Twin Loss Quotes

It was no coincidence, that fear could move a person to extremes, just as seamlessly as love. They were the conjoined twins of emotion: If you didn't know what was at stake to lose, you had nothing to fight for.

A moment later, Helen had returned; she was walking slowly now, and carefully, her hand on the back of a thin boy with a mop of wavy brown hair. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, and Clary recognized him immediately. Helen, her hand firmly clamped around the wrist of a younger boy whose hands were covered with blue wax. He must have been playing with the tapers in the huge candelabras that decorated the sides of the nave. He looked about twelve, with an impish grin and the same wavy, bitter-chocolate hair as his sister. Jules, Helen had called him. Her little brother. The impish grin was gone now. He looked tired and dirty and frightened. Skinny wrists stuck out of the cuffs of a white mourning jacket whose sleeves were too long for him. In his arms he was carrying a little boy, probably not more than two years old, with the same wavy brown hair that he had; it seemed to be a family trait. The rest of his family wore the same borrowed mourning clothes: following Julian was a brunette girl about ten, her hand firmly clasped in the hold of a boy the same age: the boy had a sheet of tangled black hair that nearly obscured his face. Fraternal twins, Clary guessed. After them came a girl who might have been eight or nine, her face round and very pale between brown braids. The misery on their faces cut at Clary’s heart. She thought of her power with runes, wishing that she could create one that would soften the blow of loss. Mourning runes existed, but only to honor the dead, in the same way that love runes existed, like wedding rings, to symbolize the bond of love. You couldn’t make someone love you with a rune, and you couldn’t assuage grief with it, either. So much magic, Clary thought, and nothing to mend a broken heart. “Julian Blackthorn,” said Jia Penhallow, and her voice was gentle. “Step forward, please.” Julian swallowed and handed the little boy he was holding over to his sister. He stepped forward, his eyes darting around the room. He was clearly scouring the crowd for someone. His shoulders had just begun to slump when another figure darted out onto the stage. A girl, also about twelve, with a tangle of blond hair that hung down around her shoulders: she wore jeans and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit, and her head was down, as if she couldn’t bear so many people looking at her. It was clear that she didn’t want to be there — on the stage or perhaps even in Idris — but the moment he saw her, Julian seemed to relax. The terrified look vanished from his expression as she moved to stand next to him, her face ducked down and away from the crowd. “Julian,” said Jia, in the same gentle voice, “would you do something for us? Would you take up the Mortal Sword?

You weren't even mine to lose but you were one of the greatest losses of my life.

For salamanders, regeneration after injury, such as the loss of a limb, involves regrowth of structure and restoration of function with the constant possibility of twinning or other odd topographical productions at the site of former injury. The regrown limb can be monstrous, duplicated, potent. We have all been injured, profoundly. We require regeneration, not rebirth, and the possibilities for our reconstitution include the utopian dream of the hope for a monstrous world without gender

I always wondered what it must be like to lose a twin—if somehow Mary felt it like it was happening to her. If she felt physical pain.

Abigail ... His heart ached for his little girl, and the loss of his family drove like a blade through his heart. His head jerked up as the creak of a timber echoed overhead. If only they hadn’t come to this god-forsaken place.

I’ve read that no loss compares to the loss of a twin, that survivors describe themselves as feeling less like singles and more like the crippled remainder of something once whole. Even when the loss occurs in utero, some survivors respond with a lifelong sense of their own incompleteness. Identical twins suffer the most, followed by fraternals.

The stories and the people in them did sound remarkable, Sylvie thought, when spoken aloud. She and the twins had rarely talked about what happened. They’d lived through it, after all, and the loss of Julia had made them quiet. But Josie’s wonder at the stories, and Izzy’s clear enjoyment of what she saw as a soap opera in which she played a small role, took the sting out of the grief woven through those times. When Sylvie spoke their family history into the air, all she heard was love.

I feel time beginning to slow, until the last of him is grey powder on the sea and time stops altogether.

When they were only a few yards from the stone hull, Inej halted and watched the mists wreathing the branches. “He was going to break by legs,” she said. “Smash them with a mallet so they’d never heal….” She took a shaky breath. The words came like a string of gunshots, rapid-fire, as if she resented the very act of speaking them. “I didn’t know if you would come.” Kaz couldn’t blame Van Eck for that. Kaz has built that doubt in her with every cold word and small cruelty. “We’re your crew, Inej. We don’t leave our own at the mercy of merch scum.” It wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. When she turned to him, her eyes were bright with anger. “He was going to break my legs,” she said, her chin held high, the barest quaver in her voice. “Would you have come for me then, Kaz? When I couldn’t scale a wall or walk a tightrope? When I wasn’t the Wraith anymore?” Dirtyhands would not. The boy who could get them through this, get their money, keep them alive, would do her the courtesy of putting her out of her misery, then cut his losses and move on. “I would come for you,” he said, and when he saw the wary look she shot him, he said it again. “I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.” The wind rose. The boughs of the willows whispered, a sly, gossiping sound. Kaz held her gaze, saw the moon reflected there, twin scythes of light. She was right to be cautious. Even of him. Especially of him. Cautious was how you survived. At last she nodded, the smallest dip of her chin.

