Tangled Webs Quotes

Oh, what a tangled web we weave...when first we practice to deceive.

Oh, what a tangled web do parents weave when they think that their children are naive.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!

No fiction, no myths, no lies, no tangled webs - this is how Irie imagined her homeland. Because homeland is one of the magical fantasy words like unicorn and soul and infinity that have now passed into language.

Love is The funeral pyre Where I have laid my living body. All the false notions of myself That once caused fear, pain, Have turned to ash As I neared God. What has risen From the tangled web of thought and sinew Now shines with jubilation Through the eyes of angels And screams from the guts of Infinite existence Itself. Love is the funeral pyre Where the heart must lay Its body.

The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Often, love is a tangled web of lies that only a broken heart would weave. Seldom is dishonesty the whole person, rather it's the pain.

O, the tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive.

Tomorrow is busy worrying about itself; don’t get tangled up in its worry-webs. Trust Me one day at a time.

The calm serenity of the breeze as it blows across the ocean releases the tangled web within my mind.

For she had discovered that as well as the evil web there was another. This too bound spirits together, but not in a tangle, it was a patterned web and one could see the silver pattern when the sun shone upon it. It seemed much frailer than the dark tangle, that had a hideous strength, but it might not be so always, not in the final reckoning.

I wish that my childhood would have been different. I do not, however, regret what happened. This does not mean tht I would gladly go through it again. But mythologies of all times and all places tell us that those who enter the abyss and survive can bring back important lessons. I have no need to merely imagine the unimaginable. And I will no longer forget. I have learned that whether I choose to feel or not, pain exists, and whether we choose to acknowledge them or not, atrocities continue. I have grown to understand that in the shadow of the unspeakable I can and must speak and act against our culture's tangled web of destructiveness, and stop the destruction at its roots.

Jost's lips crush into mine, and I reach out without thinking and pull him closer against me. My hand tangles in his hair, and the web shimmers around us. The rest of the world is perfectly still, but we are in motion, crumbling into one another.

Is it a loss when someone dies who you had already let go?

There is no remedy against this reversal of the natural order. Man cannot escape from his own achievement. He cannot but adopt the conditions of his own life. No longer in a merely physical universe, man lives in a symbolic universe. Language, myth, art, and religion are parts of this universe. They are the varied threads which weave the symbolic net, the tangled web of human experience. All human progress in thought and experience refines and strengthens this net. No longer can man confront reality immediately; he cannot see it, as it were, face to face. Physical reality seems to recede in proportion as man's symbolic activity advances. Instead of dealing with the things themselves man is in a sense constantly conversing with himself. He has so enveloped himself in linguistic forms, in artistic images, in mythical symbols or religious rites that he cannot see or know anything except by the interposition of this artificial medium. His situation is the same in the theoretical as in the practical sphere. Even here man does not live in a world of hard facts, or according to his immediate needs and desires. He lives rather in the midst of imaginary emotions, in hopes and fears, in illusions and disillusions, in his fantasies and dreams. 'What disturbs and alarms man,' said Epictetus, 'are not the things, but his opinions and fantasies about the things.

So we were tangled in a web together, cause and effect and choice and fate all intermingling.

Politics is a tangled web, an intricate labyrinth, an ever-shifting kaleidoscopic pattern. And it is not pretty.

My heart is incredibly invested in this man, tangled in a web of love that almost makes it difficult to breathe.

Lynn said that therapy was like separating the strands in a tangled web of yarn. It made sense that things would keep getting more separate for awhile so that we eventually came back together in an organized way. (205)

Lesson one, bitch. Don’t start a pissing contest with someone who has the strength and temper to hurt you.

So you’re going shopping with your ex-boyfriend to find an outfit to snare your next boyfriend? Oh, what a tangled web you weave.

I already have Tangled Webs and Blood throughout the night out. look out for Night of the Beast all great reads.

What is more than memory that connects us always?... what was it I wrote for him, this then-young then-not-young man hungering for fame and acclaim as much or more than burning with something to say? I wrote him a poem called Immortality, assuring him of his, about the immortality we have through connection, through shared experience and the memory of it, through how we touch and alter each other

Many of the younger generation know my name in a vague way and connect it with grotesque inventions, but don't believe that I ever existed as a person. They think I am a nonperson, just a name that signifies a tangled web of pipes or wires or strings that suggest machinery. My name to them is like a spiral staircase, veal cutlets, barber's itch—terms that give you an immediate picture of what they mean.

