Tl Quotes

When you see him, I want you to do something for me. Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn’t get to touch you again... Because there’s another man who does.

Words are the bones. Writing is the lungs. Reading is like breathing.

This is it. I can stop searching. I’ve found her.

Music is a language - and language, at its finest, should be music.

Damn the wars but bless the soldier.

You understand what I’m telling you, Tommy? You have a light inside you, and the only person who gets to decide whether that light shines or not is you.

You must have done something stupid in your life, Jameson Miles. Yeah. I have. What? I never asked for your number.

I'm not fooled, assassin. You may think you are removed from us—that you have come to terms with your own mortality—but I still had to drag Sora out of your arms.

When someone shows themselves to you . . . believe them.

Who’s hopelessly in love with you.” He leans over and kisses me softly, and I feel my resistance fade. “I love you, cheesecake,” he whispers. “Don’t call me fucking cheesecake.” He chuckles against my lips. “Too far?” “Way too far.

We all have demons, Crash," she said quietly. "But you don't have to let them define you.

I desire very little, but the things I do consume me

I part my lips, but no words come out. I want to cry. Want to beg. Want to scream. But mostly, I want to hold him until I know he’s going to be okay. Then I want him to hold me until I’m okay, too.

Just because it's imaginary, doesn't mean it's not real.

Somewhere beyond the pain, you turn around and realize that life is beautiful.

Sweetheart, I remember every second from the first moment I laid eyes on you and I’ve been trying to get my world upright ever since.

Tristan fucking Miles.

Perhaps the palms had been whispering warnings in the sultry breeze.

In the darkness, in her arms, I listen to her heartbeat. And I lose sight of mine.

When you see him, I want you to do something for me. " "What's that?" "Ask him if he feels like he might die if he doesn't get to touch you again." I frown. "Why would I ask him that?" I whisper. "Because there's another man who does." The phone clicks as he hangs up.

What was your favorite thing you saw today?” He changes the subject. “Honestly?” “Of course.” “It was you.” Our eyes lock. “You were the most beautiful thing I saw today, Tristan Miles.

Only the future matters, Sora. Guilt is an illusion, a way of lingering on the past. You can't change what happened." He held her eyes , carving himself into her mind. "You are alive. That is what you should worry about. Your thoughts can torture you— but not the dead. They've moved on.

We're all what we are because of circumstances larger than we are.

To love is to be brave.

This isn’t how I wanted to become a father. I’m supposed to fall in love, have a wedding and a wife that I love and go through trying to conceive and then the pregnancy… the birth. I’m supposed to know my own child.

Yes, she was still breathing—and by the gods, he would keep her that way!

There are three certainties in a writer's life: death, taxes, and rejection letters.

Sometimes, the inessential is essential.

Rain had been falling most of the morning, and the smell of pine invigorated her senses.

I felt it. I heard the snap of my heart tearing in half. It wasn’t a messy, dirty rip like I’d expected, but a smooth, clean line that knew just where to break to hurt me the most.

I’m watching you,” I whisper. “I’ll tell you who to watch: that middle child of yours. The wizard.

Because until you find someone who loves you as much as I do, they will never be good enough.

Welcome to the Miles-High Club, Emily.

I will not beg for any man to love me.

He pays attention to the small things, and it’s the small things that matter.

I have learned to love me, and now I am free to love everyone else.

Heaven is a journey only your heart can map

As many as touched [him] were made perfectly whole. Matthew 14:36

In elke relatie komt een moment waarop je de ander ziet in tl-licht, bedacht Cavia.