This place was confusing and noisy. People were yelling. There were screams. Confusion. Desperation. Barking. Orders. Crying, crying, crying. The crying of children for parents. The crying of parents for their babies. The crying of people confused and bewildered. The crying of people who saw with certainty that their nightmares had come true. All together the cries resounded with the ultimate and most unimaginable pain of human loss, emotional grief and suffering.

Each of us has a taste of death when slipping into sleep every night or when losing consciousness under anesthesia. Death and sleep, Thanatos and Hypnos in the Greek vocabulary, were twins. The Czech existential novelist Milan Kundera suggests that we also have a foretaste of death through the act of forgetting: "What terrifies most about death is not the loss of the future but the loss of the past. In fact, the act of forgetting is a form of death always present within life.

The twins had always seemed both blessed and cursed; they'd inherited, from their mother, the legacy of an entire town, and from their father, a legacy hollowed by loss. Four Vignes boys, all dead by thirty. The eldest collapsed in a chain gang from heatstroke; the second gassed in a Belgian trench; the third stabbed in a bar fight; and the youngest, Leon Vignes, lynched twice, the first time at home while his twin girls watched through a crack in the closet door, hands clamped over each other's mouths until their palms were misted with spit.

We live and work with a divided consciousness. It is a beautiful enough shock to fall in love with another adult, to feel the possibility of unbearable sorrow at the loss of that other, essential, personality, expressed just so, that particular touch. But love of an infant is of a different order. It is twinned love, all absorbing, a blur of boundaries and messages. It is uncomfortably close to self-erasure, and in the face of it one's fat ambitions, desperations, private icons, and urges fall away into a dreamlike BEFORE that haunts and forces itself into the present with tough persistence.

The Convergence of the Twain Thomas Hardy, 1840 - 1928 (Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”) I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?”. . . VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII Prepared a sinister mate For her—so gaily great— A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX Alien they seemed to be: No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history. X Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one August event, XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said “Now!” And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

Of course I wanted to meet you," said Wren, and when her own tears fell, she scrubbed them away, wishing she could erase the unpleasant feelings that came with them. Guilt and loss, and this new yearning for the life they might have had together if things had been different. If only things had been different. "I thought about you every day of my life.

But there is a way of despising the dandelion which is not that of the dreary pessimist, but of the more offensive optimist. It can be done in various ways; one of which is saying, "You can get much better dandelions at Selfridge's," or "You can get much cheaper dandelions at Woolworth's." Another way is to observe with a casual drawl, "Of course nobody but Gamboli in Vienna really understands dandelions," or saying that nobody would put up with the old-fashioned dandelion since the super-dandelion has been grown in the Frankfurt Palm Garden; or merely sneering at the stinginess of providing dandelions, when all the best hostesses give you an orchid for your buttonhole and a bouquet of rare exotics to take away with you. These are all methods of undervaluing the thing by comparison; for it is not familiarity but comparison that breeds contempt. And all such captious comparisons are ultimately based on the strange and staggering heresy that a human being has a right to dandelions; that in some extraordinary fashion we can demand the very pick of all the dandelions in the garden of Paradise; that we owe no thanks for them at all and need feel no wonder at them at all; and above all no wonder at being thought worthy to receive them. Instead of saying, like the old religious poet, "What is man that Thou carest for him, or the son of man that Thou regardest him?" we are to say like the discontented cabman, "What's this?" or like the bad-tempered Major in the club, "Is this a chop fit for a gentleman?" Now I not only dislike this attitude quite as much as the Swinburnian pessimistic attitude, but I think it comes to very much the same thing; to the actual loss of appetite for the chop or the dish of dandelion-tea. And the name of it is Presumption and the name of its twin brother is Despair. This is the principle I was maintaining when I seemed an optimist to Mr. Max Beerbohm; and this is the principle I am still maintaining when I should undoubtedly seem a pessimist to Mr. Gordon Selfridge. The aim of life is appreciation; there is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in having more of them if you have less appreciation of them.

