The Pact Book Quotes

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?

It is often much harder to get rid of books than to acquire them. They stick to us in that pact of need and oblivion we make with them, witnesses to a moment in our lives we will never see again. While they are still there, it is part of us.

That is another chamber of my heart that shows no electrical activity - the chamber that used to flicker into life when I saw a film that moved me, or read a book that inspired me, or listened to music that made me want to cry. I closed that chamber myself, for all the usual reasons. And now I seem to have made a pact with some philistine devil: if I don't attempt to re-open it, I will be allowed just enough energy and optimism to get through a working day without wanting to hang myself.

Sometimes Chris wished he could sneak a peek at the back of the book, so to speak, and see how it was all going to turn out, so that he wouldn't have to bother going through the motions.

A book is a product of a pact with the Devil that inverts the Faustian contract, he'd told Allie. Dr Faustus sacrificed eternity in return for two dozen years of power; the writer agrees to the ruination of his life, and gains (but only if he's lucky) maybe not eternity, but posterity, at least. Either way (this was Jumpy's point) it's the Devil who wins.

The Blue Bird from The Last Night of the Earth Poems there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you. there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he’s in there. there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad. then I put him back, but he’s still singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?

If I were a vampire, I'd want to bite someone. I'd be thirsty for blood," I said in a last ditch attempt to interject reason into a discussion that had devolved into the absurd. "You will come into your true nature," Lucius promised. "You are coming of age right now. And when I bite you for the first time, then you will be a vampire. I've brought you a book— a guide, so to speak—which will explain everything—" I stood up so fast my chair tipped over, smashing to the floor. "He is not going to bite me," I interrupted, pointing a shaky finger at Lucius. "And I'm not going to Romania and marrying him! I don't care what kind of 'betrothal ceremony' they had!" "You will all honor the pact," Lucius growled. It wasn't a suggestion.

I look at you and I see this amazing, beautiful thing. All these books and songs are written about people looking for the love of their life and never fining it, and we've got it and it isn't worth a damn to you.

...The fact is that Dale and Grady had made a pact long before they ever came into this earthly existence. This is why so often there is one physical death that follows another. They are from the same soul family. They are so intertwined that they need to leave together. They are all returning home together.

Suicide pact: I’ll shoot you, and then you’ll shoot me.

I'm still looking for books about them, as well as I am used to feed food every day.

there's a bluebird in my heart that, wants to get out but I'm too tough for him I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you there's a bluebird in my heart that, wants to get out but I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there there's a bluebird in my heart that, wants to get out but I'm too tough for him I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that, wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there I haven't quite let him die. and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep but I don't weep, do you?

Where I come from, nobody reads novels unless they're like my mother-- fetishizing the artistic media of a bygone era, probably because it was the last time she was happy. But regular people don't read books there. That quasi- telepathic pact between author and reader held little interest for a general audience. Because the dominant storytelling medium of my world involved the seamless integration of an individual's subconscious wiring into the narrative, evoking deep personal wonder and terror, familiarity and delight, yearning and fury, and a triggering catharsis so spellbinding and essential that the idea of sitting down to page through a novel that's not even intended to be about the secret box inside your mind-- why would anyone want to do that for, like, fun? Unless, of course, you were constitutionally inclined to sublimate yourself to a stronger personality, in which case reading a book where every word is fixed in place by the deliberate choices of a controlling vision, surrendering agency over your own imagination to a stranger you'll likely never meet, is some sort of masochistic pleasure.

It is often much harder to get rid of books than it is to acquire them. They stick to us in that pact of need and oblivion we make with them, witnesses to a moment in our lives we will never see again. While they are still there, it is a part of us. I have noticed that many people make a note of the day, month, and year that they read a book; they build up a secret calendar. Others, before lending one, write their name on the flyleaf, note whom they lent it to in an address book, and add the date. I have known some book owners who stamp them or slip a card between their pages the way they do in public libraries. Nobody wants to mislay a book. We prefer to lose a ring, a watch, our umbrella, rather than a book whose pages we will never read again, but which retains, just in the sound of its title, a remote and perhaps long-lost emotion.

Bluebird there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the ****s and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?