This is how the trees speak with and care for each other. Their roots tangle together, dozens of trees with dozens more in a web that reaches on forever, and they whisper to each other through their roots.

In the closed world of the gynaeceum, despite the gardens and parkland extending beyong the horizon, despite the insurmountable walls separating pavillions and palaces, the tangled web of our fate was inescapable. Why did these women love each other to the point of madness? Why did they loathe one another so vehemently, and why did sworn enemies feel such horror and fascination for one another? Why should furious hate become obsession, then intoxication and the very reason to live? Because love and hate were the two heads of the demon.

we met one strange summer in a regular tangle of sticky webs you had the air of angels sweet but I-- drowned with the damned spirits in lava oceans fearing your-- foreign static frequency and grey-green eyes (I swear they are even if you-- think otherwise): storms calm ones, calmer than my-- raging coals, empty and dead you speak of souls like you believe always an optimist in pessimistic skin of ivory and titanium mesh...

It must be admitted frankly that Aunt Becky was not particularly beloved by her clan. She was too fond of telling them what she called the plain truth. And, as Uncle Pippin said, while the truth was all right, in its place, there was no sense in pouring out great gobs of it around where it wasn't wanted. To Aunt Becky, however, tact and diplomacy and discretion, never to mention any consideration for any one's feelings, were things unknown.

We arrive in the rooms tangled up in a web of complexity and confusion. Our lives are unmanageable because our minds are unmanageable.” – p. 134

Webs of deceit were not only tangled, they were also very lonely.

She looked at him. Then she looked at the table stacked with books. Her lips curved in a wicked smile. “If you want us to keep pretending that you’re sorting old books whenever we come by to chat, you shouldn’t slam them on the table. We all know you wouldn’t do that to a book that was truly ancient and fragile.” He closed his eyes and promised himself that he would not whimper. “You all know ?” “Well, I don’t think any of the boyos have figured it out, but all of the coven knows.” May the Darkness have mercy on me. “Come on, Papa. Let’s go bwaa ha ha.

Frustration fills his golden eyes. "What Queen? Who is coming?" "The living myth," I whisper. "Dreams made flesh." His shock is replaced instantly by a fierce hunger. "You're sure?" The room is a swirling mist. He's the only thing still in sharp focus. He's the only thing I need. "I saw her in the tangled web, Daemon. I saw her.

So I came home to the one person I knew I could trust, someone who loved me for who I am. You, Katie. I felt safe with.

even when the tangled web of life and love and loss and grief becomes too much to bear, it’s still possible to keep on living.

It was such a tangled web and he suddenly realized why they called the dope game “the trap” … because once you stepped in, there was only one true exit: the grave.

Hear my cry, O God the Reader; vouchsafe that this my book fall not still-born into the world wilderness. Let there spring, Gentle One, from out its leaves vigor of thought and thoughtful deed to reap the harvest wonderful. Let the ears of a guilty people tingle with truth, and seventy millions sigh for the righteousness which exalteth nations, in this drear day when human brotherhood is mockery and a snare. Thus in Thy good time may infinite reason turn the tangle straight, and these crooked marks on a fragile leaf be not indeed THE END

I walked down to the village with five Sceltie puppies. I came back to the Hall with four.” “And the fifth ?” “By now, I’m sure Sylvia has convinced the little bitch to let go of Mikal’s trousers. And Mrs Beale promised to send her recipe for puppy biscuits to Sylvia’s cook.” “Mrs Beale agreed to share a recipe,” Saetan said slowly. “Mrs Beale agreed that I could pay for... I’m not sure what it is except that it’s something she wanted for the kitchen but couldn’t justify as a normal household expense.” “And you agreed to fund this in exchange for a recipe ?” Daemon stared at his father for a long moment before he muttered, “She sharpened the meat cleaver before coming to talk to me.” One beat of silence. Two. Then Saetan burst out laughing.