More recently, Dallas Willard put it this way: Desire is infinite partly because we were made by God, made for God, made to need God, and made to run on God. We can be satisfied only by the one who is infinite, eternal, and able to supply all our needs; we are only at home in God. When we fall away from God, the desire for the infinite remains, but it is displaced upon things that will certainly lead to destruction.5 Ultimately, nothing in this life, apart from God, can satisfy our desires. Tragically, we continue to chase after our desires ad infinitum. The result? A chronic state of restlessness or, worse, angst, anger, anxiety, disillusionment, depression—all of which lead to a life of hurry, a life of busyness, overload, shopping, materialism, careerism, a life of more…which in turn makes us even more restless. And the cycle spirals out of control. To make a bad problem worse, this is exacerbated by our cultural moment of digital marketing from a society built around the twin gods of accumulation and accomplishment. Advertising is literally an attempt to monetize our restlessness. They say we see upward of four thousand ads a day, all designed to stoke the fire of desire in our bellies. Buy this. Do this. Eat this. Drink this. Have this. Watch this. Be this. In his book on the Sabbath, Wayne Muller opined, “It is as if we have inadvertently stumbled into some horrific wonderland.”6 Social media takes this problem to a whole new level as we live under the barrage of images—not just from marketing departments but from the rich and famous as well as our friends and family, all of whom curate the best moments of their lives. This ends up unintentionally playing to a core sin of the human condition that goes all the way back to the garden—envy. The greed for another person’s life and the loss of gratitude, joy, and contentment in our own.

The Lingerer by Stewart Stafford Another lonely start, O shadow companion, My twin bereft of heart, On grief’s stormy galleon. Each step disbelief, Strangers pass in proximity, In motion an artist’s relief, Abstract as infinity. The quickening pulse of streets, Tears on cheeks reflective, This scarred heart missing beats, Damaged and defective. Home now just where memory sits, Perspective greatly shifted, This shapeless form no longer fits, The body it was gifted. And if, my love, you see me now, I beg you, look away, Love’s blush departed with a bow, Then withered and decayed. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

sonnet, n. (NOTE ON THE LEAP: How rough and worn the weight of flight — the soul, when gathered, forms its own twinned claw and wing, each severed arc, the nape — all grown inside the body, left. Alone with loss, life rises: emblazoned air, trembling star of made faith. The fall that forms in the gut blooms in the arms before the mind, remembering how dangerous and hard the world is when shut, opens its doors so air can cool what light arrives. The chest unhinges, strong from panic, and the loch that is the heart begins to fit. The wind grows sturdier, its skin gigantic. The room that was the source becomes the field, opening out, the stage a hoard revealed.) — Billy Merrell, The Proposals — David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011)

Pauline Trio One could sing October rain, and one had a gift for plain chant and prayer, a domain unsettled by love or its intimate other. What fits with this theology no one dares to say. These twins so perfectly in tune must know "the modesty of nature," the perfect art and texture that sustains the other name. Paris could not be the frame for loyal Romans, their shame worn upon their bodies light as air, and nothing is quite as endurable as death. Those who have taken this path move with an abiding breath. Such a common dance this dense intention of love's expense. Keep this for that special hour when the Roman drops his sour gift for abandoned splendour; et c'est la nuit, the footfall that troubles that other Paul. I have learned the felicity of fire, how in its wake something picks at buried seed. Think this a most festive deed, nature's mistake, borrowed flare of a village dance, satire of the sun's course, light you read through waste, repair. Death had freed that first opaque habitation (what a widening gyre), an aspen ache, a lustrous scar that might lead to a hidden grove, or breed astonishment in its loss; all entire, a shaping breath proposes its own pyre. Solitude guides me through this minor occasion; moon is my mentor, one on a spree. This notion, night's philanthropy, courts my favor. Devotion, love's predecessor, sings its tidy discretion. Such gentility reins all vigor, all caution.

as with private planes and private lifts, so with private education; there has arisen an increasingly segregated system of private primary and secondary schools for the wealthy. It’s not very subtle. Where does John Paulson send his children to school? His twin daughters attended preschool at the 92nd Street Y, which costs over $20,000 per student per year—yes, for nursery. Paulson is on their board. He also manages some of their investments, which he has guaranteed against losses. Many other board members have sent children to the school; four of them also manage money for the institution. This is not unusual. One of Mr Paulson’s daughters, having left nursery behind, now attends Spence, another exclusive private school in Manhattan. Mr Paulson is on their board too.

CHARACTER-BUILDING TAKES TIME For this very reason, make every effort to supplement your faith with goodness, goodness with knowledge, knowledge with self-control, self-control with endurance, endurance with godliness. 2 Peter 1:5-6 HCSB Character is built slowly over a lifetime. It is the sum of every right decision, every honest word, every noble thought, and every heartfelt prayer. It is forged on the anvil of honorable work and polished by the twin virtues of generosity and humility. Character is a precious thing—difficult to build but easy to tear down. As believers in Christ, we must seek to live each day with discipline, honesty, and faith. When we do, integrity becomes a habit. And God smiles. There is something about having endured great loss that brings purity of purpose and strength of character. Barbara Johnson Each one of us is God’s special work of art. Through us, He teaches and inspires, delights and encourages, informs and uplifts all those who view our lives. God, the master artist, is most concerned about expressing Himself—His thoughts and His intentions—through what He paints in our characters. Joni Eareckson Tada A TIMELY TIP When your words are honest and your intentions are pure, you have nothing to fear.