There is no such thing as liberalism — or progressivism, etc. There is only conservatism. No other political philosophy actually exists; by the political analogue of Gresham’s Law, conservatism has driven every other idea out of circulation. There might be, and should be, anti-conservatism; but it does not yet exist. What would it be? In order to answer that question, it is necessary and sufficient to characterize conservatism. Fortunately, this can be done very concisely. Conservatism consists of exactly one proposition, to wit: There must be in-groups whom the law protectes but does not bind, alongside out-groups whom the law binds but does not protect. There is nothing more or else to it, and there never has been, in any place or time. For millenia, conservatism had no name, because no other model of polity had ever been proposed. “The king can do no wrong.” In practice, this immunity was always extended to the king’s friends, however fungible a group they might have been. Today, we still have the king’s friends even where there is no king (dictator, etc.). Another way to look at this is that the king is a faction, rather than an individual. As the core proposition of conservatism is indefensible if stated baldly, it has always been surrounded by an elaborate backwash of pseudophilosophy, amounting over time to millions of pages. All such is axiomatically dishonest and undeserving of serious scrutiny. Today, the accelerating de-education of humanity has reached a point where the market for pseudophilosophy is vanishing; it is, as The Kids Say These Days, tl;dr . All that is left is the core proposition itself — backed up, no longer by misdirection and sophistry, but by violence. So this tells us what anti-conservatism must be: the proposition that the law cannot protect anyone unless it binds everyone, and cannot bind anyone unless it protects everyone. Then the appearance arises that the task is to map “liberalism”, or “progressivism”, or “socialism”, or whateverthefuckkindofstupidnoise-ism, onto the core proposition of anti-conservatism. No, it a’n’t. The task is to throw all those things on the exact same burn pile as the collected works of all the apologists for conservatism, and start fresh. The core proposition of anti-conservatism requires no supplementation and no exegesis. It is as sufficient as it is necessary. What you see is what you get: The law cannot protect anyone unless it binds everyone; and it cannot bind anyone unless it protects everyone.

One Way: Jesus! One Job: Evangelism!

Why are you so infuriatingly blind? Everything I do-every damn word I say-is with you in mind." -Crash

His eyes close, and he draws a long breath. When they open again, they’re colder than ever. “And that’s where you’d be disappointed, Lou.There is no good to be found in Death.

The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.

I work hard . . . but I love harder.

Don’t even fucking look at her ass, or I will sit you on yours

Why don’t you want to look at me? Because I just find your face really...punchable.

Yes . . . you are. I know your scent.” His eyes hold mine. “And . . . today it’s different.” He knows my scent . . . what the fuck?

I go with the flow but I write against it.

So . . . sleeping with only you . . . isn’t a problem for me.” His lips touched mine. “However, not sleeping with you is a torture I won’t tolerate.

When the world gets too much, I go to my sadness sanctuary, the place where I can cry alone. I’ve cried buckets of tears in this shower. If the walls could talk, they would tell a very sad story indeed.

These bugs are from Jurassic Park.” He swings his arms around to get them off him. “No bugs are this big.” I go back to my instructions. Okay, so it says here that this pole goes into this . . . “Ahh,” he cries as he slaps his arm. “I’m getting fucking malaria over here, Emily.” I roll my eyes. “Stop being a baby.” I put the pole into the correct place. “Can you grab the corner and stretch it out, please?

His gaze, lowered toward the ground, slowly, leisurely drifts up, until it slams into mine with the heavy force of steel against steel. The green is back, emerald flames dancing behind clouds of black and grey. And with just that single look, his head slightly dipped, I know . . . Here, right now, I’m the one with all the power.

Will you say something?” I whisper. “Say something sweet to put me out of my misery.” His eyes come to mine as he cups my face. “I packed your scarf in my luggage.” I smile softly. “It’s nothing new. I’ve taken it on every trip I’ve been on . . . since we met.

So you think it's funny to leave me in the house all day with Crash? That man is horribly unsociable, you know." This time Sora and Burn both laughed. Burn's ears twitched.

I don't..." Crash swallowed, "I don't want this to happen again." "What to happen again?" "This, Sora!" he said harshly. She sat back, stunned by the show of emotion.

Shadowed beneath his brow bone were cold dark eyes containing secrets and sadness, bitterness and grief.

Crash smiled slowly. He didn't waste words while fighting. It was useless to taunt the dead.

Heartache is my constant companion, and we’re perfect for one another. Two co-dependent peas in a pod. My past and my future.

Two lines. Seven words. 'I’m so sorry. I’ll never give up.

Don’t misjudge my submission as a weakness.

I knew in my heart that I was called to them for a reason. It’s you, Kate, you are the reason.

Send two ambulances,” I bark. “I’m about to have a fucking heart attack myself.

There are moments in your life that you know you will remember forever. Certain situations that are poignant and have shaped who you are.

When the rabbit turns and chases the wolf into the arms of the devil, the devil and rabbit become deadly alliances. Beware of the rabbit.

I don’t want to fuck you in the dark, Julian. I want to love you in the light,

Are you brushing me off for your book?” “Completely. Don’t be offended. I would brush Superman off for this book.