It’s the spider’s web, an old African symbol for creativity and wisdom. It shows how tangled and complicated life can be. But with a little imaginative thinking, we can solve most of our problems and those of others.

You cannot spew a tangled web of lies, negativity, and division without having those very things turn on your own soul. Therefore, let us remember that the most wounded among us are often those who have done the most wounding.

[...] “What were you going to do if he’d refused ?” Jaenelle looked at him and smiled. Butterflies filled his stomach and tickled unmercifully before turning into heavy, sinking stones. “Well,” his darling said, “you have a wonderful deep voice too. So if Papa refused, I was going to ask you.” Saetan walked into the sitting room where he’d asked Geoffrey and Draca, the Keep’s Seneschal, to meet him. “My friends, this bottle of wine arrived this evening, compliments of Prince Sadi. Since it came from the wine cellar at the Hall, I can assure you it is a very fine vintage, one best enjoyed when shared.” He called in three glasses and opened the wine. Draca said nothing until he handed her a glass. “What iss the occassion ?” Saetan grinned. “My son has just realized how much his father loves him.

No story, including this one, is a straight line unraveling smoothly from start to finish. Every story is a tangle of stories within stories within stories, so that a solitary life is part of the web of the world's history, where lives meet and intersect and where individual stories cross at places and times that send the whole design moving off into different directions.

I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones.

The insecure people enjoy bad mouthing the others. They indulge in the continuous havoc and they tangle themselves in this spider web of plots and conflicts. I really wonder what it is about their inner life that make them so insecure. #Justmyobservation.

Spreading its wings, her love stretched out and touching his tangled, frozen soul and from the first word, became ensnared in its icy grip where it remained, intrinsically entwined within an alternating web of dreams and nightmares. Forever lost, forever lost...

The simple fact is that he didn’t write what he saw but what he felt and believed, what those all around him felt and believed. That’s how that whole tangled web of false stories and humbug got woven, becoming so intricate that there is now no way to disentangle it.

Tangled onto the shuttle, we were being woven back and forth to create the same tapestry of despair and heartbreak and loss. It was so much bigger than I could see before, and all I had done was stand at the centre of the web and feed it my anger and frustration and jealousy.

Medical care is about our life and death, and we’ve always needed doctors to help us understand what is happening and why, and what is possible and what is not. In the increasingly tangled web of experts and expert systems, a doctor has an even greater obligation to serve as a knowledgeable guide and

No virtuous man is strong enough to live in virtue at all times, nor is any sinner bad enough to exist in one welter of sin. Life is a tangled web and there is no one in the world who has not done both good and evil. Each and everyone has to bear the consequence of his actions. Do not give way to sorrow.

Close’ only counts in horseshoe games and fireball spells

This is a complicated web, Maria. We're tangled in it." "Then I suppose we'll continue to need a spider who can navigate the threads. You're the only person I can trust right now.

... It doesn't hurt to love if you do not hope to be loved in return." "I've never hoped to be loved in return--but it hurts damnably," said Roger.

Burt’s eyes may be sad and brown and tangled in a spider web of wrinkles, but I reckon he’s lived my version of a perfect life—a life full of dogs.

By Zeus’s goolies, it’s about time you got here!

By Gaia’s left breast, Hades, you really are a moron,

Everything you own also owns you. Picture an invisible string between yourself and every item you own. Each of these strings uses some amount of mental and emotional energy to manage the relationship between you and each item. The right amount of stuff can feel grounding and helpful, but too much stuff can feel like a tangled web. The less stuff you own, the less energy you expend.

For the first time in her life, she felt free. Free to do as she wished. Free to shape her future. Free to love the man who knew her darkest secrets and still wanted her. And she embraced it with every fiber of her being.

This place of stuck—“I have to” and “I can’t”—feels familiar from my spiritual work. We’re told to simply “let go”—but when we try to do this, we often seem to get more deeply tangled in the willful web of resistance. In spite of injunctions to the contrary, “letting go” doesn’t appear to be something we have conscious control over. Why can’t we just let go into the loving arms of the universe? What is this holding back that seems so essential—so imperative?