For a parent this time-consuming vocation has twin payoffs: it wins you a break from your actual children while bringing you closer to their images. Pictures of kids, like idealized Victorian boys and girls, can be seen but not heard.

My lady?” He came inside just in time to catch her as her legs collapsed. “Kat!” He looked at her anxiously. “Are you all right? I could feel your pain and distress—it worried me.” Kat smiled at him weakly. “Just the same old thing. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” She sighed. “Where’s Deep?” Lock’s handsome features tightened. “I don’t know and I don’t care to know.” “What? So you two really are fighting?” she asked as he carried her back to the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. “It goes beyond that.” Lock stripped off his shirt and climbed into the bed beside her. Kat sighed in relief when she felt his warm hand on her arm. She didn’t even protest when he pulled her blouse gently over her head, leaving her bare from the top up except for her bra. “We should call him, even if you are fighting,” she said as Lock pulled her close, pressing his broad chest to her back. “Don’t want to hurt you.” “The pain is nothing,” Lock assured her gently. “It’s more than worth it to be near you, my lady. Especially when…” His voice faltered for a moment. “When I’m going to lose you so soon.” “Oh, Lock…” Kat could feel his sorrow welling up, a sense of loss so great it nearly smothered her with its intensity. Still, she didn’t draw back or try to get away. Instead, she turned in his arms so she was facing him and drew him into a tight embrace. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his shoulder. “So sorry.” “So am I.” It sounded like Lock might be crying. His large form shook against hers and Kat held him tighter, wishing she could comfort him better. “I love you, Kat,” he whispered brokenly. “And the idea of being torn apart from you tomorrow—of losing what little bond we have between us—it feels like death to me. Like the end of everything.” “I love you too,” Kat admitted. “And…I feel like I could love Deep. If only he would let me. If only he wanted me to.” Lock stiffened in her arms. “He won’t. He doesn’t. There’s no point in even considering it. No hope.” A low growl rose in his throat. “Gods, I wish I wasn’t tied to him.” “Don’t say that,” Kat said softly. “You’re brothers—twins. You ought to be close.” “How can I want to be close to him when he’s killing the only relationship that ever mattered to me?

He quotes an expert on anxiety who suggests we should think of the two disorders as “fraternal twins”: “Depression is a response to past loss, and anxiety is a response to future loss.” Both reflect a mind mired in rumination, one dwelling on the past, the other worrying about the future. What mainly distinguishes the two disorders is their tense.

In 1991, Dr. Stunkard examined sets of fraternal and identical twins in both conditions of being reared apart and reared together.4 Comparison of their weights would determine the effect of the different environments. The results sent a shockwave through the obesity-research community. Approximately 70 percent of the variance in obesity is familial.

The shadow side of love is always loss, and grief is only love's own twin. from Late Migrations

River searched the world for her girls. She dug up every anthill she could find. The army ants were too frightened to tell her what they'd done, but they did tell her that the ant god had gone to live among the humans. River searched for Ant. She dug through entire lineages trying to find him. When, after three hundred years, the sky god dared to mention the neglected waters of the world, she dried up entire countries out of spite. This is our River, one god reminded the other, our sweet River. Let us help, not hinder. And so they sent emissaries from every spirit realm, second daughters and minor spirits of similar powers, godlings all, promising their aid for a hundred years. But River's grief became their own. They forgot their mothers and their brothers and the lovers they'd promised to return to; they forgot that they'd had a past before this grief removed everything form inside of them. How, they wondered, can a body feel full to bursting with grief but also hollow? These godlings of land and air and memory resisted this loss of themselves, but River's sorrow drowned them. Their husbands, their children, their homes became like reflections in a rough stream, fractured beyond recognition. They tore the world apart. Unprecedented rains. Earthquakes that ravaged every region. One godling who had come from the house of flames sent an entire cite on fire trying to find River's girls. It was a dark century for humankind and godkind alike. Then the female godlings got craftier in their search. They made themselves visible to human eyes, tempting men and women, threatening men and women, building a network of spies across the globe who lit candles and prayed to them and passed this new religion on to their children. Every new convert was a new set of eyes in the world, a new set of ears to catch whispers of men who didn't seem to fit in, or men who rose to ungodly success but never seemed to pray. Many a good man was lost to angry godlings who peeled his skin away, searching for the god that might be hidden inside. But after seven hundred fruitless years and countless human believers in her service, it dawned on River that she might never see her twins again. She collapsed where she stood, and every emissary lay down as well. Dust settled on them, then grime and so much debris that they became part of the earth, hills of hips and buttocks and woe. All but one. That only one who felt the rage of River, multiplied by that most powerful feeling that won't let a person rest: guilt. River's sister, not quite goddess. The guilt turned in her belly like a ship in a storm. She'd slept while her sister's children were taken. Blame, so like a god itself, shadowed her, occupied her bed like a lover, whispered to her like a dearest friend. Her name was eventually forgotten.

