The Summer Pact Quotes

And remember, there’s a difference between your history and your legacy. Your history is what happened. Your legacy is what you set in motion.

For September, it was balmy - Indian summer, the night flung across the sky like sheer gauze, bringing darkness but no weight.

reminder to walk gently through this fragile life…to love…to be loved…and to do our best to ease the pain, despair, and suffering of others.

It reminded me of our summer plans. Our road trip. Our pact not to think about the end so we wouldn’t miss out on the present.

Well…” Annabelle looked from one expectant face to another, unable to keep from grinning. “If the three of you are willing, then so am I. But if we’re to make a pact, shouldn’t we sign it in blood or something?” “Heavens, no,” Lillian said. “I should think we can all agree to something without having to open a vein over it.

I could say the night felt magical, but that would be embellishment. That would be romanticization. What it actually felt like was life. We weren't thinking of what would happen next. No one talked about the way the summer was supposed to unfold or the places we'd find ourselves in the fall. It was as if we had made a pact to be in the moment, or like being in the moment was the only way to be.

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.

It was the weekend. She was watching a film on TV. It was about four teenage girls, friends who’d been devastated to find that they were all going to have to spend their summer holidays in different parts of the world. So they made a pact that they’d share a pair of jeans, meaning they’d send the jeans by post from one to the next to the next and so on as a sign of their undying friendship. What happened next was that the pair of jeans acted as a magic catalyst to their lives and saw them through lots of learning curves and self-esteem-getting and being in love, parents’ breaking up, someone dying etc. When it got to the part where a child was dying of cancer and the jeans helped one of the girls to cope with this, George, sitting on the floor in the front room, howled out loud like a wolf at its crapness.

To this day, people in Washington can’t even agree about what to call this group. Some refer to it as ISIS—the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. Others, such as President Obama, refer to it as ISIL—the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. Yet in reality neither name is correct. In war, names matter. An intelligence preparation of the battlefield does not describe enemies capriciously. The way we talk about our foes is a function of the raw intelligence we put into the system, and the names we give them are a reflection of what they call themselves. We called the Third Reich the Third Reich because that was what the Nazis called themselves. The same was true with the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact. If we wish to be accurate, we should refer to our current enemy as the “Islamic State.” That is what they have called themselves since Abu Bakr al Baghdadi declared the caliphate reborn in the summer of 2014. And indeed such major publications as the Financial Times and the Economist refer to the jihadi group as IS.

She and her kisses It was Saturday afternoon, The Summer Sun shone bright, And there she was as usual basking in the casual moments of the noon, While I stood there looking at her beautiful face in the Summer light, She turned sideways and sometimes I could only see her back, And as her locks of hair descended downwards from her shoulders, I could witness in the daylight the magic of the beautiful black, It was a beautiful sight for all heavenly and earthly beholders, To see her splendor of beauty humble the Summer light, And what made her even more beautiful was her ignorance of this fact, That she was brighter than the summer light and during the night she was the envy of moonlight, And with time she seemed to have a secret pact, For the afternoon sun had now set behind the horizon of dusk, But she and her beauty were still embalmed by a mysterious eternal light, That charged at the keeper of time like the ferocious tusk, And guarded her beauty like the most devout knight, When she finally stood up and left the place, I followed the trail of her scent, her shadows and her feet, And there I saw her enter a grand palace of grace, The residence of beautiful innocence made radiant by acts of kindness that nothing can defeat, Because time and beauty are the gatekeepers of this place, Where she sleeps and renews her youth, her charms and her sensitive acts of tenderness, Then in a moment she vanishes behind the veil of sleep without leaving any trace, On the fleeting moments of time, so nobody knows how she attains this beautiful grace of absolute calmness, Maybe it is her ability to look at men and women differently, For no matter who she comes across she greets them genuinely, And offers them a smile of kindness fondly, And it is these acts, small insignificant acts of kindness that flash on her face so beautifully, That is why I love her, even if it means looking at her from the distance, Because I seek not that smile of kindness that she offers to all, I love to be with her and feel that secret romance, That has enslaved time to her commands and makes her the most beautiful woman of all, Someday when the sun has set and the moonlight is bright, And she travels in her dreams into the kingdom of time and eternity, There I shall be her dream, to be so then every night, And then that is what I shall love to be her and my eternity, Where she kisses me, And we lie cocooned in the shell of love, With time winding its silk strings around me, As she kisses me like the rain drops of love, Then as the silk cocoon of time preserves us both, I shall confess to her, under the afternoon Sun, That for her I was the moth, That died a billion times just to let her face, be the beauty’s eternal Sun, So she owes me a moment of love, with a billion kisses, And as she agrees we both shall sleep in the cocoon of time together, Nothing to separate us, not even light, we shall then grow as a grand feeling of love thriving on kisses, And grow in the cocoon of eternal time where love and kisses shall be the only weather.

