever be moved. Let no insult or slight knock her off her ground. Or, as her father was fond of misquoting, “Gather up your loins, daughter. You named Lillian Florence Jones after my mother. A tougher lady never lived. Find your talent and drive it.” The afternoon Frank left, Lily moved to the front window, startled to see heavy snowflakes powdering the street. She decided to shop right away in case the weather became an impediment. Once outside, she spotted a leather change purse on the sidewalk. Opening it she saw it was full of coins—mostly quarters and fifty-cent pieces. Immediately she wondered if anybody was watching her. Did the curtains across the street shift a little? The passengers in the car rolling by—did they see? Lily closed the purse and placed it on the porch post. When she returned with a shopping bag full of emergency food and supplies the purse was still there, though covered in a fluff of snow. Lily didn’t look around. Casually she scooped it up and dropped it into the groceries. Later, spread out on the side of the bed where Frank had slept, the coins, cold and bright, seemed a perfectly fair trade. In Frank Money’s empty space real money glittered. Who could mistake a sign that clear? Not Lillian Florence Jones.

Some of these kids are just plain trouble.” Grant glanced over at the boys sitting in the glass-walled box. Mac had been like that, all anger and confusion. He’d been in juvie too, arrested for possession after falling into a gang. Grant was gone. Mom was sick. Dad was a mess. Looking back, Grant wondered if dementia was beginning to take hold back then and no one recognized the symptoms. Lee had been the one who’d coped with Mac’s drug and delinquency problems, and Mom’s deathbed talk had snapped her youngest out of it. A program like this might have helped his brother. “Who knows what those boys have had to deal with in their lives.” Corey’s eyes turned somber. “We’re all sorry about Kate.” Reminded of Kate’s death, Grant’s chest deflated. “And thanks for the help,” Corey said. “These boys can be a handful.” “Is your son on the team?” “No.” Corey nodded toward the rink. A pretty blond teenager executed a spinning jump on the ice. Corey beamed. “That’s my daughter, Regan. She’s on the junior figure skating team with Josh’s daughter, the one in black. The hockey team has the next slot of ice time.” “The girls look very talented.” Even with an ex-skater for a sister-in-law, Grant knew next to nothing about figure skating. He should have paid attention. He should have known Kate better. Josh stood taller. “They are. The team went to the sectional championships last fall. Next year, they’ll make nationals, right, Victor?” Josh gestured toward the coach in the black parka, who had deposited the offenders in the penalty box and was walking back to them. “Victor coaches our daughters.” Joining them, Victor offered a hand. He was a head shorter than Grant, maybe fifty years old or so, with a fit body and salt-and-pepper hair cut as short and sharp as his black eyes. “Victor Church.

At the Platoon Weapons Division, I got to serve with Major (later Lieutenant General) Milan Naidu. Extremely soft-spoken, Milan was married to Neeharika, who was the daughter of Lieutenant Colonel B Awasthy who had been killed by the Chinese in 1962 at the Lagyala Gompa. Originally from 2 Rajput, Awasthy was moving to Mathura to take over the unit which had finished its NEFA tour of duty in Walong. Unfortunately, that was not to be. Neeharika was an extremely talented singer and was quite the star at most social gatherings.

This way of thinking—that God is at best a loving tyrant who only thinks of Himself and His means—is like thinking that my children live to serve me and me alone. It would be like me saying to my daughter, “I don’t care that you like to sing and dance; accounting is what I really want you to do, so if you love me, do it, and forget about all that other stuff.” In truth, that first phrase, “I don’t care,” is totally incongruent with a passionately loving God. He does care. He cares immensely. That’s why He made you the way He did. It’s why He gave you the desires and talents that you have.

I had the opportunity to be part of a movement for change, so that daughters would be cherished as much as sons, and women could achieve whatever their talent and hard work enabled them to achieve. There should be no artificial barriers, no spaces women can’t enter. There were many closed doors in my growing-up years. There was a time when women were not accepted as members of the bar. There were no women judges. Very few women engineers. No women police officers. No women firefighters. No women pilots of planes. Those barriers are now, thank goodness, gone, and women can do whatever their talent enables them to do. Of course, it takes not only talent, but willingness to work hard, to make dreams come true.

Ridicule has been, with some people, the boasted test of truth—if so, our sex ought to make wonderful improvements; but I am apt to think, they often extern this talent till they lose all perception of it themselves. Affectation, and not ignorance, is the fair game for ridicule; and even affectation some good-natured persons will spare. We should never give pain without a design to amend.