For too long the depth of racism in American life has been underestimated. The surgery to extract it is necessarily complex and detailed. As a beginning it is important to X-ray our history and reveal the full extent of the disease. The strands of prejudice toward Negroes are tightly wound around the American character. The prejudice has been nourished by the doctrine of race inferiority. Yet to focus upon the Negro alone as the "inferior race" of American myth is to miss the broader dimensions of the evil. Our nation was born in genocide when it embraced the doctrine that the original American, the Indian, was an inferior race. Even before there were large numbers of Negroes on our shores, the scar of racial hatred had already disfigured colonial society. From the sixteenth century forward, blood flowed in battles over racial supremacy. We are perhaps the only nation which tried as a matter of national policy to wipe out its indigenous population. Moreover, we elevated that tragic experience into a noble crusade. Indeed, even today we have not permitted ourselves to reject or to feel remorse for this shameful episode. Our literature, our films, our drama, our folklore all exalt it. Our children are still taught to respect the violence which reduced a red-skinned people of an earlier culture into a few fragmented groups herded into impoverished reservations. This is in sharp contrast to many nations south of the border, which assimilated their Indians, respected their culture, and elevated many of them to high position. It was upon this massive base of racism that the prejudice toward the nonwhite was readily built, and found rapid growth. This long-standing racist ideology has corrupted and diminished our democratic ideals. It is this tangled web of prejudice from which many Americans now seek to liberate themselves, without realizing how deeply it has been woven into their consciousness.

Really, Nan could be very odious when she liked. Yet somehow she [Gay] didn't hate her as before. She felt very indifferent to her. She found herself looking at her with cool, appraising eyes, seeing her as she had never seen her before. An empty, selfish little creature, who had always to be amused like a child. ...A girl who posed as a sophisticate before her country cousins but who was really more provincial than they were, knowing nothing of real life or real love or real emotion of any kind. Gay wondered, as she looked, how she could ever have hated this girl—ever been jealous of her. She was not worth hating. Gay spoke at last. She stood up and looked levelly at Nan. There was contempt in her quiet voice. "I suppose you came here to hurt me, Nan. You haven't—you can never hurt me again. You've lost the power. I think I even feel a little sorry for you. You've always been a taker, Nan. All through your life you've taken whatever you wanted. But you've never been a giver—you couldn't be because you've nothing to give. Neither love nor truth nor understanding nor kindness nor loyalty. Just taking all the time and giving nothing—oh, it has made you very poor. So poor that nobody need envy you.

Life is Chaos (The Sonnet) Best laid plans of mice and men, Often go awry leaving no hope. Just when you think you have control, Life throws you off course. All notions of order are a myth, Only order of the universe is chaos. Expand your sight and you'll realize, There is order in every chaos. A narrow mind is ever struggling, In the tangled web of order and chaos. A sapient mind works above the two, For their sight is fixed on a purpose. Focus on life, not on all its philosophy. Embrace the chaos and act despite insecurity.

Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spider-webs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look so pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew and in the elegant way that they connect to one another, each to each. What

We said it from the beginning. No strings. No regrets. We lay, tangled in a web of sheets, Limbs and anemic light, And we passed promises back and forth like slippery stars. You told me you were recovering from A broken heart. I told you I was recovering from A broken life. Fair enough, we agreed and laughed.   We wrote stories on our bodies. Middles and endings Etched onto our feet and the palms of our hands. Our hopes were lettered in black and silver On a background of stark white flesh. We traded words on our tongues like tiny drops of melted sugar.

He studied her for a long moment. Then he took that last step, bringing him right next to her chair. He leaned over. One hand cupped her face while his lips lightly brushed her cheek. The Sadist whispered in her ear, “He was grateful when I let him die.” She shivered—and knew he felt the shiver.

Unfortunately, no one has ever successfully postulated a super-symmetry holding between two known particles. Instead, in all the supersymmetric theories the numbers of particles are at least doubled. A new superpartner is simply postulated to go along with each known particle. Not only are there squarks and sleptons and photinos, there are also sneutrinos to partner the neutrinos, Higgsinos with the Higgs, and gravitinos to go with the gravitons. Two by two, a regular Noah's ark of particles. Sooner or later, tangled in the web of new snames and naminos, you begin to feel like Sbozo the clown. Or Bozo the clownino. Or swhatever.