In the action movie Broken Arrow, a character says, “You’re out of your mind.” The other replies: “Yeah, ain’t it cool?” This is the contemporary Nietzschean spirit. Yet today we have the sense that it has also outworn its welcome. Complaints about our degraded and degrading “mass culture” multiply, even as almost against their will our educational institutions and entertainment and news media find themselves returning repeatedly to those same themes. These include not just violence and sex as expressions of vitality, but all the assumptions of historical pessimism that underpin cultural pessimism: the “failure” of modern democracy, the loss of identity in mass society, the threat of corporate capitalism and the computerized police state, the life-threatening dangers of too much technology and science (in industry and the economy) or too little (in medicine and health), and a constantly “vanishing” middle class. From universities and public policy institutes to daytime talk shows, we are the heirs to the modern idea of decline in its strange twin form.

I tried to compose a letter to my father this morning, while you beavered away on my mundane business, and somehow, Mrs. Seaton, I could not come up with words to adequately convey to my father the extent to which I want him to just leave me the hell alone.” He finished that statement through clenched teeth, alarming Anna with the animosity in his tone, but he wasn’t finished. “I have come to the point,” the earl went on, “where I comprehend why my older brothers would consider the Peninsular War preferable to the daily idiocy that comes with being Percival Windham’s heir. I honestly believe that could he but figure a way to pull it off, my father would lock me naked in a room with the woman of his choice, there to remain until I got her pregnant with twin boys. And I am not just frustrated”—the earl’s tone took on a sharper edge—“I am ready to do him an injury, because I don’t think anything less will make an impression. Two unwilling people are going to wed and have a child because my father got up to tricks.” “Your father did not force those two people into one another’s company all unawares and blameless, my lord, but why not appeal to your mother? By reputation, she is the one who can control him.” The earl shook his head. “Her Grace is much diminished by the loss of my brother Victor. I do not want to importune her, and she will believe His Grace only meant well.” Anna smiled ruefully. “And she wants grandchildren, too, of course.” “Why, of course.” The earl gestured impatiently. “She had eight children and still has six. There will be grandchildren, and if for some reason the six of us are completely remiss, I have two half siblings, whose children she will graciously spoil, as well.” “Good heavens,” Anna murmured. “So your father has sired ten children, and yet he plagues you?” “He does. Except for the one daughter of Victor’s, none of us have seen fit to reproduce. There was a rumor Bart had left us something to remember him by, but he likely started the rumor himself just to aggravate my father.

My favourite quotes, Part Two -- from Michael Connelly's "Harry Bosch" series The Black Box On Bosch’s first call to Henrik, the twin brother of Anneke - Henrik: "I am happy to talk now. Please, go ahead.” “Thank you. I, uh, first want to say as I said in my email that the investigation of your sister’s death is high priority. I am actively working on it. Though it was twenty years ago, I’m sure your sister’s death is something that hurts till this day. I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you, Detective. She was very beautiful and very excited about things. I miss her very much.” “I’m sure you do.” Over the years, Bosch had talked to many people who had lost loved ones to violence. There were too many to count but it never got any easier and his empathy never withered. The Burning Room 2 Grace was a young saxophonist with a powerful sound. She also sang. The song was “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and she produced a sound from the horn that no human voice could ever touch. It was plaintive and sad but it came with an undeniable wave of underlying hope. It made Bosch think that there was still a chance for him, that he could still find whatever it was he was looking for, no matter how short his time was. ---------------- He grabbed his briefcase off his chair and walked toward the exit door. Before he got there, he heard someone clapping behind him. He turned back and saw it was Soto, standing by her desk. Soon Tim Marcia rose up from his cubicle and started to clap. Then Mitzi Roberts did the same and then the other detectives. Bosch put his back against the door, ready to push through. He nodded his thanks and held his fist up at chest level and shook it. He then went through the door and was gone. The Burning Room 3 “What do you want to know, Bosch?” Harry nodded. His instinct was right. The good ones all had that hollow space inside. The empty place where the fire always burns. For something. Call it justice. Call it the need to know. Call it the need to believe that those who are evil will not remain hidden in darkness forever. At the end of the day Rodriguez was a good cop and he wanted what Bosch wanted. He could not remain angry and mute if it might cost Orlando Merced his due. ------------ “I have waited twenty years for this phone call . . . and all this time I thought it would go away. I knew I would always be sad for my sister. But I thought the other would go away.” “What is the other, Henrik?” Though he knew the answer. “Anger . . . I am still angry, Detective Bosch.” Bosch nodded. He looked down at his desk, at the photos of all the victims under the glass top. Cases and faces. His eyes moved from the photo of Anneke Jespersen to some of the others. The ones he had not yet spoken for. “So am I, Henrik,” he said. “So am I.” Angle of Investigation 1972 They were heading south on Vermont through territory unfamiliar to him. It was only his second day with Eckersly and his second on the job. Now He knew that passion was a key element in any investigation. Passion was the fuel that kept his fire burning. So he purposely sought the personal connection or, short of that, the personal outrage in every case. It kept him locked in and focused. But it wasn’t the Laura syndrome. It wasn’t the same as falling in love with a dead woman. By no means was Bosch in love with June Wilkins. He was in love with the idea of reaching back across time and catching the man who had killed her. The Scarecrow At one time the newsroom was the best place in the world to work. A bustling place of camaraderie, competition, gossip, cynical wit and humor, it was at the crossroads of ideas and debate. It produced stories and pages that were vibrant and intelligent, that set the agenda for what was discussed and considered important in a city as diverse and exciting as Los Angeles.

