Terms Of Endearment Life Quotes

Ix who?" "Ix Caut. Your name in this life meant 'Little Snake.'" Bill watched her face change. "It was a term of endearment in the Mayan culture. Sort of." "The same way getting your head impaled on a stick was an honor?" Bill rolled his stone eyes. "Stop being so ethnocentric.That means thinking your own culture is superior to other cultures." "I know what it means," she said, working the band into her dirty hair. "But I'm not being superior. I just don't think having my head stuck on one of these racks would be so great." There was a faint thrumming in the air,like faraway drumbeats. "That's exactly the sort of thing Ix Caut would say! You always were a little bit backward!" "What do you mean?" "See,you-Ix Caut-were born during the Wayeb',which are these five odd days at the end of Mayan year that everyone gets real superstitious about because they don't fit into the calendar. Kind of like leap-year days.It's not exactly lucky to be born during the Wayeb'. So no one was shocked when you grew up to be an old maid.

These were good people and they had been good to us and we had therefore had a good time. To conclude otherwise was frightening, raising the specter of some unnameable quantity without which we could not abide, but which we could not summon on demand, least of all by proceeding in virtuous accordance with an established formula. You regarded redemption as an act of will. You disparaged people (people like me) for their cussedly nonspecific dissatisfactions, because to fail to embrace the simple fineness of being alive betrayed a weakness of character. You always hated finicky eaters, hypochondriacs, and snobs who turned their noses up at Terms of Endearment just because it was popular. Nice eats, nice place, nice folks- what more could I possibly want? Besides, the good life doesn’t knock on the door. Joy is a job. So if you believed with sufficient industry that we had had a good time with Brian and Louise in theory, then we would have had a good time in fact. The only hint that in truth you’d found our afternoon laborous was that your enthusiasm was excessive.

Sunrise to sunset, that’s life, my darling.” I loved the way he said that, my darling. I liked it more because he rarely uses the expression as a term of endearment for Dick, he had terms of his own, this was mine and it made me level in some way.

Their home was nice, the food was nice, the girls were nice – nice, nice, nice. I disappointed myself by finding our perfectly pleasant lunch with perfectly pleasant people inadequate. […] These were good people and they had been good to us and we had therefore had a good time. To conclude otherwise was frightening, raising the specter of some unnameable quantity without which we could not abide, but which we could not summon on demand, least of all by proceeding in virtuous accordance with an established formula. You regarded redemption as an act of will. You disparaged people (people like me) for their cussedly nonspecific dissatisfactions, because to fail to embrace the simple fineness of being alive betrayed a weakness of character. You always hated finicky eaters, hypochondriacs, and snobs who turned their noses up at Terms of Endearment just because it was popular. Nice eats, nice place, nice folks- what more could I possibly want? Besides, the good life doesn’t knock on the door. Joy is a job. So if you believed with sufficient industry that we had had a good time with Brian and Louise in theory, then we would have had a good time in fact. The only hint that in truth you’d found our afternoon laborious was that your enthusiasm was excessive.

Joanna, what does mo ghra mean?" Joanna smiled. "It's a term of affection- an endearment. It means 'my love'." Rosalin felt her heart rise up high in her chest and lock in her throat, cutting off her breath. My love. Not "my beautiful one." The sneaky devil! He'd lied to her! Lied! And she'd never been more happy in her life.

A favorite pastime of soldiers on long mounted patrols was testing each other with impossible hypotheticals. They were an endearing yet vulgar form of moral drama, but only because the alternative was to contemplate being blown up by an illiterate goat herder’s morning project. “What would you rather do, have sex with your sister or shoot your mother?” “Would you rather pick up a baby with a pitchfork, or throw a paraplegic in a fire?” In one form or another, these young men were weighing the relative value of human life in real terms, perhaps as a surrogate for murkier thoughts that might otherwise be in the forefront, such as, “Why am I risking my life in this wasteland?” or “Whose life is worth more, that of my best friend in the gun turret or of some Iraqi kid I’ve never met?” It passed the time.