THE FORTRESS Under the pink quilted covers I hold the pulse that counts your blood. I think the woods outdoors are half asleep, left over from summer like a stack of books after a flood, left over like those promises I never keep. On the right, the scrub pine tree waits like a fruit store holding up bunches of tufted broccoli. We watch the wind from our square bed. I press down my index finger -- half in jest, half in dread -- on the brown mole under your left eye, inherited from my right cheek: a spot of danger where a bewitched worm ate its way through our soul in search of beauty. My child, since July the leaves have been fed secretly from a pool of beet-red dye. And sometimes they are battle green with trunks as wet as hunters' boots, smacked hard by the wind, clean as oilskins. No, the wind's not off the ocean. Yes, it cried in your room like a wolf and your pony tail hurt you. That was a long time ago. The wind rolled the tide like a dying woman. She wouldn't sleep, she rolled there all night, grunting and sighing. Darling, life is not in my hands; life with its terrible changes will take you, bombs or glands, your own child at your breast, your own house on your own land. Outside the bittersweet turns orange. Before she died, my mother and I picked those fat branches, finding orange nipples on the gray wire strands. We weeded the forest, curing trees like cripples. Your feet thump-thump against my back and you whisper to yourself. Child, what are you wishing? What pact are you making? What mouse runs between your eyes? What ark can I fill for you when the world goes wild? The woods are underwater, their weeds are shaking in the tide; birches like zebra fish flash by in a pack. Child, I cannot promise that you will get your wish. I cannot promise very much. I give you the images I know. Lie still with me and watch. A pheasant moves by like a seal, pulled through the mulch by his thick white collar. He's on show like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed, one time, from an old lady's hat. We laugh and we touch. I promise you love. Time will not take away that.

His shoulders sagged a fraction. “No one ever wants to make a blood pact. We could invoke ancient spirits to hold us to our vow instead. I have some necromancy books at home. But I have to hide them behind my calculus homework; otherwise, my mother finds them and throws them out.

My hands were paralyzed, one wrapped around the handle of the Hyena’s sword, spikes sticking through the flesh and out the back of hand, thumb and fingers, too painful for me to let go of it. The other hand was tangled by the locket and the cord that surrounded the imp’s book, fingers bent back out of position. When I moved, it had been a jerky, frustrated movement, the length of the sword, the pain, and the weight of the sword and book all frustrating my attempts to interact with the world. My arms were cracked open like a hard plastic doll, and all that was within were feathers of mixed, dull colors, sticking to one another. I couldn’t move fast enough to catch up to anyone. I was too tired, too gaunt, an old man in a young-looking body, and the objects bound to my hands were too awkward to allow me to open doors easily or even walk through a crowded area without banging them on something. I couldn’t close my eyes, because something black and monstrous slithered beneath the surface every time I did. When I breathed, it was like I was having the heart attack again. The air I spent was air that I couldn’t replenish by any means. I was deflating, losing substance. There was nothing to do but stand there, too tired to move, arms spread like I was crucified, or a bird in mid-flight, staring at Rose and her gathered summonings, with Pauz perched on her shoulder. I somehow knew that words would cost me more of that vital substance than I could afford to spare. I knew, too, that nobody would listen. I stared until my eyes watered, because the idea of blinking was too terrifying.. The water in my eyes became welling moisture, and the resulting tear that fell from my right eye was black and heavy. I could feel the tendrils and tiny clawed feet reaching out from the tear, rasping against my cheekbone.

North: The frieze from the north portion of the temple depicts the war against the Amazons. It shows a meeting between the Amazon and Greek warriors, with Hekate being the central figure sanctioning a pact. The position of her body in this particular frieze has been interpreted as being indicative that while she brought the sides together and sanctioned the pact, she sided with the legendary female warriors of Anatolia. East: The eastern frieze depicts scenes from the life of Zeus, including a version of his birth in which Hekate takes the role of midwife. She assists the goddess Rhea in swaddling the baby and protecting it from his father Kronos’ paranoid madness. West: The western side shows a version of the war against the Giants. Like that of the famous friezes of Pergamon, it depicts Hekate as fighting on the side of Zeus. South: The south side shows a selection of Carian deities gathering for a feast. This has been interpreted as a gathering for the Hekatesion or another significant festival. Here it is interesting to note that the front of the temple (East) depicted the birth of Zeus and the back his battle and victory over the Titans. These are pivotal points in Greek religious history, Zeus’ birth and his victory in the battle which enables him to ascend to the throne. At both these points, Hekate is present.