But somehow, in some way, for some reason, the love had died in me, and I suddenly realised it, and was suddenly sure. It wasn’t completely over, my feeling for Karla. It never is completely over. But there was nothing of the jealousy I once would’ve felt for the stranger Ranjit. There was no rage against him, and no feeling of hurt inspired by her. I felt numbed and empty sitting there, as if the war, and the loss of Khaderbhai and Khaled, and the face-off with Madame Zhou and her twins had poured anaesthetic into my heart.

Arbitrages: The purchase of a security and the simultaneous sale of one or more other securities into which it was to be exchanged under a plan of reorganization, merger, or the like. Liquidations: Purchase of shares which were to receive one or more cash payments in liquidation of the company’s assets. Operations of these two classes were selected on the twin basis of (a) a calculated annual return of 20% or more, and (b) our judgment that the chance of a successful outcome was at least four out of five. Related Hedges: The purchase of convertible bonds or convertible preferred shares, and the simultaneous sale of the common stock into which they were exchangeable. The position was established at close to a parity basis—i.e., at a small maximum loss if the senior issue had actually to be converted and the operation closed out in that way. But a profit would be made if the common stock fell considerably more than the senior issue, and the position closed out in the market. Net-Current-Asset (or “Bargain”) Issues: The idea here was to acquire as many issues as possible at a cost for each of less than their book value in terms of net-current-assets alone—i.e., giving no value to the plant account and other assets. Our purchases were made typically at two-thirds or less of such stripped-down asset value. In most years we carried a wide diversification here—at least 100 different issues.

It is fair to say that, though the main deficits incurred by damage to the left hemisphere are in the twin important areas of the use of language and of the right hand, the world itself usually remains recognisable, and mainly, though not always wholly, undisturbed. That is because the right hemisphere is functioning as normal. Things are very different when the damage is in the right hemisphere, and the subject is more – or wholly – dependent on the left. When those who care for left hemisphere stroke patients were asked to specify the most important problem encountered, they named difficulty writing or spelling; by contrast, when those who care for right hemisphere stroke patients were asked, it was loss of empathy. Almost half of carers for those with right hemisphere stroke reported as among the most important problems a whole range of cognitive and emotional impairments, as well as alterations to personality. Not one of the carers for left hemisphere stroke sufferers did so.4 For those with right hemisphere damage, they and their world had changed. For those with left hemisphere damage, they and their world were recognisably the same: it was their ability to handle it, to make use of it, that had altered. As we have seen, the foundational difference between the hemispheres lies in the way they attend – and how you attend changes the world. It also changes you, the one who is doing the attending. Since it is of such consummate importance, let’s take a closer look at attention from a hemisphere point of view.

Loss is like that though. Even all these years later, sometimes the pain of it is like a sudden slap in the face.

Awakening to Dawn Dawn is near Here I meet you Here I greet you In this sacred, infinite space Oh, how I feel your embrace It is to taste the greatness of your mistakes- Your sweet songs of joy Of a love To which I awe; For, with such a love Nothing is a loss Lessons learned, journeys that burn with the flame, which is the only truth The unspoken word. I see you, I feel you Inside my Soul, we meet You walk with me, guide me To the gate of our wisdom our truth Where love has always overcome We burn with the light of infinite skies, nights Songs, poems Love Together, we open the wisdom gate Heart, Soul, Spirit Connect me Unite me To the infinite space Love Of infinite Oneness Here I love you We meet- Embrace, taste Infinite Oneness Open the door, the sacred gate Have faith For, it is never too late to wake up Dawn is near.