While altering the saga of Odysseus’s Return to make my Elyman suitors serve as Penelope’s lovers, I had to protect myself against scandal. What if someone recognized the story and supposed that I, Nausicaa the irreproachable, had played the promiscuous harlot in my father’s absence? So, according to my poem, Penelope must have remained faithful to Odysseus throughout those twenty years. And because this change meant that Aphrodite had failed to take her traditional revenge, I must make Poseidon, not her, the enemy who delayed him on his homeward voyage after the Fall of Troy. I should therefore have to omit the stories of Penelope’s banishment and the oar mistaken for a flail, and Odysseus’s death from Telemachus’s sting-ray spear. When I told Phemius of these decisions, he pointed out, rather nastily, that since Poseidon had fought for the Greeks against the Trojans, and since Odysseus had never failed to honour him, I must justify this enmity by some anecdote. “Very well,” I answered. “Odysseus blinded a Cyclops who, happening to be Poseidon’s son, prayed to him for vengeance.” “My dear Princess, every Cyclops in the smithies of Etna was born to Uranus, Poseidon’s grandfather, by Mother Earth.” “Mine was an exceptional Cyclops,” I snapped. “He claimed Poseidon as his father and kept sheep in a Sican cave, like Conturanus. I shall call him Polyphemus—that is, ‘famous’—to make my hearers think him a more important character than he really was.” “Such deceptions tangle the web of poetry.” “But if I offer Penelope as a shining example for wives to follow when their husbands are absent on long journeys, that will excuse the deception.

The spider sits alone on an empty web, starving, desperate for prey, but no one comes around anymore for the spider has been abused. Why did you have to tangle everyone inside of your web? There’s no one left. The malnourished spider tried to remain optimistic to no avail. The spider sways from its own web on a silk made noose.

There is a cause for every effect, AA, but not all causes are responsible for all effects. To trace all causes and all effects is to end up in a twisted web with no end. No single person can make decisions independently; every choice is the result of changes and inputs from everyone else. Viewed from a higher vantage point, Cheng Xin was chosen by all of humanity to be the Swordholder, and her choice was humanity’s choice, her values humanity’s values. Viewed from specifics, Cheng Xin made her choice because you woke her; you woke her because of me; I was sent into space by Cheng Xin; Cheng Xin went into hibernation because of me … and the one who started it all was Wade, who wanted to kill Cheng Xin. It’s a tangled mess.

So here we stand among thoughts of human unity, even through conquest and slavery; the inferiority of black men, even if forced by fraud; a shriek in the night for the freedom of men who themselves are not yet sure of their right to demand it. This is the tangle of thought and afterthought wherein we are called to solve the problem of training men for life. Behind

If, at the end of the trickster myth, the saviour is hinted at, this comforting premonition or hope means that some calamity or other has happened and been consciously understood. Only out of disaster can the longing for the saviour arise—in other words, the recognition and unavoidable integration of the shadow create such a harrowing situation that nobody but a saviour can undo the tangled web of fate. In the case of the individual, the problem constellated by the shadow is answered on the plane of the anima, that is, through relatedness. In the history of the collective as in the history of the individual, everything depends on the development of consciousness. This gradually brings liberation from imprisonment in ἀγνοία, ‘unconsciousness,’20 and is therefore a bringer of light as well as of healing.

Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my eyes. I am stunned he can see it. Delicate to the touch and tender on every side, the bruise is deeper than days. My hand automatically moves to my chest. Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but life has since shown me otherwise. My heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings. The ends are grasped tight by numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over time. I cry because they are invisible to most. “Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart. His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my arm. He twists it enough to show me a small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona. “Oh. My elbow.” I let the air exhale from my lungs. Another bruise forms where my heart has hit the floor. It is jerked up again. “Can I do anything for you?” I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one of the dangling strings. He tugs and I feel it. “No,” I reply to his question. But it is a lie. There is something he could do, along with all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart. I wish they would mercifully let go.