You should have just left me there.” He pulls out of the cemetery and onto the road. “Don’t be so dramatic. Besides I told you I would never leave you. Just like you never left me.” “I think you’ve repaid that debt, Jackson Gray.” He shakes his head. “So quickly you forget our pact.” I put my foot on his dash and hold my hands in front of the vents. I still can’t believe he’s still rescuing me, years later. “Who could forget that. You were cowering on the floor of the library.” “I wasn’t cowering.” “Okay. You were leaning down to get a book when large bullies materialized in front of you.” I glance at him. “Is that better?” He rolls his eyes. “No one’s ever done something like that for me before. Even though I’d never admit a girl fought one of my battles.” I adjust the seat belt so it’s tighter. “Get over it, Jackson Gray. I did what anyone would do.” “No one else would have stuck up for the new kid.” He shrugs. “Is that the type of person you’d leave freezing in a cemetery?” “You mean, you’d leave other people freezing in a cemetery?” He sighs and nudges me in the shoulder. “Just shut up.

an unrestrained infatuation with ecstasy and other extraordinary phenomena developed. These experiences were thought of as something to be obtained at all costs. Among some noted but deceptive visionaries of the time was the stigmatic, María de Santo Domingo (1486-1524), known as the Beata of Piedrahita. Her monastery became a center of spirituality and high prayer; she herself wrote a book on prayer and contemplation. But soon the Master General of the Dominicans had to isolate her because of certain aberrations and prophetic revelations. No one in the order, with the exception of her confessor, was allowed to converse with her or administer the sacraments to her; nor was anyone allowed to speak about her prophecies, ecstasies, and raptures, except to the provincial. Another visionary, Magdalena de la Cruz, a Poor Clare with a reputation for holiness, severe fasts, and long vigils, also bearing the stigmata, let it be known that she no longer required any food except the consecrated Host in daily Communion. In an investigation by the Inquisition she confessed to being a secret devil worshiper. Inspired by two incubuses with whom she had made a pact, she became very skillful at all sorts of legerdemain. Through her success in fooling both bishops and kings, she brought the fear of being deceived to all of Spain.

Excitement, then, is a defense against anxiety, a transformation of anxiety into something more bearable, a melodrama. And if one lives protected from the worst of the endless random true mysteries, risks, and traumas of the real world, there grows a hunger for excitement - hang gliders, cigarette smoking, pacts with the devil, gambling, hallucinatory drugs, bank robbery, art, books written without adequate data. Most people who can have it cannot long bear calm contentment.

In his 1999 book, Day of Deceit: The Truth About FDR and Pearl Harbor, Robert B. Stinnett, a navy photographer who served in the same World War II aerial group as former President George H. W. Bush, used documents acquired from a Freedom of Information Act request to demonstrate definitively that FDR knew about the attack on Pearl Harbor in advance and let it go as part of his larger strategy to provoke the Japanese into war.185 The smoking guns included several declassified, U.S.-decoded Japanese naval broadcasts, and spy communiqués which set forth a timetable, a census, and bombing plans for U.S. ships at Pearl Harbor, at least the contents of which were relayed to FDR and his aides.186 In large part, the book discussed a particularly damning piece of evidence called the McCollum Memo, a six-page document written in October 1940—fourteen months before the attack on Pearl Harbor—and addressed to two senior FDR military advisors outlining the steps for provoking the Japanese into making an overt act of war.187

After that they had the presents. Those from the guests to the hosts were chiefly a disguised dole: tins or pots of more or less luxurious food, bottles of hard liquor, wide-spectrum gift tokens. Hosts showered guests with diversely unwearable articles of clothing: to Keith from Adela, a striped necktie useful for garroting underbred rivals in his trade; to Tracy from George, a liberation-front lesbian's plastic apron. Under a largely unspoken kind of non-aggression pact, the guests gave one another things like small boxes of chocolates or very large boxes of matches with (say) aerial panoramas of Manhattan on their outsides and containing actual matches each long enough, once struck, to kindle the cigarettes of (say) the entire crew of a fair-sized merchant vessel, given the assembly of that crew in some relatively confined space. Intramural gifts included a bathroom sponge, a set of saucepans, a cushion in a lop-sided cover, a photograph-frame wrought by some vanished hand and with no photographs in it, an embroidered knitting bag. Keith watched carefully what Bernard gave, half expecting a chestnut-coloured wig destined for Adela, or a lavishly-illustrated book on karate for George, but was disappointed, although he savored Bernard's impersonation of a man going all out to hide his despondency as he took the wrappings off present after useless, insultingly cheap, no doubt intended to be facetious, present.