Humility, for many Americans, is grounded in the teachings of the Judeo-Christian tradition, in which everyone is equal in the eyes of God because He created us and wants each and every one of us. Compared to God, who made us from dust, we might feel utterly insignificant. BUT (my favorite word in the Bible) God made us, so we have a place and a purpose, and He is willing to fill us with every good thing. All we have to do to escape the suffocating quarters of our own lives, to see ourselves with humility, is to recognize that we alone are not the source of all power, intellect, and talent. As we’re told in the Beatitudes, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frighten us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

The gradual change, from her [Victoria] dominance to his [Albert], was taking place not just in ballrooms but more widely in British society. The genders became more clearly and hierarchically distinguished as the 1830s gave way to the 1840s. A successful marriage, thought Sarah Ellis, writing in 1843, was founded on one important truth. "It is," she counselled her female readers, "the superiority of your husband as a man." "You may have more talent, with higher attainments," she advised them, "but this has nothing whatever to do with your position as a woman, which is, and must be, inferior to his as a man.

Talent is like a pretty feather in the tail of a peacock, daughter. It brings joy to the powerful but only sorrow to the bird.

You are so used to being completely comfortable with yourself and what you say.” “What’s wrong with that?” Hyacinth asked. Not defensively, just quietly. “Nothing. I wish more people had that talent.” Violet clasped her hands together, her left thumb rubbing against her right palm. It was a gesture Hyacinth had seen on her mother countless times, always when she was lost in thought. “But what I think happens,” Violet continued, “is that when you don’t feel that way—when something happens to give you unease—well, you don’t seem to know how to manage it. And you run. Or you decide it isn’t worth it.” She looked at her daughter, her eyes direct and perhaps just a little bit resigned. “And that,” she finally said, “is why I’m afraid you will never find the right man. Or rather, you’ll find him, but you won’t know it. You won’t let yourself know it.

She took detailed notes and dispatched a servant to the Indian missions to procure fine lace produced by young women whose mothers had once worked the quills of porcupines and dyed hairs of moose together into intricate clawed flowers and strict emblems before they died of measles, cholera, smallpox, tuberculosis, and left their daughters dexterous and lonely to the talents of nuns.

Your original upbringing has caused wounding, so to heal you must re-parent yourself. Re-parenting yourself means reaching your inner child, embracing it and then teaching it love instead of fear. We are afraid we are not good enough. We are afraid we are not talented, attractive or successful enough. We are afraid we are not lovable. These fears stemmed from the treatment we received as children and the roles we took in our father’s hierarchy of importance and worthiness. What can help is visualizing yourself as a child, seeing your fears, tears you have cried and how you felt. Once you can do that, the next step is treating yourself as you always wanted to be treated by your father and your family.

Dear Daughter, Nurture your talent. Sell it to the world. It is your market.

But talent, I had learned, was optional. It could be substituted with long nights and early mornings, bleeding feet, obsessively memorized footwork. No one needed talent when you had brute force. And, despite my willowy size and my unassuming doe-eyed smile, I had more brute force than anyone.

The photograph had to be reasonably interesting. Country Life girls did not simply sit for the camera against some featureless backdrop but were pictured striking a pose in surroundings that gave an indication of their normal social milieu or talents. The daughters of major gentry—those with stately homes—might be photographed leaning against a stone pillar, the clear inference being that this was just one of the many stone pillars owned by her father; those who had no stone pillars but who had, say, a small ornamental lake, would be photographed standing in front of this. Those who worked with horses—and this was a large group—might have a hunter in the background, or at least a saddle. Dogs were a popular accoutrement, usually Labradors, who would be at the young woman’s side, ready to retrieve or flush birds, enthusiasts all, and given the same appraising scrutiny by the readers, in many cases, as the young woman herself.

among their diverse talents, is a trauma specialist. Freddie gave me some useful pointers about unlocking nuggets of information buried within the amygdala, the almond-shaped part of the brain where emotions are remembered, analyzed and attached to associations. One of the most invaluable resources that helped us construct this memoir was the contribution to the Yizkor book of Machel Grossman, Tova’s father. For giving us permission to quote liberally from Machel’s writing, I am indebted to JewishGen, the global home of Jewish genealogy, which owns the translation. I am also grateful for the generosity of Kirsten Gradel, widow of Morris Gradel, a distinguished Yiddish

A recent article in the New York Times, “Google, Tell Me. Is My Son a Genius?,” pointed out that parents today are 2.5 times as likely to ask online “Is my son gifted?” than “Is my daughter gifted?” and similarly 2.0 times as likely to inquire “Is my daughter overweight?” as they are for a son.

Dear Daughter, Do your best and use your talents for the glory of your Creator.