The causal relationship between factors in nature are just too entangled for man to unravel through research and analysis. Perhaps science succeeds in advancing one slow step at a time, but because it does so while groping in total darkness along a road without end, it is unable to know the real truth of things. This is why scientists are pleased with partial explications and see nothing wrong with pointing a finger and proclaiming this to be the cause and that the effect. The more research progresses, the larger the body of scholarly data grows. The antecedent causes of causes increase in number and depth, becoming incredibly complex, such that, far from unraveling the tangled web of cause and effect, science succeeds only in explaining in ever greater detail each of the bends and kinks in the individual threads. There being infinite causes for an event or action, there are infinite solutions as well, and these together deepen and broaden to infinite complexity.

You may find it hard to believe, but a true lady won’t just roll over and accept a merciless cad for a suitor just because he manages to water her lawn satisfactorily. I am more than attuned to your personal moral standards and I have no desire to lower myself to them. So call it what you will, foolhardiness, stubbornness or just a pure and true desire to tangle my web with a real gentleman but when it comes down to it, Maxy boy, you have been measured and you have been found wanting.

Every web began with a single thread that connected everything. He thought about the spider as patient and persistent, picking its way along delicate threads around the world. And he knew well what happened when you tried to forget about that connection or try to inflict your own will too much. You just got tangled in the spiderweb. He’d had his years of fighting the world, and that had landed him in juvie and back to drinking. You think you’re punching at the world but all you’re doing is knocking yourself out.

It was Spring, and yet it wasn't. It was not the land I had once roamed in centuries past, or even visited almost a year ago. The sun was mild, the day clear, distant dogwoods and lilacs still in eternal bloom. Distant- because on the estate, nothing bloomed at all. The pink roses that had once climbed the pale stone walls of the sweeping manor house were nothing but tangled webs of thorns. The fountains had gone dry, the hedges untrimmed and shapeless. The house itself had looked better the day after Amarantha's cronies had trashed it. Not for any visible signs of destruction, but for the general quiet. The lack of life. Though the great oak doors were undeniably worse for wear. Deep, long claw marks had been slashed down them. Standing on the top step of the marble staircase that led to those front doors, I surveyed the brutal gashes. My money was on Tamlin having inflicted them after Feyre had duped him and his court. But Tamlin's temper had always been his downfall. Any bad day could have produced those gouge marks. Perhaps today would produce more of them.

You may find it hard to believe, but a true lady won’t just roll over and accept a merciless cad for a suitor just because he manages to water her lawn satisfactorily. I am more than attuned to your personal moral standards and I have no desire to lower myself to them. So call it what you will, foolhardiness, stubbornness or just a pure and true desire to tangle my web with a real gentleman but when it comes down to it, Maxy boy, you have been measured and you have been found wanting. Now please refrain from touching me with your slippery flippers and let us return to our lesson.

The Minotaur is really the old matriarchal moon bull, beloved of the Goddess, and sacrificed each year for the fertility of the earth. This tale of the dying and reviving gods...is the Perennial Theme of all true poetry and myth, and the basis of much religious belief today... We come to see that Ariadne is the Goddess Herself, “Most Holy” and “High Fruitful Mother of the Barley” are the original meanings of her beautiful name. Worshipped primarily by women, her rites seem peaceful, and concerned with the womanly cycles of body, mind, and spirit... the labyrinth is her own body, the place of her mysteries, the cave/womb of initiation. We find this spiraling labyrinth in pre-patriarchal cultures around the world, such as that of the Hopis in the American Southwest, or the ancient Celtic peoples of Britain...The monster is not a monster, but only the still heart of woman, that men have so long suppressed and feared... the labyrinth unfolds and folds again upon itself...into our deepest Selves. And if we can keep our hold upon the thread, it will lead us back and out again… ‘til we have found spiritual rebirth, and escaped at last the tangled web of patriarchy.

With our father dead and our mother lost, we surviving siblings became unmoored. Unusual behaviors revealed themselves at inauspicious times. Simmering beneath the surface of our loneliness was a kind of inarticulable fury, reducing each of us to a meanness we despised. We longed to reach out to one another, but at every turn this instinct was thwarted, tangled in a web of suspicion and resentment. As much as we had loved one another in the fullness of life, we hated what we had become when that wholeness was eclipsed by loss. Mendacity, jealousy, and rage percolated on the back burner while egoism masqueraded as generosity. In our confusion, we second-guessed one another, and because we never learned to confront each other with frank vulnerability, we fell back into the roles assigned to us at birth.