Now she just had to figure out how to find the good in life again. How to laugh at herself again. How to find humor and happiness in a difficult situation or a difficult time.

Ioften wonder what makes our coming-of-age friendships so powerful. I know the usual theories…. That they fill the void of adolescent loneliness. That they give us a sense of belonging. That they shape our adult identities. All these things are true, but when it comes right down to it, I think it’s a simple matter of who was there by our side, bearing witness to our loss of innocence.

Do you know the David Foster Wallace quote? Where he likens suicide to jumping from a burning building?” Lainey and I said no. “It’s not that the person doesn’t fear falling—because he does—it’s just that falling feels less terrible than burning,” Tyson said, paraphrasing the quote.

your decisions—the ones you make today and tomorrow and the next day—will ultimately impact your legacy. What do you want that to be?

Franz Josef, Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary, was well into his sixties. His wife, the Empress Elisabeth, had been assassinated years before by an anarchist, his only son had died in a murder-suicide pact, and now the Archduke, his heir, was dead. The fate of Europe might well depend on what a bitter old man decided.

I don’t think there’s anything lonelier than being in a bad relationship—or even the wrong one.

And remember there's a difference between your history and your legacy. Your history is what happened. Your legacy is what you set in motion.

Sometimes I can’t tell whether I’m always lonely or never lonely.

walk gently through this fragile life…to love…to be loved…and to do our best to ease the pain, despair, and suffering of others.

Our lives will never be perfect, nor will the photos we take. What matters is that we are all doing our best. We are showing up for one another, even when things get rough, and against all odds, we are finding our way to happiness.

I couldn’t help hoping that someday she’d show me the warmth I craved from her. So I let it go. The way I always did.

I often wonder what makes our coming-of-age friendships so powerful. I know the usual theories…That they fill the void of adolescent loneliness. That they give us a sense of belonging. That they shape our adult identities. All these things are true, but when it comes down to it, I think it’s a simple matter of who was there by our side, bearing witness to our loss of innocence.

Maybe I’m running away from my problems—I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing—but it’s better than wallowing in misery. Meanwhile, my mind

Anyway! Like a memory she does not travel, She just stays in the mind of everything, A feeling that is abysmal and at the same time makes you feel well, Almost like experiencing everything but feeling nothing, But her thoughts and her memories remain intact, A love affair of a different kind maybe, Where infinity is the witness and love that lasts for eternity is the pact, There is no other way for it to exist maybe, Or it could be my predilection towards her memories, That makes everything else less preeminent, And gradually one loses interest in all worldly stories, Because her thought is still fresh and omnipresent, Like a flower that you come to admire in Summer, And you wait for the seasons to pass by, To witness this flower again in the new Summer, There, anticipating and waiting you lie, Not for the Summer, but for the flower, And how unnecessary everything else seems, Almost like a desperate lover, Whose heart often her name screams, But the yearnings of heart are silent, And no matter how much it cries or screams everyday, It has no audience, except the helpless firmament, Where it is heard, but it can't do anything to help it anyway!

Most people assume that the key to happiness is through marriage and children. And so many seem to wind up miserable.

The trick is—don’t be embarrassed. Try whenever you can. There is no shame in trying,” she says.

it crosses my mind that people need to stop saying they “love to travel” when the actual traveling part sucks. Especially when it involves jet lag

In that moment, I realized how much we take friendship for granted when we’re young, unable to grasp its significance until later in life. For Tyson and me—and Lainey, wherever she was tonight—that “later” had come. Our perspective would never be the same. That’s the thing about innocence…. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.