Becoming a woman means losing a body almost indistinguishable from a boy’s in terms of strength and solidity and growing into one that is softer, more sexually inviting, but more vulnerable, too. For the first few years, you can feel like a hermit crab who has outgrown a shell it must then abandon, blindly scurrying for another. The armor you eventually take up is of a different sort. You can no longer credibly challenge the boys to an arm-wrestling match and expect to win. Forced to rely on subtler talents, you develop them. You learn to strike with a glance; you learn to soothe with one, too. If done right, you fill your quiver with words, humor, intrigue, and emotion. You’ll spend a lifetime learning when to deploy each to greatest effect—and when to forbear and offer none. But

Becoming a woman means losing a body almost indistinguishable from a boy’s in terms of strength and solidity and growing into one that is softer, more sexually inviting, but more vulnerable, too. For the first few years, you can feel like a hermit crab who has outgrown a shell it must then abandon, blindly scurrying for another. The armor you eventually take up is of a different sort. You can no longer credibly challenge the boys to an arm-wrestling match and expect to win. Forced to rely on subtler talents, you develop them. You learn to strike with a glance; you learn to soothe with one, too. If done right, you fill your quiver with words, humor, intrigue, and emotion. You’ll spend a lifetime learning when to deploy each to greatest effect—and when to forbear and offer none. But for Pete’s sake, whatever type of women young girls become, they should all listen to feminists of a prior era and stop taking sex stereotypes seriously. A young woman can be an astronaut or a nurse; a girl can play with trucks or with dolls. And she may find herself attracted to men or to other women. None of that makes her any less of a girl or any less suited to womanhood. Young women have more educational and career options today than they ever have. Remember to tell your daughter that. Tell her also that a woman’s most unique capacity—childbirth—is perhaps life’s greatest blessing. But whatever else you teach your daughter, remember to include something more. Tell her because the culture so often denies it. Tell her because people will try to make a victim of her. Tell her because it’s natural to doubt. Most of all, tell her because it’s true. She’s lucky. She’s special. She was born a girl. And being a woman is a gift, containing far too many joys to pass up.

So, he didn’t age well. We can’t all be Adonis with a talent for flowers,’ she says with a roll of her eyes. ‘That’s right,’ Jake says. ‘Not everyone can age as well as us.’ He steps up beside me, pulling at the lapel of his jacket with the confidence he never lacks. Once again, Brynn rolls her eyes dramatically. A move she often uses when Jake and I are together. He’s one of my best friends and I’m the one who set the two of them up. Somehow, he swept her cold heart off its feet, and they’re now living in wedded bliss and have added a new character to their lives by way of their two-year-old daughter Zoey. The pair of them run a wedding planning business together. Brynn is the brains, and Jake is the brawn. Besides blood and weddings, Brynn and I don’t have much in common. When I let my

In the German and French pensions, which twenty-five years ago were crowded with American mothers and their daughters who had crossed the seas in search of culture, one often found the mother making real connection with the life about her, using her inadequate German with great fluency, gaily measuring the enormous sheets or exchanging recipes with the German Hausfrau, visiting impartially the nearest kindergarten and market, making an atmosphere of her own, hearty and genuine as far as it went, in the house and on the street. On the other hand, her daughter was critical and uncertain of her linguistic acquirements, and only at ease when in the familiar receptive attitude afforded by the art gallery and opera house. In the latter she was swayed and moved, appreciative of the power and charm of the music, intelligent as to the legend and poetry of the plot, finding use for her trained and developed powers as she sat "being cultivated" in the familiar atmosphere of the classroom which had, as it were, become sublimated and romanticized. I remember a happy busy mother who, complacent with the knowledge that her daughter daily devoted four hours to her music, looked up from her knitting to say, "If I had had your opportunities when I was young, my dear, I should have been a very happy girl. I always had musical talent, but such training as I had, foolish little songs and waltzes and not time for half an hour's practice a day." The mother did not dream of the sting her words left and that the sensitive girl appreciated only too well that her opportunities were fine and unusual, but she also knew that in spite of some facility and much good teaching she had no genuine talent and never would fulfill the expectations of her friends. She looked back upon her mother's girlhood with positive envy because it was so full of happy industry and extenuating obstacles, with undisturbed opportunity to believe that her talents were unusual. The girl looked wistfully at her mother, but had not the courage to cry out what was in her heart: "I might believe I had unusual talent if I did not know what good music was; I might enjoy half an hour's practice a day if I were busy and happy the rest of the time. You do not know what life means when all the difficulties are removed! I am simply smothered and sickened with advantages. It is like eating a sweet dessert the first thing in the morning.

The ban uncovered the truth, which was that when you decide to want less, you can buy less and, ultimately, need less money. Decluttering and purging 70 percent of my belongings came with different lessons. I realized I had spent the first 29 years of my life doing and buying whatever I could to be someone I thought I should be. I kept so many things, and consumed the wrong things, all because I never felt like I was good enough. I wasn’t smart enough or professional enough or talented enough or creative enough. I didn’t trust that who I was or what I brought to the table in any situation was already unique, so I bought things that could make me better. Then I spent a year sorting through the mess and figuring out who I really was. A writer and a reader. Hiker and traveler. Dog owner and animal lover. Sister, daughter, and friend. It turned out I had never been someone who valued material objects. I valued the people in my life and the experiences we shared together. None of that could be found in the belongings in my home. It had always been in my heart.