I should have acted sooner. Saved him. It was in my power.” Her throat closed painfully. Then Crash did something unexpected. He sat down on the bed, his hand landing close to her face, gazing down at her intently. For reasons unknown, Sora felt her breath catch, her chest constrict peculiarly.

faith cannot be exercised when one is undecided as to whether or not God will heal all. If He will not heal all, then we are forced to consider in every case: "I wonder if God wills to heal this one? Or is this one of the unfortunate ones whom God wills to remain sick and to suffer?" How could we ever pray the prayer of faith with such uncertainty in our minds?

The Holy Spirit is not a heavenly agent that we can dispatch to accomplish our missions in life. He functions through us as believers. We are His temple today.1Cor.3:16-17; 6:19 He moves among people when we do. He accomplishes His mission in us and through us.

He puts his mouth to my ear. “Did you touch yourself?” he whispers. His breath tickles my skin and goosebumps scatter up my arms. “Did you?” I ask. His lips dust mine. “Every day. Coming is my favorite pastime.

A grownup is a child with layers on. Woody Harrelson

Do ya, now? Jaxson Ryan

Wherever and whenever Jesus Christ is proclaimed as our sacrifice for sin and sickness, physical healing as well as spiritual salvation will result.

He doesn’t look at me like he’s owed anything. He looks at me like I’ve already given him everything.

Don’t forget to breathe.

Why would he call the cops if you’re just cleaning his house?” “Because I’m stalking him. I gotta go.

I was my own worst enemy, analyzing and re-analyzing everything around me, but when I ran, I felt invincible.

Can't afford to put myself in some sort of ideological straightjacket. That's for losers.

I’m gay, not blind. I can appreciate a fine female form.

Men who look that good can’t be blessed with brains too.

And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated. His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.

You feel more at home at my home . . . or maybe it’s me that feels at home when you’re there.

If I don’t look pretty, nobody will notice me . . . and my heart can never get broken again.

God wants you to have so much more. He wants you to have a supernatural love, one that sustains when both of you give up. You can’t have that with someone who lacks faith. It’s just not possible.

A devil doesn’t show his hand. He plays his cards until the winning hand is revealed. I think she may be my favorite playing card yet. And I plan to play every move possible when it comes to her.

Sometimes you just know in your gut that you shouldn’t be doing something. The outcome is already written in the stars, and sometimes you should just be stronger and say no. But what if you can’t?

Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage. My horrified eyes meet his. “Sit back down.” “I . . .” I take another step toward the exit. “Claire,” he warns. I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him. “I said sit. Back. Down.

Nobody treats me as bad as you do, Emily. Because you pay them. Good thing you’ve got lots of money, Jameson. You’re going to need it. Nobody would put up with your shit for free. That’s a low blow.

It is what it is"... and "You can only eat an elephant one bite at a time, and sometimes when life throws things at you that are pretty challanging and it is really big elephant, envision it to be chocolate covered to make the bites much more yummy and easier to swallow." :)

Sometimes I think people like you are the strongest of us all. The kind of person who can find beauty in anything. Who chooses to believe in love before hate. Who doesn’t just hope for happy endings, but has what it takes to create the happy ending. It’s so easy to be angry, to hate, to see the worst in a situation. But to actively choose to see the best? That’s where all the courage is.

Emily.” He looks at me, and the flashlight strapped to his forehead shines in my eyes. “I smell like a toxic dumping ground of bug poison, and I have never felt so unsexy in my entire life. I wouldn’t be surprised if my dick has been poisoned off like a weed.

Darkness watches me from every angle. My only friend. From its own place within the silence, it speaks to me in a strange way. It whispers secrets in my ear, telling me this is where I’m meant to be. It’s so certain, not a trace of doubt. And I think . . . I think it may be right.

Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her. “Of course, sir.” His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?” I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.” He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him. “What’s funny?” I ask. “You are.” “Why am I funny?” I frown. “This sense of righteousness that you have.” “Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.” Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip.

In the Gospels, Christ gave us His example in ministry. He showed us the Father's will. Then in redemption, He transferred to us His nature, His anointing, His power, His name, His righteousness, His glory, His authority. With that divine endowment, He entrusted to us His commission to take His message to our hurting world.