You are loved, and your purpose is to love.” — Marianne Williamson In grief we realize that this is the catch-22 of life. Love is the most joyous and meaningful experience there is. Love gives our lives purpose. But love’s conjoined twin is grief. If we love, we will eventually grieve. So what is there to do but continue loving? When we express our ongoing love for the person who died, we are mourning and moving toward healing. When we embrace the love of others, we are accepting the balm of grace and healing. If we shun or hide ourselves from love, on the other hand, we are choosing to die while we are alive. Love, then, is not just the best answer—it is the only answer.

Oona’s mother had not been a fantasist when Oona and her brother were children, or rather, if she had, the fantasy she inhabited was a common one, the belief that life was fair and would turn out for the best and good people like them got what they deserved for the most part, exceptions being just that, exceptions, tragedies, but she had not worked after the twins were born, and when her husband had died, unexpectedly early, in the prime of health, he left her enough money to get by, but he took away that fantasy, leaving her alone to grapple with the slow loss of her son, in a world that did not care and was getting worse all the time, worse and worse, and more and more dangerous, a danger you could see all around you, all you had to do was to look at the crime and the potholes in the streets and the weird people who now came when you called for anything, for a plumber, an electrician, for help with your garden, for help with anything at all.

together. We couldn’t have been any closer if we tried. But that hadn’t been intentional. It wasn’t as though I’d planned it. All I wanted to do was get a seat so we could get out of there. Was that her problem? Was Ali jealous because I sat next to Liam on the return trip? I was at a loss because there wasn’t anything else to explain her attitude toward me. If only she’d talk to me. At the campsite, Brie had told me to clear the air with her, but Ali wasn’t interested in doing that at all. I let out a sigh and turned to the mirror to brush my teeth. I stared at my reflection. If Ali was going to be upset over something so ridiculous, then fine, that was her problem. She must have jealousy issues, and I wasn’t going to allow her to bring me down as well. By the time I left the bathroom, I was determined to show my twin what it felt like when someone ignored her. Brie was at the foot of her bed, and I grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the cabin. “What’s wrong?” Brie asked once we were outside.

But the shadow side of love is always loss, and grief is only love's own twin.

We are taught that love is not so different from hatred, that instead of opposites, the two extremes of the human heart might in fact be twins. But it's grief, really, that is love's twin, that knows no bounds of time or space. Wave after wave it keeps coming, whereas hatred cools, fades. So many times I swore that I loved Jude, that no one had ever loved or been loved this way before, and then something broke through, a new depth. Colder and darker moved the waters of my love. Thinking, in those first few days after, of something [my mother] once sad: There is no end to grief, because there is no end to love.

If you’ve lost something so precious, don’t you overcompensate and go extreme on what you’ve got left? At the time Helen lost that middle child, she already had twins, and following the loss, she had two more children.

They left: Six princes, their pockets stuffed with toys. A pair of two-egg twins. And the God of Loss. He couldn’t walk. So they dragged him. Nobody saw them. Bats, of course, are blind.

Regret’s evil twin is shame, and both share an unfortunate kinship with loss.

I know this was a scare for you today, but your wife and babies are doing just fine.” From the corner of his eye, Gabe saw Nic grimace. Why would she … His heart began to pound and his eyes flew open wide. “Excuse me? Did you just say …?” The doctor pursed her lips in dismay. Looking at Nic, she asked, “Did I speak out of turn?” “He just got here a few minutes ago.” Gabe cleared his throat. “Nic?” She tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort at best. “I had a sonogram today.” She held up the pictures. “Gabe, we’re having twins.” He exhaled as if she’d punched him in the gut and closed his eyes. Twins. He dropped his chin to his chest. Twins. He leaned over, propped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. Twins. His stomach rolled and his skin grew clammy. Without saying a word to the women, he rose and walked into the room’s bathroom, where he turned on the cold water, leaned over, and splashed his face for a full minute. Then he shut off the water, gave his head a shake, and looked up, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He was as white as the snow atop Sinner’s Prayer Pass. “Twins,” he murmured. “You’re not going to faint, are you, Mr. Callahan?” Dr. Marshall asked from the doorway. “We don’t want you to bang your head today, too.” “I’m fine,” he lied, grabbing a white hand towel off a towel bar and wiping his face. He replaced the towel, took a bracing breath, and exited the bathroom. Nic watched him with an anxious expression, her hands clasped and resting protectively over her stomach. Was she worried he’d be upset? Angry? Maybe he would get angry later—at fate, not at Nic—but right now he was too numb for that. Twins. Double the risk. Double the responsibility. Double the potential loss. Great. Just great. He

Andrew Solomon, in his book The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression, traces the links between addiction and depression, which frequently co-occur, as well as the intimate relationship between depression and anxiety. He quotes an expert on anxiety who suggests we should think of the two disorders as “fraternal twins”: “Depression is a response to past loss, and anxiety is a response to future loss.” Both reflect a mind mired in rumination, one dwelling on the past, the other worrying about the future. What mainly distinguishes the two disorders is their tense.