What is negated is the rhetoric regarding obsession for gold as the dowry is that the parents have a choice to express their care and love for their daughter in a different form where they invest the resources in her education and training to help her acquire skills, nurture her talents, develop her aptitude, build her capacities, and make her independent from the very beginning of her life, so that in case of any emergency, she may face challenges to survive and flourish in any circumstances. Preparing her to get gold medals and accolades in any skill, may be prioritized rather than giving gold at the time of marriage.

In the years to come, Elizabeth would use her talent for illustration to benefit her favourite charities, producing books of illustration and donating the profits from their sale.

He leaned back and laughed softly. “You truly are my daughter.” “That’s not a compliment.” He smiled at me the way one would smile at a talented but naive child. I pictured kicking him in the head. I’d die a second later, but it would be so satisfying.

Instead, I said, “Now she kills men in streets.” “It’s been less than a year since she received control from the advisors that ruled in her stead during her childhood. She had that power for weeks before she started getting tyrannical.” He said it with such disdain, and though I didn’t know the word itself, I knew well enough what he meant. Especially when I thought of that blood spilling over the stairs, seeping at Max’s feet. But something didn’t sit right. “What does she want?” I asked. Max scoffed. “Does it matter? Power. Revenge. Who knows.” I shook my head. I had been excellent at the role I played at Esmaris’s estate, and it wasn’t because I was the most beautiful girl or the most talented or the best dancer. It was because, every single time I turned my attention to a man, I asked, What does he want? “Is more complicated and more simple than that,” I said. “Always.

BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS Throughout the story, there is significant friction between Rory and Camilla, much of which stems from Camilla’s need to manage her daughter’s life. In what ways, if any, do you feel Rory contributes to the chronic tension between them? Soline’s mother, Esmée, believes that each of us creates a unique echo in the world and that those echoes are constantly seeking their match—in order to become complete. Do you believe such a thing is possible? One of the threads running through the book touches on the tendency of daughters to repeat their mothers’ mistakes, especially in relationship matters. Have you or someone you know experienced this in real life? If so, was the pattern eventually recognized and broken? The theme of chasing one’s dreams figures prominently in the journeys of both Rory and Soline. From an early age, Soline was taught that the work they did was a sacred vocation for which the Roussels had been especially chosen, and Hux once told Rory that the dream of opening an art gallery had her name all over it. Do you believe we are each given a calling in life, a talent or gift that feeds our soul and benefits others? “Everything happens for a reason” is a commonly used axiom, particularly when events suddenly turn our lives upside down. Throughout the book, Rory’s and Soline’s lives are upended by a series of seeming coincidences, causing them to wonder if some unseen hand might be at work. Do you believe that certain things are meant to be? That some benevolent force is trying to guide us to our highest good? Or is everything random? Rory tells Soline that she and Camilla push each other’s buttons. Soline understands, but at times she seems to side with Camilla, perhaps because she had a similar relationship with her own mother. What parallels did you note in the relationships between Soline and Esmée and Rory and Camilla? By the end of the book, it seems obvious that Soline has come into Rory’s life for a reason and that the reverse is also true. In the end, each has irrevocably altered the other’s life. Have you ever had someone come into your life, even briefly, who you feel came to teach you a lesson or help you find your path? On her deathbed, Esmée tells Soline about the father she never knew, a man Esmée loved dearly but sent away out of obedience to her mother. She speaks to her daughter about a grief worse than death—the grief of a life half-lived. How do you think these revelations affect Soline’s choices when Anson suddenly reappears in her life? One of Esmée’s quotes is about forgiveness. She says forgiveness is the greatest magick of all and that it makes all things new. Do you believe in the power of forgiveness? If so, is it true in all things, or are there certain things that can never be made new?

I had been excellent at the role I played at Esmaris’s estate, and it wasn’t because I was the most beautiful girl or the most talented or the best dancer. It was because, every single time I turned my attention to a man, I asked, What does he want? “Is more complicated and more simple than that,” I said. “Always.” The man I whored myself to didn’t want sex. Not really. He wanted to feel powerful. Specifically, more powerful than Esmaris. And once I figured that out, he was butter in my hands. Oh no, I couldn’t, he would be so upset, he would never allow it. And that price went up and up and up.

Happy Birthday, Daughter! THEN: You were a HAPPY and enjoyable baby girl that brought me SO much happiness and joy! NOW: You are an amazing, talented, smart, and beautiful woman with a genuine soul. I respect and admire your strength, resilience, and ambition. I believe in you! I know you will succeed in every area of your life, because you are Phenomenal. I love you, I’m here for you, and I’ll ALWAYS be in your corner. Love, Mom.