The dark, uncontrolled, primordial part of a person informs them that they are alive. Living free entails accepting a slew of wildness. All wild animals act by instinct. Human instinct and intuitive thought allow us to gain insights and new beliefs, which human rationalization confirms. Logic and intuition work well together, if both sources of mental visualization are drawn from when most apropos. Planning carefully should never replace the spirit for improvisation. Acting recklessly is no substitute for measured evaluation. Nonetheless, a dash of craziness makes most people more endearing than the calculating banker whose ledger driven life causes them to see life in terms of money pouches. Letting go of all conceptions of what is, and dreaming what could be, is a form of delusion. Knowing the difference between fantasy and reality does not mean that a person should disdain imaginative acts. I need to recognize when it is time to stop woolgathering and come back down to reality and work in the pebbly bedrock of the here and now.

For I had begun to understand that to be a witness, in the sense in which I am using the term, means, ultimately, just one thing. It means that a man is prepared to destroy himself, if necessary, to make his witness. A man does not wish to destroy himself. To the full degree in which he is strongest, that is to say, to the full degree of the force that makes it possible for him to bear witness at all, he desires not to destroy himself. To the degree that he is most human, that is to say, most weak, he shrinks from destroying himself. But to the degree that what he truly is and what he stands for are one, he must at some point tacitly consent in his own mind to destroy himself if that is necessary. And, in part, that tacit consent is a simple necessity of the struggle. It is the witness’ margin of maneuver. In no other way can he strip his soul of that dragging humanity, that impeding love of life and its endearments which must otherwise entangle him at every step and distract him at last to failure. This is the point at which the witness is always most alone.

Do you ever stop to consider how seldom your significant other uses your name in daily life? For us it was always some term of endearment, like “honey” or “babe”, or even the more extravagant “sugar badger” or “manly mouse”. The only time that changed was during arguments when the strangeness of being called by your name left no doubt that you were in trouble.

My little black cloud’ George would say, lopping Solange’s hair through her fingers as the child was falling asleep. It took me some time to understand this was intended as a term of endearment. Maurice was always: ‘my little cub’, ‘my bear’; Solange: ‘cloud’, ‘thunder’, ‘little tempest’. How many time do you have to call a cloud a tempest before it turns stormy?

I was going to wait for a special occasion, but I don’t want to wait. I want to put a ring on her as soon as possible. I want her to be mine. All mine. Her eyes go wide when I show her the box. “I can’t quite go down onto one knee,” I say in apology. Her eyes fill with tears, and I stuff the box back down in the cushions. “We can do this another time,” I say. “Are you kidding?” she asks. She takes my shirt in her fists and jerks me toward her. “Ask me. Ask me. Please ask me.” She’s in my face, and I’ve never been more in love with her than I am right now. But she sits back, looks at me sheepishly, and says, “If you want to ask me, that is. You don’t have to ask me if you don’t want to.” I wrap my arm around her head and give her a noogie. “I don’t just want to. I have to.” She looks up at me, her thoughts in as much turmoil as her hair. “I can’t live without you, dummy,” I try to explain. She grins at the term of endearment. There was a time that a word like that would have shredded her; now it’s just a word. A funny one, too, because she’s the opposite of dumb. “I love you,” she says. She kisses me, her tongue sweeping into my mouth, the gentle touch of it against mine making me go rock hard immediately. “Get the box back out,” she says. I can feel her grin against my lips when she goes back to kissing me. “What box?” I ask. “The ring. Ask me. I promise I’ll say yes.” “You’re so easy,” I tease. She wasn’t always easy. It was damn hard loving her in the beginning, but I couldn’t avoid it. She’s like a piece of me that was missing all my life. I can’t imagine a day without her. I reach into the cushions and pick up the box. My heart is thumping in my chest like a roofer’s hammer, even though she just told me she was going to accept. I open the box, and it creaks on its hinges. “Will you marry me?” I ask. She takes the box and sits back, an open-mouth grin on her face. It’s a mixture of awe and happiness. “I used to look at this when I was little. My dad said my rich husband would get me a big, fat rock and we’d live happily ever after. But all I ever wanted was this ring and a husband who loved me.” I tip her face up to mine with a crooked finger under her chin. “I love you.” I scrunch my eyebrows together. “Did you forget to say yes?” “I didn’t forget,” she tosses back at me. She sets the box on the table and gets up. “I just haven’t said yes, yet.” She points toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I’m thirsty.” She gets up like she’s going to walk away, but I grab her shirt in my fist and pull her back down. I pick up the box, take the ring out of it, and hold it up. “Marry me, Em,” I plead. “If you say yes, we can have lots of crazy sex and live happily ever after.” I want to laugh, but I can’t. It’s not really funny. “Marry me, Em,” I repeat. “Please.” She smacks me on the forehead with palm of her hand, and I’m momentarily stunned. “Of course I’ll marry you,” she says. She lets me slide the ring onto her finger. “I couldn’t make it easy for you, dummy,” she says. She settles into my side and nuzzles into that spot that’s all hers. There are no secrets between us. Not anymore. And it feels so fucking good.