I understand if you don’t want to fight for us. I’m damaged goods. I couldn’t be with me.” He turns to face me. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “It’s true.” I shrug sadly. “I have more baggage than a 747.” He pushes the hair back from my forehead and then, with his finger under my chin, lifts my face to meet his. “You’re my damaged goods.

I roll over and wince. “Oh God,” I whisper as I put the heel of my hands into my eye sockets. “My head is pounding.” “Like my dick,” Nathan says dryly. I look over at him in question. “Your dick is pounding?” “Uh-huh.” He gives me the side-eye. “Some crazy bitch, tiny kitty, drunk on sangria, thought she might like to squeeze the fuck out of him.

Avery, I found this picture the other day after our talk and knew I had to get it for you. I know sometimes you wonder why I feel the way I do about you, when you are still learning to love yourself. You said you were flawed and damaged, but, my love, we all are. The storms in your life don’t make you less than perfect; they make you beautiful and full of character, with the ability to use all you’ve learned to impact the rest of the world. I’ve been wishing for months there was a way you could see yourself through my eyes. Well, here it is. This is how I see you, and the rain has only made you more breathtaking. All my love, Parker

I screw up my face; what the fuck is he going on about? “Elliot, I don’t—” “Open it,” he barks. Jeez, psycho . . . I open the envelope and my eyes widen. I flick through the images, confusion takes me over. I know these paintings . . . I did these paintings. My eyes rise to meet his. “All those years, all that time . . . it was you,” he whispers. Goosebumps scatter up my spine. He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, takes my hands in his. “It was you who was calling me through those paintings.

What did we talk about? I don't remember. We talked so hard and sat so still that I got cramps in my knee. We had too many cups of tea and then didn't want to leave the table to go to the bathroom because we didn't want to stop talking. You will think we talked of revolution but we didn't. Nor did we talk of our own souls. Nor of sewing. Nor of babies. Nor of departmental intrigue. It was political if by politics you mean the laboratory talk that characters in bad movies are perpetually trying to convey (unsuccessfully) when they Wrinkle Their Wee Brows and say (valiantly--dutifully--after all, they didn't write it) "But, Doctor, doesn't that violate Finagle's Constant?" I staggered to the bathroom, released floods of tea, and returned to the kitchen to talk. It was professional talk. It left my grey-faced and with such concentration that I began to develop a headache. We talked about Mary Ann Evans' loss of faith, about Emily Brontë's isolation, about Charlotte Brontë's blinding cloud, about the split in Virginia Woolf's head and the split in her economic condition. We talked about Lady Murasaki, who wrote in a form that no respectable man would touch, Hroswit, a little name whose plays "may perhaps amuse myself," Miss Austen, who had no more expression in society than a firescreen or a poker. They did not all write letters, write memoirs, or go on the stage. Sappho--only an ambiguous, somewhat disagreeable name. Corinna? The teacher of Pindar. Olive Schriener, growing up on the veldt, wrote on book, married happily, and ever wrote another. Kate Chopin wrote a scandalous book and never wrote another. (Jean has written nothing.). There was M-ry Sh-ll-y who wrote you know what and Ch-rl-tt- P-rk-ns G-lm-an, who wrote one superb horror study and lots of sludge (was it sludge?) and Ph-ll-s Wh--tl-y who was black and wrote eighteenth century odes (but it was the eighteenth century) and Mrs. -nn R-dcl-ff- S-thw-rth and Mrs. G--rg- Sh-ld-n and (Miss?) G--rg-tt- H-y-r and B-rb-r- C-rtl-nd and the legion of those, who writing, write not, like the dead Miss B--l-y of the poem who was seduced into bad practices (fudging her endings) and hanged herself in her garter. The sun was going down. I was blind and stiff. It's at this point that the computer (which has run amok and eaten Los Angeles) is defeated by some scientifically transcendent version of pulling the plug; the furniture stood around unknowing (though we had just pulled out the plug) and Lady, who got restless when people talked at suck length because she couldn't understand it, stuck her head out from under the couch, looking for things to herd. We had talked for six hours, from one in the afternoon until seven; I had at that moment an impression of our act of creation so strong, so sharp, so extraordinarily vivid, that I could not believe all our talking hadn't led to something more tangible--mightn't you expect at least a little blue pyramid sitting in the middle of the floor?