Parents aspire for their children to excel academically and develop their talents, but mainstream celebrities often encourage them to prioritize drug consumption and mindless entertainment over educational pursuits. Parents hope for their daughters to maintain their purity and innocence, yet idols continuously promote looseness and self-objectification as virtuous behaviors. Parents also want their children to prioritize their health and to lead a wholesome lifestyle, yet modern music celebrities often glamorize drug use, portraying it as a masculine and cool pursuit. Alternatively, parents often aim to instill a growth mindset and a strong work ethic in their children. Yet, the musical icons often glorify hedonist pursuits and short-term gratification. In light of these toxic messages incessantly inundating the airwaves, it is hardly surprising to see so many individuals leading self-destructive lives or harboring toxic misconceptions about life’s true essence. They have unwittingly followed the wrong role models, heeded the wrong idols, and are now grappling with the consequences of such misguided influence.

Fire, Water, Earth, Air. The four elemental Talents of magic that I recalled from her previous lessons.

Her father doesn’t like me.” “He doesn’t know you yet.” “He knows I’m deaf and that I’m all tatted up.” I look down at my arms. Every single tattoo means something to me. I wouldn’t erase them if I could. Paul shrugs. “And neither of those things makes you bad for his daughter.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Getting her pregnant, on the other hand…” He lets his thoughts trail off. “He brought her ex-boyfriend to New York to live with her. That’s why she’s here at our apartment.” Paul purses his lips like he’s whistling. “Sorry,” he says, when he remembers I can’t hear whatever noise he’s making. “That’s shit.” “She refused to stay there.” “Good girl,” he says with a smile. “I knew I liked her.” “Her father is going to be a problem.” “Win him over, dumbass,” he says. “You’re smart. You want to succeed. You’re talented as hell. And you love his daughter. He’ll get over the tats and you not being able to hear.” He motions absently toward his ears. I’ve been deaf so long that my family doesn’t see it as a handicap. Neither do I. I push to my feet. “I’m going to bed.” Paul arches his brow at me. “None of your fucking business,” I grouse. But I rub his head as I walk by, and he shoves my hip to get me away from him. “Love you, dumbass,” I say. “Love you better,” he replies.

heart thumped painfully against her ribs. “Will you come to Paris with me?” That wasn’t what she’d wanted to ask, but it was close. Elijah’s expression didn’t change. “Paris stinks, it’s full of Frenchmen, and they have addled notions of chivalry. Why do you want to go to Paris, Genevieve?” He hadn’t said no. Jenny clung to that and to his hand. “I don’t want to go to Paris, and I’m not sure I ever did. I don’t want to go anywhere that means I can’t be with you.” “Do you want a travel companion, Genevieve? If that’s what you’re asking, then I must refuse the honor.” Pain threatened to buckle Jenny’s knees. “Not a travel companion. Not just that.” “Somebody to paint with and appreciate art?” “Not that either.” Because she would set aside her artistic aspirations happily in favor of creating a life with him. “Good, because as much as I admire your talent and dedication, as much as I would enjoy seeing all the great capitals and treasures of the Continent—of the world—with you, I would decline that invitation too.” It dawned on Jenny that he wanted her to ask a different question. “What invitation would you accept? Tell me, Elijah, and I will extend it.” He took a step closer. “You already have. You have invited me to love you, and I do, Genevieve. I love your heart, I love your gentleness and determination, I love your concern for all around you, and I love your kisses.” He kissed her, a quick punctuation mark at the end of a lovely little list. “But you won’t travel with me?” “I’ve seen the wonders of the Continent, Genevieve. Stared at them for so long I was blind to much else, such as the wonders of a loving family and a welcoming home. Marry me, and I will happily explore those more impressive wonders with you, regardless of what country we find ourselves in.” Marry me. The question she hadn’t known how to ask him. Jenny bundled into Elijah’s arms. “Yes. Yes to the family and the home, yes to becoming your wife. Nothing would make me happier.” In