who looks with unconcern on a Man struggling for Life in the water and when he has reached ground encumbers him with help’) is matched in the Dictionary by the delightfully acerbic entry quoted at the head of this chapter. Chesterfield’s apathy had its reward: Johnson’s fury was spent.ar The lexicographer’s rejection of his patron’s belated assistance has often been identified as key moment in the history of publishing, marking the end of the culture of patronage.7 This is not strictly accurate. Patronage had been in decline for fifty years, yet would survive, in attenuated form, for another fifty. Indeed, Johnson was in the 1760s awarded a pension by the Crown—a subtle form of sponsorship, tantamount to state patronage. The letter’s importance is not so much historical as emotional; it would become a touchstone for all who repudiated patrons, and for all who embraced the laws of the marketplace. In the short term, however, Johnson’s rejection of Chesterfield did not endear him to the booksellers who had underwritten the Dictionary.

I don't like the way he says that -- Girls -- like we're children being scolded. Some words should be ours to own, at-times-vicious yet tender terms of endearment we toss around like glitter that suddenly taste sour in the mouths of men.

No. No. No.” Caesar shook his head as the voices left on his voicemail began to play in his head. He had tortured himself daily listening to her voice message and ultimately her death. “Man, what is wrong?” Riley asked curiously. He couldn’t understand what had happened in mere seconds to make Caesar react the way he was. “You did this? It was you that ruined my life!” “Huh?” Riley asked, clearly confused. “The day Shayna was murdered she never ended the call. Her conversation was recorded on my voicemail. When she said ‘Hey Hun. I’m so glad to see you’ I thought it was a term of endearment. But it wasn’t. She was talking to you. She never called you by your last name like the rest of us. It was always Hun.

Finally, never call her by her name alone, but with terms of endearment, honor, and love. If you honor her, she won’t need honor from others; she won’t desire praise from others if she enjoys the praise that comes from you.

pg 41-42 The angels rejoice when we come home. We don't grieve when babies enter the world. The hosts of heaven don't weep when we leave it.... Do you dread your own death? Robbing you of life? Jesus came to deliver those who have lived all their lives as slaves to the fear of dying. Heb 2:15 Think of Lazarus called back to this place. Lazarus doesn't question the call. Everyone knows that voice. This showed who runs the show. A warmup for the big day when all those in Christ will rise. 1 Cor 15:54-44. Prepare for death by making sure Jesus refers to you with the same term of endearment as with Lazarus - friend. Ps 116:15, not relying on my own feeble strength (Prov 11:7). Dread of death ends when you know heaven is your true home. May your death find you pointing in the same direction. Give God your death. I entrust you with my departure from earth. Paraphrase

Aurora could not recall that she had been precisely heartbroken - her heart had never had time to get focused exactly - but for several years thereafter she did feel that life was a comedown in some respects.

…the literary world is filled with kooks and fanatical people obsessed with writers but they don’t write themselves or are afraid to. I can always tell who writes for a living by what they want to discuss with me. Anyone who makes a living or earns money writing has shared their works etc; likes to discuss life itself ie: anything except writing. And if it’s discussed it’s usually in terms of endearment, writers who influenced us to attempt to make money writing. Anyone who fantasizes about writing or being a writer and maybe just writes casually and privately, oddly wants to talk about authors. To critique them categorize them and talk about their interpretations of their works and other various judgments on why they are good or not. If you ask them why they haven’t published they tend to have a list of cowardly reasons why they can’t bring themselves to completing or showing anything they have written or published themselves …

Life Is Beautiful Terms of Endearment Beaches The Joy Luck Club The Color Purple Steel Magnolias Brokeback Mountain P.S. I Love You Inside Out

How would you like me to do that, eshara?” The old term of endearment I’d never used before flowed from my lips before I could stop it. My darling. My life force. My pulse.