But the experts do not seem to know much more. It is appalling how little is really known, or, at least, how little is known by those who have to make decisions affecting peace and war. Think a moment about the questions to be treated in this book - beginnings, outcomes, and consequences of war – and think about the performance of leaders in recent military conflicts. For example, the leaders of the major powers at the beginning of World War I did not realize that a war was coming or the nature of the war their nations were going to have to fight. The comment made by one German general on the behavior of British soldiers, << they fight like lions but they are led by asses,>> should not, in justice, be restricted to the British alone. Did French, Italian, or heaven help us, Russian leaders perform any better in World Wars I or II? Stalin, even after being told by both Roosevelt and Churchill that the USSR was about to be invaded, refused to believe that Hitler would violate the 1939 pact and was immensely surprised when he did.

Italian fascists were so arrogant that they believed they were secure siding with Hitler, signing the Pact of Steel in May 1939. This was arrogance, and the residents of Italy paid gravely for this, leading the country into ruins.

REMEMBER THIS •​Identity greatly influences our behavior. People tend to align their actions with how they see themselves. •​An identity pact is a precommitment to a self-image. You can prevent distraction by acting in line with your identity. •​Become a noun. By assigning yourself a moniker, you increase the likelihood of following through with behaviors consistent with what you call yourself. Call yourself “indistractable.” •​Share with others. Teaching others solidifies your commitment, even if you’re still struggling. A great way to be indistractable is to tell friends about what you learned in this book and the changes you’re making in your life. •​Adopt rituals. Repeating mantras, keeping a timeboxed schedule, or performing other routines reinforces your identity and influences your future actions.

How many times had I come and gone through the dreaded gateway? How many times had I been born and died young? And how often to the same parents? I had no idea. So much of the dust of living was in me. But this time, somewhere in the interspace between the spirit world and the Living, I chose to stay. This meant breaking my pact and outwitting my companions. It wasn’t because of the sacrifices, the burnt offerings of oils and yams and palm-nuts, or the blandishments, the short-lived promises of special treatment, or even because of the grief I had caused. It wasn’t because of my horror of recognition either. Apart from a mark on my palm I had managed to avoid being discovered. It may simply have been that I had grown tired of coming and going. It is terrible to forever remain in-between. It may also have been that I wanted to taste of this world, to feel it, suffer it, know it, to love it, to make a valuable contribution to it, and to have that sublime mood of eternity in me as I live the life to come. But I sometimes think it was a face that made me want to stay. I wanted to make happy the bruised face of the woman who would become my mother.

New day. New beginning. Life’s full of possibilities in this moment. It’s a fresh start. It’s like a book when you open it to page one. Can you feel it?

German socialists and Soviet socialists joined in a pact to divide up Europe, invading Poland et cetera, spreading World War II.

What an idiot I am. I created a pact with children. Not even a blood pact but a vow that yields nothing for my kettle or Wake. A vow born of weakness. But a vow all the same. I will not fail them, no matter the cost.

have to fill out a slip of paper at the counter, explain why you need the book, show your ID. And if your reason is good enough—a treatise on the failures that led to the Crisis, perhaps, or new strategies for detecting internal enemies—someone, like his father, will venture into the stacks and retrieve it for you. He doesn’t say what changed, but Bird understands: it is PACT, of course, that changed everything. That deemed some books dangerous, to be kept only if they were kept out of reach.

Relationship with family members and friends are relationships where they act as support system for a person in life. They assist to attain spiritual learnings and an aid for journey to the Divine. Our pacts with them allow both us and our close ones to reach God.

No, they would kill for me. The thought is sobering. Fire is for rookies.

Toss me to the wolves and watch me come out leading the pack.

PLAYLIST Stream the complete The Pact playlist here. “Guys My Age” by Hey Violet “Hypnotic” by Zella Day “MakeDamnSure” by Taking Back Sunday “Hell Above” by Pierce The Veil “Left Behind” by The Plot In You “Live And Let Die” by Roseview, Kellin Quinn “Sleepless” by Dutch Melrose “Taste” by Ari Abdul “Loud” by The Home Team “Martyr” by KiNG MALA “Curiosity” by Bryce Savage “Church” by Chase Atlantic “Bury Me” by If Not For Me “Already Numb” by Dayseeker “Unholy” by Ana Eclipse “Chokehold” by Sleep Token “Love Bites” by Ice Nine Kills “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails “Cyanide” by Allistair “All This Time” by Toby Mai “Drown” by Bring Me The Horizon “Nerve Endings” by Too Close To Touch “Go To Hell” by Nikki Idol “How Villains Are Made” by Madalen Duke

Growing up relatively isolated, with no extended family to speak of, I learned to keep myself entertained. That often meant making up games I could play alone, watching TV for hours, and daydreaming. I’m still that way now—keeping to myself, absorbed in my own world.