Will you come to Paris with me?” That wasn’t what she’d wanted to ask, but it was close. Elijah’s expression didn’t change. “Paris stinks, it’s full of Frenchmen, and they have addled notions of chivalry. Why do you want to go to Paris, Genevieve?” He hadn’t said no. Jenny clung to that and to his hand. “I don’t want to go to Paris, and I’m not sure I ever did. I don’t want to go anywhere that means I can’t be with you.” “Do you want a travel companion, Genevieve? If that’s what you’re asking, then I must refuse the honor.” Pain threatened to buckle Jenny’s knees. “Not a travel companion. Not just that.” “Somebody to paint with and appreciate art?” “Not that either.” Because she would set aside her artistic aspirations happily in favor of creating a life with him. “Good, because as much as I admire your talent and dedication, as much as I would enjoy seeing all the great capitals and treasures of the Continent—of the world—with you, I would decline that invitation too.” It dawned on Jenny that he wanted her to ask a different question. “What invitation would you accept? Tell me, Elijah, and I will extend it.” He took a step closer. “You already have. You have invited me to love you, and I do, Genevieve. I love your heart, I love your gentleness and determination, I love your concern for all around you, and I love your kisses.” He kissed her, a quick punctuation mark at the end of a lovely little list. “But you won’t travel with me?” “I’ve seen the wonders of the Continent, Genevieve. Stared at them for so long I was blind to much else, such as the wonders of a loving family and a welcoming home. Marry me, and I will happily explore those more impressive wonders with you, regardless of what country we find ourselves in.” Marry me. The question she hadn’t known how to ask him. Jenny bundled into Elijah’s arms. “Yes. Yes to the family and the home, yes to becoming your wife. Nothing would make me happier.” In

Jenny wanted to tell him he was an idiot. She wanted to tell him that young men rode off, full of themselves, their talent, and their invincible honor, and they came back in coffins. When they were dead, one couldn’t write them letters, couldn’t apologize, couldn’t explain what had driven one to sharp words and stupid taunts. “Tell

Jenny, what can I do to help?” Westhaven’s expression was merely genial, but in his words, Jenny heard determination and that most dratted of holiday gifts, sibling concern. “Help?” “You’re quiet as a dormouse. Maggie says you’re chewing your nails. Louisa reports that you’re taking odd notions, and Sophie won’t say anything, but she’s clearly worried. Her Grace muttered something about regretting all the time she’s permitted you to spend among the paint fumes.” “What would Her Grace know of paint fumes?” What would the duchess know of anything relating to painting? “She’s our mother. Where knowledge fails, maternal instinct serves. Is Bernward troubling you?” Westhaven was an excellent dancer, and if Jenny did not finish the dance with him, Her Grace would casually suggest that tomorrow be a day to rest from the activity in the studio. The idea made Jenny desperate. “Westhaven, you must not involve yourself in anything to do with Elijah.” “Elijah.” Westhaven’s gaze shifted to a spot over Jenny’s shoulder. “And does he call you Jenny?” He calls me Genevieve, and sometimes he even calls me “woman.” “He calls me talented and brilliant but uneducated and unorthodox too. I’ve enjoyed working with him these past weeks more than anything—” “Excuse me.” Elijah had tapped Westhaven on the shoulder. “May I cut in?” Westhaven’s smile was diabolical. “Of course. Jenny would never decline an opportunity to dance with a family friend.” Family friend? Her blighted, interfering, perishing brother was laying it on quite thick. Elijah bowed. “Lady Genevieve, may I have what remains of this dance?” Two days remained. Two days and three nights. Jenny curtsied and assumed waltz position. As Elijah’s hand settled on her back, his scent wafted to her, enveloping her in his presence. “You’re avoiding me,” he said. “You needn’t. I’ll be leaving soon, and I hope we can at least part friends.” With her siblings, she could dissemble and maintain appearances, but with Elijah… “I am honored you think me a friend, Elijah.” And he danced wonderfully, with the same sense of assurance and mastery that he undertook painting… and lovemaking. “I am your friend too, Genevieve.

She was going to clobber him with her sketchbook then dance a gavotte on his elegant, talented fingers while wearing her riding boots. “This

He rose and held out a hand to her, and Jenny hoped it wasn’t the whisky inspiring Elijah’s overture. She gave him her hand and was tugged into an embrace, Elijah’s cheek resting against her hair. “While you sketch your cat, visit the sick with your mother, and seethe with frustrated artistic talent. Let’s hear a curse, Genevieve. Let the drink, the lateness of hour, and the company inspire you, hmm?” No cat came between them, no stays, no layers of proper attire. Held against Elijah’s body, Jenny felt the implacable structure of a large, fit man. His person was as soft and giving as a sculptor’s block of raw marble, but much, much warmer. “The only curse I know is damn—double damn.” “That’s a start, like a few lines on a page. Damn has promise, but it needs embellishment. Bloody double damn?” He spoke near her ear, his breath tickling her neck. “Bloody is vulgar and graphic. Also quite naughty, and daring.” “All the better. Come, let’s be vulgar and graphic on the subject of my sketches for the day.” He

The Girl Guides kept up their activities as well, giving Elizabeth an unexpectedly democratic experience when refugees from London’s bomb-ravaged East End were taken in by families on the Windsor estate and joined the troop. The girls earned their cooking badges, with instruction from a castle housekeeper, by baking cakes and scones (a talent Elizabeth would later display for a U.S. president) and making stew and soup. With their Cockney accents and rough ways, the refugees gave the future Queen no deference, calling her Lilibet, the nickname even daughters of aristocrats were forbidden to use, and compelling her to wash dishes in an oily tub of water