Mikhail did not need to tell me. I smell his stench on you. I can see the marks of his fingers. It is clear he attempted to kill you. Can you deny it?” Monique cried out and inched closer to her husband. Raven sighed. “No, of course not, but there were circumstances you perhaps don’t understand.” She tried to be reasonable when she didn’t feel reasonable. “I do not need to understand the why of it, only that he did it. Go with Byron.” “Did someone die and leave you in charge?” Raven placed her body squarely in front of Monique. “You touch them over my dead body.” She squeezed Monique’s hand in reassurance as she stared down the Carpathian male. Raven didn’t recognize him, but she did recognize the stamp of confidence he carried, the complete self-possession. His voice was soft and hypnotic, almost mesmerizing. Ignoring him, she deliberately turned toward Monique. “Did you see where Andre put the key, so we can free Alexander?” Raven asked, attempting to move around the other Carpathian male blocking her path. She just managed not to laugh at the shocked look on Aidan’s face. “Don’t worry, Monique, they like to look tough and mean, but they’re really very sweet.” She didn’t know this particular Carpathian, but she was fairly certain Mikhail would have a few things to say if he dared touch her. Aidan winced visibly at that. Raven was laughing openly at him, a teasing glint in her eye. No one teased him--not that he could remember--not since he was a boy, and his twin had still been close to him. He was at a complete loss as to what to do. He glanced at Byron, who shrugged.

Did you see where Andre put the key, so we can free Alexander?” Raven asked, attempting to move around the other Carpathian male blocking her path. She just managed not to laugh at the shocked look on Aidan’s face. “Don’t worry, Monique, they like to look tough and mean, but they’re really very sweet.” She didn’t know this particular Carpathian, but she was fairly certain Mikhail would have a few things to say if he dared touch her. Aidan winced visibly at that. Raven was laughing openly at him, a teasing glint in her eye. No one teased him--not that he could remember--not since he was a boy, and his twin had still been close to him. He was at a complete loss as to what to do. He glanced at Byron, who shrugged.

Gabriel Mackie had just celebrated his fourth birthday the first time he visited the whisper room, a windowless enclave with lavender walls brimming with daydreams, obscured from reality. All he knew for certain was that his older brother, Griff, nicknamed Boo, was gone. His bedroom at the end of the long hallway had been transformed into a guest room with ecru lace duvets instead of the blue and white pinstriped spreads covering the twin beds. Vanished were his toy box and New York Yankee American League pennants that had plastered the walls, replaced by paintings of water lilies and wheat fields. A stray tear trickled down Gabe’s cheek when he remembered Boo’s curly blonde hair and how he snorted when he laughed. Silence is deafening and the Mackie household screamed heartbreak.

I was torn into a swirling mass of uncontrollable visions, stretching out way into the future, then tomorrow, next week, a month, a year. It was a blur of everything and a thousand paths which had the potential to be followed, some of it more set in stone than others, the uncontrollable haze of fates making my mind spin wildly. I worked to focus and saw a huge stone throne made of snarling Hydra heads on long necks, all winding together into a monstrous being that almost looked alive. Blood coloured it red and in flashes I saw Fae after Fae sitting on it from the Savage King himself to each of the Councillor’s Heirs as grown men, to Lionel Acrux, to two twin girls with deep green eyes, their hands clasped in one another’s. Then the throne split apart, cut in two and crumbling to pieces as the vision shifted, making my gut clench and my heart race. Orion was older, fighting enemies I couldn’t see with a silver blade in his hand and Darius Acrux flew over him in his golden Dragon form. I saw the twins once more, bullied and broken by the Heirs. I felt their pain. I heard them suffering and saw their worlds fall to ruin before suddenly they were rising up in a roaring tower of flames which blinded me. I tried to focus, grasping onto my gifts and forcing them in the direction I wanted to go as the future kept spanning out in too many directions. I saw the world falling to ruin and death and destruction sweeping through the kingdom like a plague. I felt loss and heartache and I couldn’t tell if it was mine or the twins’, Orion’s, Darius’s, Lionel’s, or the whole world’s.