For those who smile and say tighter when darkness grips you by the throat. Eyes on me. You’re doing so good. Now turn the page and let’s begin.

Even after everything I’ve told her, everything I’ve done, she’s offering to sign another deal with the devil in blood. This time, there will be no breaking the ungodly pact. This time, if she can earn it, she’s mine for eternity.

There's a bluebird in my heart that Wants to get out but I'm too tough for him I say, stay in there, I'm not going To let anybody see you There's a bluebird in my heart that Wants to get out But I pour whiskey on him and inhale Cigarette smoke And the whores and the bartenders And the grocery clerks never know that He's in there There's a bluebird in my heart that Wants to get out but I'm too tough for him I say, Stay down, do you want to mess Me up? You want to screw up the Works? You want to blow my book sales in Europe? There's a bluebird in my heart that Wants to get out But I'm too clever, I only let him out At night sometimes when everybody's asleep I say, I know that you're there So don't be sad Then I put him back But he's singing a little In there, I haven't quite let him die And we sleep together like that With our secret pact And it's nice enough to make a man Weep, but I don't weep, do You?

The Sixteen Conclusions of Reverend Kirk In the last half of the seventeenth century, a Scottish scholar gathered all the accounts he could find about the Sleagh Maith and, in 1691, wrote an amazing manuscript entitled The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies. It was the first systematic attempt to describe the methods and organization of the strange creatures that plagued the farmers of Scotland. The author, Reverend Kirk, of Aberfoyle, studied theology at St. Andrews and took his degree of professor at Edinburgh. Later he served as minister for the parishes of Balquedder and Aberfoyle and died in 1692. Kirk invented the name "the Secret Commonwealth" to describe the organization of the elves. It is impossible to quote the entire text of his treatise, but we can summarize his findings about elves and other aerial creatures in the following way: 1. They have a nature that is intermediate between man and the angels. 2. Physically, they have very light and fluid bodies, which are comparable to a condensed cloud. They are particularly visible at dusk. They can appear and vanish at will. 3. Intellectually, they are intelligent and curious. 4. They have the power to carry away anything they like. 5. They live inside the earth in caves, which they can reach through any crevice or opening where air passes. 6. When men did not inhabit most of the world, the creatures used to live there and had their own agriculture. Their civilization has left traces on the high mountains; it was flourishing at a time when the whole countryside was nothing but woods and forests. 7. At the beginning of each three-month period, they change quarters because they are unable to stay in one place. Besides, they like to travel. It is then that men have terrible encounters with them, even on the great highways. 8. Their chameleon-like bodies allow them to swim through the air with all their household. 9. They are divided into tribes. Like us, they have children, nurses, marriages, burials, etc., unless they just do this to mock our own customsor to predict terrestrial events. 10. Their houses are said to be wonderfully large and beautiful, but under most circumstances they are invisible to human eyes. Kirk compares them to enchanted islands. The houses are equipped with lamps that burn forever and fires that need no fuel. 11. They speak very little. When they do talk among themselves, their language is a kind of whistling sound. 12. Their habits and their language when they talk to humans are similar to those of local people. 13. Their philosophical system is based on the following ideas: nothing dies; all things evolve cyclically in such a way that at every cycle they are renewed and improved. Motion is the universal law. 14. They are said to have a hierarchy of leaders, but they have no visible devotion to God, no religion. 15. They have many pleasant and light books, but also serious and complex books dealing with abstract matters. 16. They can be made to appear at will before us through magic. The similarities between these observations and the story related by Facius Cardan, which antedates Kirk's manuscript by exactly two hundred years, are clear. Both Cardan and Paracelsus write, like Kirk, that a pact can be made with these creatures and that they can be made to appear and answer questions at will. Paracelsus did not care to reveal what that pact was "because of the ills that might befall those who would try it." Kirk is equally discreet on this point. And, of course, to go deeper into this matter would open the whole field of witchcraft and ceremonial magic, which is beyond my purpose in the present book.

its often much harder to get rid of books than it is to acquire them. they stick to us in that pact of need and oblivion we make with them, witnesses to a moment in our lives we will never see again. while they are still there, it is a part of us. i have noticed that many people make a note of the day, month, and year that they read a book; they build up a secret calendar.