I believe every day should begin and end with gratitude. I practice it every day in my morning meditation. Each morning, focusing on the reverse gap, I think of five things I’m grateful for in my personal life. Then I think of five things I’m grateful for in my work and career. A typical list might look like this: PERSONAL LIFE 1.​My daughter, Eve, and her beautiful smiles 2.​The happiness I felt last night relaxing with a glass of red wine and watching Sherlock on BBC 3.​My wife and life partner 4.​The time I spent with my son building his newest Lego Star Wars creation 5.​The wonderful cup of gourmet coffee my publicist, Tania, left on my desk WORK LIFE 1.​My leadership team and the amazing talent they bring to our company 2.​A particularly great letter we received for my online course Consciousness Engineering 3.​The incredibly fun Culture Day we had in the office yesterday 4.​The fact that plans are coming together to hold our upcoming A-Fest at another amazing location 5.​Having coworkers who are friends and who greet me with hugs when I come to the office This entire practice takes me no more than ninety seconds. But it’s perhaps one of the most important and powerful ninety seconds I can spend each day.

There were giants striding the screen in the 1930s and ’40s: four actresses so talented, hardworking and versatile that they became laws unto themselves. Joan Crawford and Bette Davis have also become high-camp figures of fun, as they both had such wildly theatrical offscreen lives, and their performances could sometimes veer into self-parody. But Barbara Stanwyck and Claudette Colbert stand the test of time in each and every film: our memories of them are not overshadowed by scandals or vituperative daughters. One rarely sees a Stanwyck or Colbert drag queen. But these ladies were fully the equal—sometimes the superior—of Davis and Crawford.

Cohen was so shallow it was almost a talent.

I know you’re a talented little actress, Eliza, Samuel had said. You must make Thomas believe you don’t want him, that you want me instead. Because, deep in your heart I know that’s what you want. Don’t try to warn him or send him any kind of message. I’ll be listening. If he so much as follows us, he’s dead.

THE REASON WHY all this has to be stated here is simply that women, who could state it much better, have almost unanimously refrained from discussing such matters at all. One finds, indeed, a sort of general conspiracy, infinitely alert and jealous, against the publication of the esoteric wisdom of the sex, and even against the acknowledgment that any such body of erudition exists at all. Men, having more vanity and less discretion, are a good deal less cautious. There is, in fact, a whole literature of masculine babbling, ranging from Machiavelli's appalling confession of political theory to the egoistic confidences of such men as Nietzsche, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Casanova, Max Stirner, Benvenuto Cellini, Napoleon Bonaparte and Lord Chesterfield. But it is very rarely that a Marie Bashkirtsev or Margot Asquith lets down the veils which conceal the acroamatic doctrine of the other sex. It is transmitted from mother to daughter, so to speak, behind the door. One observes its practical workings, but hears little about its principles. The causes of this secrecy are obvious. Women, in the last analysis, can prevail against men in the great struggle for power and security only by keeping them disarmed, and, in the main, unwarned. In a pitched battle, with the devil taking the hindmost, their physical and economic inferiority would inevitably bring them to disaster. Thus they have to apply their peculiar talents warily, and with due regard to the danger of arousing the foe. He must be attacked without any formal challenge, and even without any suspicion of challenge. This strategy lies at the heart of what Nietzsche called the slave morality--in brief, a morality based upon a concealment of egoistic purpose, a code of ethics having for its foremost character a bold denial of its actual aim.

If we train her, honing her skills as a chef to the very utmost of her considerable ability... ... then it's possible we could delay the day the storm takes her. We must raise Erina to be the greatest chef the Nakiri Family has ever produced! And to do so, we must find them! Find the perfect rocks that will polish her to a mirror shine... A Veritable Generation of Diamonds! Professor Hayama. I hear your student Shiomi has found an intriguing boy overseas." "S-Sir Senzaemon! How did you...?!" "Oh, I simply happened to overhear it. Have you thought of bringing that boy to Japan and enrolling him here?" "What?! B-but, sir! Not only is Akira a foreigner, he's an orphan of unknown origins! Is such a thing even possible?!" "I will speak with the Ministry of Justice. Whether it be through bribery or sheer force... I will see to it that they grant Akira Hayama Japanese citizenship." "Darling... You know that boy from the harbor pub? Now Alice is insisting that he come with her back to Japan, and she won't listen to reason. Father is right. For Mana's sake... ... I will help him with his plan. If Alice wants to bring Ryo Kurokiba, then so be it! He will learn at Totsuki alongside her! I've heard all the rumors about them, you know. So you have not one but two highly talented nephews? How wonderful! Their futures look bright indeed. Say... have you thought of sending them to our Institute? I'm sure the Aldini Brothers would do well there." "Okay, okay. You win. Geez. Stubborn old coot. But don't come crying to me... ... if Soma flips the tables on your grandkid and uses her as a steppingstone." Competing against Erina just may destroy the confidence of these children, but so be it! I'm fully aware that this plan is an imperious use of my power for personal gain... ... but I'm willing to make any sacrifice! I will do whatever it takes to make Erina into a light of hope! Then I will show her to Mana... Through her own daughter she will see... ... that there is yet hope and promise in cooking!"