Once inside the hedge, the garden, though sleeping for the winter, nevertheless seemed to glimmer with hidden life. A winding flagstone path made its leisurely way to the door of the house, lined on both sides with tufts of sage, thyme, rosemary, and lavender, grayed with cold. In place of grass, the earth on either side of the path was a riot of plants in varying stages of hibernation and decay. To this side, the dried stalks of full-grown asparagus rustled together. In the far corner, their roots sunk into the wood of the house, an array of nightshades — tomato plants, dried and brown, the gnarled tangles of henbane and moonshade lying in wait for spring. The webbed vines overhead cast the garden in long blue shadow, blurred at the corners, hard to make out, and yet strangely the air inside the garden was not as bitingly cold as it was in the outside world.

Talk to me, Roger. Don't ask me to talk - I can't - but just talk to me." Roger, to his own surprise, found that he could. He had never talked much to Gay before. He had always felt that he could talk of nothing that would interest her. There had been such a gap between her youth and his maturity. But the gap had disappeared. Roger found himself telling her things he had never told anybody. He had never talked of his experiences overseas to any one but he found himself relating them to Gay. At first Gay only listened; then, insensibly, she began to talk, too. She took to reading the newspapers - which worried Mrs. Howard, who was afraid Gay was getting "strong-minded." But Gay only wanted to learn more about the things Roger talked of, so that he would not think her an empty-headed goose. She had, without realising it, come a long, long way from the tortured little creature who had lain under the birches, that September night, and cried her heart out. No longer an isolated, selfish unit, she had become one with her kind.

She finds herself, by some miraculous feat, no longer standing in the old nursery but returned to the clearing in the woods. It is the 'green cathedral', the place she first kissed Jack all those weeks ago. The place where they laid out the stunned sparrowhawk, then watched it spring miraculously back to life. All around, the smooth, grey trunks of ancient beech trees rise up from the walls of the room to tower over her, spreading their branches across the ceiling in a fan of tangled branches and leaves, paint and gold leaf cleverly combined to create the shimmering effect of a leafy canopy at its most dense and opulent. And yet it is not the clearing, not in any real or grounded sense, because instead of leaves, the trees taper up to a canopy of extraordinary feathers shimmering and spreading out like a peacock's tail across the ceiling, a hundred green, gold and sapphire eyes gazing down upon her. Jack's startling embellishments twist an otherwise literal interpretation of their woodland glade into a fantastical, dreamlike version of itself. Their green cathedral, more spectacular and beautiful than she could have ever imagined. She moves closer to one of the trees and stretches out a hand, feeling instead of rough bark the smooth, cool surface of a wall. She can't help but smile. The trompe-l'oeil effect is dazzling and disorienting in equal measure. Even the window shutters and cornicing have been painted to maintain the illusion of the trees, while high above her head the glass dome set into the roof spills light as if it were the sun itself, pouring through the canopy of eyes. The only other light falls from the glass windowpanes above the window seat, still flanked by the old green velvet curtains, which somehow appear to blend seamlessly with the painted scene. The whole effect is eerie and unsettling. Lillian feels unbalanced, no longer sure what is real and what is not. It is like that book she read to Albie once- the one where the boy walks through the wardrobe into another world. That's what it feels like, she realizes: as if she has stepped into another realm, a place both fantastical and otherworldly. It's not just the peacock-feather eyes that are staring at her. Her gaze finds other details: a shy muntjac deer peering out from the undergrowth, a squirrel, sitting high up in a tree holding a green nut between its paws, small birds flitting here and there. The tiniest details have been captured by Jack's brush: a silver spider's web, a creeping ladybird, a puffy white toadstool. The only thing missing is the sound of the leaf canopy rustling and the soft scuttle of insects moving across the forest floor.

I spent years wrestling with darkness and drowning in torment, and I’ve spent most of my adult life sifting through the tangled web of emotional wounds and the debris left by the darkness in my childhood. I’ve hobbled back to the early years of my life, painfully resting at the different events that shaped me through my childhood. And I’ve learned that sometimes you have to go through your past to get to your future.