Who has had a pig-headed father; I am old enough now to make friends. It was you that broke the new wood, Now is a time for carving. We have one sap and one root— Let there be commerce between us. That “commerce” found its fruition in the Cantos in the same kind of dissociative structure as Eliot’s and Whitman’s. Pound’s pact was in truth between both Whitman and Eliot,

The real measure of 'truth' in any novel is not whether the characters, places and events portrayed exist beyond the pages of the book, but, rather, whether they seem authentic to us as readers. When we open the pages of a novel, we enter into a pact with it. We want to immerse ourselves in its milieu. We want to engage with the characters, to find their actions psychologically plausible. We invest a little bit of ourselves in the narrative and, while never quite forgetting that it is fiction, experience the disappointments, humiliations and petty successes of the characters as if they were our own. A novel is, in Sartre's phrase, 'neither true nor false'; but it must feel real.

Hear, therefore, accursed Satan, who art powerless over a servant of God, when, encouraged by his true Lord, he turneth unto another service; in vain dost thou boast of this deed; I command thee to restore it in the name of the Lord, as a Proof before the whole world that when God receiveth a sinner, thou hast no longer any Yule over his soul. I abjure thee, by Him who expelled thee from thy stronghold, bereft thee of the arms which thou didst trust in and distributed thy spoils. Return therefore this deed, whereby this creature of God foolishly bound himself to thy service; return it, I say, in His name by Whom thou art overcome; when thy Power has come to nothing, presume not longer to retain this useless document. By penitence already hath this creature of God restored himself to his true Lord, spurning thy yoke, hoping in the Divine mercy for defence against thine assaults, and assisted by the Most Holy and Glorious Virgin Mary, Mother of God, through whose intercession he shall obtain from Jesus Christ, His Son, that which he himself is not worthy to expect. Through the same Christ our Lord.

Pacts with the devil have been made many times. There is no other way to explain the popularity of the book Fifty Shades of Grey.

We both said we’d likely never make it down the aisle. Then you brought up some book you read about two friends who agreed to marry each other by whatever age if they were both single, and before I knew it, we had made the same pact.

– In life you find your heart. Never loose it again. This is from my book Pact With God Chapter 25. It is a memoir and excerpts can be found on Facebook. Check out my website AtTheTopProductions.com for more info.

Parisian Diabolism, for example, in so far as it may be admitted to exist, is the Black Magic of the Grimoire and not the sovereign horror of the Brothers of the Left Hand Path, wearing their iniquity like an aureole, and deathless in spiritual evil. These

Love was a prayer to life. Vengeance was a prayer to the demons of righteousness. Sealing a business pact was, she said with a faint smile, a prayer to the whisperer of illusions. Attainment for one was born of deprivation for another, after all. A game played with two hands.

Thankfully, a much-needed letter from Bobby was waiting for me in the mailbox. Dear Heidi, Sorry everyone’s being so mean. Sometimes people get scared of what they don’t know, and then they do stupid things to pretend that they’re not scared. Kirk doesn’t deserve to go out with you, so don’t even think about him. Cathy isn’t a good friend either. I wish I could be there for you, but you know how it is. All I can say is maybe you can teach them what it’s like to be Donald. That might help, you know? And I hope you meet a friend who is cool enough to see how much fun Donald can be. I sure miss playing in the park with you guys. Take it easy, and write soon. Bobby I hugged the letter to my chest after reading it several times, grateful that we made a pact to write real letters instead of emails. You can’t hold and hug an email. I folded it up carefully and stuck it in a special pocket of my backpack so I’d be able to sneak a peek at it at school for some extra comfort.

signed a lot of disarmament and non-aggression pacts, like 1928’s Kellogg-Briand Pact, pledging not to go to war with any of the other people who signed it. The other signers included Germany, Poland, Africa, Japan, Britain, and France, and later expanded to include Serbia, China, Hungary, and the Soviet Union, so you can see how well that pact turned out. In the 1930s, it became clear that

One can only imagine the conversation our ancestors had when they made a pact to not tell the next generation they were Jewish.

I hadn't exactly asked Ava out on a date, but I'd definitely crossed a line when I mauled her in the kitchen.

Three pots of tea later, the scones were gone, we'd collapsed onto the living room furniture like fainting ladies from a Victorian painting

Nobody should have to cry alone