We each have a special talent. Some people can sing opera or learn foreign languages. I grow hair.

Some Mind Talents could compel others against their will to perform their bidding. A heinous act. Imagine, being forced to attack someone? To harm those you love?

You are you. And this world needs you. Not a you who’s more like her. But you. A strong, confident, humble you. A woman who keeps her eyes on Jesus and knows who she is in him. A woman who rests in her identity in Christ. You are God’s daughter, and you are loved, cherished, and wonderfully made. You were given gifts and talents to be used for his kingdom. You bring light and beauty to this world in your own unique way.

Part 1 A Woman is a Fate? Or a Bless? When a baby is girl is born, to some is a blessing. She will grow as wonderful woman, beautiful, with nice features and showers love as a daughter, a sister, as a wife, as a friend and as a mother. It is also luck, or a Mahalakshmi to the house. Some centuries back, and to some people when she is born, she is a fate. An ill fated to some in orthodox families and believe that she brings bad luck. So, there is this ritual in some places or villages where, when a new born baby girl will be poisoned to death upon her arrival on earth. It is brutal and devastating. Yes it is still happening till today. Where did this ritual came from? Who started it? Where was it written that the baby must be killed if it is a girl. And WHY? Has anyone thought, that it was a woman who carried her for 9 months, loved her from the day she is created in her womb, and the moment when she is born, the tear of a joy and her happiness the moment she sees her little tiny human girl arrived, and her dreams as mother and to love her all her life… will be no longer alive in the next few minutes? I have always respected woman, for uncountable reasons. As much as I am happy to see them successful, but it also worries me most of the time. 99.9% of it I am worried for them! The one who gave birth to us, is a woman. We also worship to a female God and beg her to show mercy on us. It is also a woman, who becomes a wife and satisfies a husband’s needs. But still, there are no respect shown to them despite knowing these basics. In some houses while her parents off to work, or being abandoned, or lets just say the parents passed. It is her responsibility to take care the rest of her family as the family head. When it comes to education, she is not safe to study among the boys, neither in higher education. Same goes to a woman at work. As she will have those wild eyes on her, she has to take care of her virginity, her womb, and her dignity. Beyond these, there are also some beasts, who is talented in sweet talking and flirtatious towards her. When she is too naïve and fall for the trap, it happens to be a one night stand. Once a woman marriage is fixed, she gets married and goes off to her in laws. Her life changes in the moment the knots tied by the man. In todays millennia, womens are still carrying the burden of the responsibility of her maternal side, together with her new in-laws. Every morning she wakes up, she serves the husband, deal the day with by preparing him for his day, every day. As well taking care of her new in-laws all of her life. Then, comes the pregnancy moment, again, she carries her child her womb, making sure he is safe in there, and taking care of her world on the outside. She loses all her beauty, her happiness, her wishes, her ambitions, and it is all sacrificed for the sake of her marriage. And then the cycle never stops. She raises her children, become beautiful, and then one day they too get married. But as mother, she never stopped caring and provide them all the love, the needs, etc. It never stops. There are some man and in laws who support their daughter in law and I have a big salute to them. They are an example for today’s woman millennia, don’t stop her for what she is capable of, and don’t clip her wings..

Choo Mina’s the daughter of the C-MART president, right? We spent a summer with them in Provence once, when we were kids.” Of course you did. “Rich and talented.” She clucks her tongue at me. “That’s two for two, and you’re still at zero. And here I thought DB had standards for their K-pop trainees.

have wanted—very often did not want—such an odd, talented, challenging daughter, which of course Susan knows better than anyone. As she observed, more or less cheerfully, “In many ways I was a tremendous disappointment to them”—Mary included—”I'm proud to say, and hope I've continued to be, since what they wanted me to be is pretty empty.

The irony is that Cheever himself would hardly have wanted—very often did not want—such an odd, talented, challenging daughter, which of course Susan knows better than anyone. As she observed, more or less cheerfully, “In many ways I was a tremendous disappointment to them”—Mary included—”I'm proud to say, and hope I've continued to be, since what they wanted me to be is pretty empty.