It appears that the probabilistic sciences of psychology and medicine teach their students to apply statistical and methodological rules to both scientific and everyday-life problems, whereas the nonprobabilistic science of chemistry and the nonscientific discipline of the law do not affect their students in these respects (p. 438)…. the luxury of not being confronted with messy problems that contain substantial uncertainty and a tangled web of causes means that chemistry does not teach some rules that are relevant to everyday life

The truth about yourself is so near, so close, that it is very difficult to perceive. Just as it is difficult to style your hair, apply makeup, or shave without a mirror, we require a mirror of sorts to spiritually groom ourselves. For most, that mirror is relationships with others. People who wear masks of untrustworthiness, dishonesty, selfishness, and greed see those qualities reflected back from everyone they meet—even the most noble souls who cross their paths. But people who have put their masks aside are able to experience compassion, love, and wholeness in others, even in their adversaries—even in those who are still mired in a tangled web of fear, insecurity, and abrasiveness.

Every time she attempted to clean a corner in Hope Canyon, she unearthed a new load of spider webs. If she weren’t careful, she’d find herself so tangled in them she’d never be able to cut loose.

In addition, ape painters don't seem to follow the rules that human artists do. Instead of worrying about the cumulative impact of an entire series of brush strokes and dabs, apes give the impression of taking a kinesthetic and visual pleasure in each separate action. We don't know the aesthetic secrets of the chimpanzee that Rainer tried to imitate, but the fact is that the human painter failed miserably in his attempt to achieve the same directness and sovereignty of expression. When Lenain examined fifteen works simultaneously produced by ape and human, he concluded that "[t]he chimpanzee's compositions are straightforward and clear. The imitations, on the other hand, are fuzzy, tangled webs of lines, completely illegible, almost to the point of hysteria.

A tangled web she weaves When she wishes to deceive. A spell to distract and dismay, requiring cobweb gathered on the new moon & a pricked finger

Inspired by the tangled webs of neurons in our brains, deep learning constructs software layers of artificial neural networks with input and output layers. Data is fed into the input layer of the network, and a result emerges from the output layer of the network. In between the input and output layers may be up to thousands of other layers, hence the name “deep” learning.

camouflage-painted contraption that looked like a golf cart on steroids.

in the New England way—

Most people's pasts can be viewed like cleaved water left in the wake of a boat. Hers? It's a tangled weave of spider webs and nightmares, never to make sense.

The Earth tries to teach us every day the privilege we have been granted to live on it. It has tried repeatedly to put up back in line with its vicious storms, spewing lava, viruses, and plagues. Is it by choice that we that we remain ignorant? Inevitably - pissed off - perhaps with our careless disregard of all it has offered us, and after all the warnings it is willing to put forth, it will one day unleash its wrath and show us all what it is capable of, and just how insignificant we are. What if it gives us a second chance to thrive again and do it right? Do we embrace it, taking flight like a beautiful butterfly leaving its cocoon, or do we tangle ourselves into a web once more, and let the spider devour us?

We each have infinite stories inside of us. If we live and breathe, stories are the very thing we're made of. We are nothing if not a web of tangled tales.

Frog it?

living in a tiny Brooklyn apartment

Miss Marple Knits,

thimble. They were old-fashioned

Do you dream often?” “Sometimes,” replied the colonel, ashamed of having fallen asleep. “Almost always I dream that I’m getting tangled up in spider webs.” “I have nightmares every night,” the woman said. “Now I’ve got it in my head to find out who those unknown people are whom one meets in one’s dreams.” She plugged in the fan. “Last week a woman appeared at the head of my bed,” she said. “I managed to ask her who she was and she replied, ‘I am the woman who died in this room twelve years ago.’” “But the house was built barely two years ago,” the colonel said. “That’s right,” the woman said. “That means that even the dead make mistakes.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.

Decency’s a dull dog,” retorted Aunt Becky. “I parted company with it long ago.

Except in the case of PTSD, dreams almost never replay real memories exactly—but they draw heavily from our waking lives, spinning the threads of personal experience into a tangled web of present and past.

away from a world where women bobbed their hair and you couldn’t tell who were grandmothers and who were flappers—from behind