Untold Feelings Quotes

Hope is not a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. It is an axe you break down doors with in an emergency. Hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from the annihilation of the earth's treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal... To hope is to give yourself to the future - and that commitment to the future is what makes the present inhabitable.

To stand at the edge of the sea, to sense the ebb and flow of the tides, to feel the breath of a mist moving over a great salt marsh, to watch the flight of shore birds that have swept up and down the surf lines of the continents for untold thousands of years, to see the running of the old eels and the young shad to the sea, is to have knowledge of things that are as nearly eternal as any earthly life can be.

Words felt so clumsy when she was talking about feelings and not facts.

You have suffered enough." That became my mantra for motherhood from there on out. You have suffered enough. If you can make it easier, make it easier, and don't feel guilty about it.

And you don't ever have to worry about what I feel. The way I feel about you won't change. You can do whatever you like to me. You could turn this town to dust, burn the woods until they were cinders, you could cut out my heart. It wouldn't matter. It would not change a thing." "What if I ate a baby?" Jared's mouth curved up at the corners, slow and not cruel at all. "I'm sure you'd have a good reason," he said.

Yamamoto sensed a feeling of culmination about the huge success of the first strike, and the same incisive intuition that guided his brilliant moves at the gaming tables told him what the next move on the bridge of Akagi would be. In (Vice Admiral) Nagumo he knew his man. Nagumo had never been committed to the Pearl Harbor mission. He had not been Yamamoto’s choice to command the Striking Force; his assignment was the decision of the Navy Ministry in Tokyo, based on seniority. While the exultation of the officers and sailors on his staff swirled around him, Yamamoto sat quietly. Finally, he fixed a steely gaze on his chief of staff, and in a low, intense voice: “Admiral Nagumo is going to withdraw.

I also understood why my mom wasn’t into processing her feelings, and how she was taught to just get over tragedy. To survive, she had to believe things like depression and allergies were a choice.

There's this book," Jared said. "And in this book a guy said that he would rather touch someones hand if she was dead than another girl who was alive. It's creepy. I know that." He was staring off into space, as if at some private nightmare. "Nothing matters in comparison. Nobody is real but her. So it feels sometimes as if nothing else matters at all, including other people. She wouldn't like that. Other people SHOULD matter." *** So he loved Kami.

Kami," he said, "you're crying." "No, I am not," Kami lied. "I got something in my eye." "You got something in your eye." "Yes. Possibly a speck of dust," Kami said, and broke down. "All right, possibly my feelings.

It’s wondering … always wondering and never understanding: how can I be so smart and still feel so stupid?

This place is starting to feel like a home away from home,” Rusty said, settling on the sofa. “We come here, we discuss evil sorcerers, we eat packets of peanuts. It’s a soothing and familiar routine. Or it would be if people would just bring me some peanuts.

My aunt made me an offer I had to refuse," said Jared. He looked forbidding. Kami knew that expression, and remembered the feeling that used to go with it: he was unhappy. "So you ran away from home," she said. "To become a tavern wench." "I'm not a tavern wench," said Jared. "That's not a job." His voice was slightly less stern than before, as if he was taken aback. "It sounds like you're a tavern wench," Kami told him. "Fleeing persecution, you have to take up a menial occupation to keep your body and soul together. But at least its honest work, though as you labor, many predatory customers make advances and offer indignities." "One can only hope," Jared responded.

Evening Solace The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed;­ The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, And nights in rosy riot fly, While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion, The memory of the Past may die. But, there are hours of lonely musing, Such as in evening silence come, When, soft as birds their pinions closing, The heart's best feelings gather home. Then in our souls there seems to languish A tender grief that is not woe; And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish, Now cause but some mild tears to flow. And feelings, once as strong as passions, Float softly back-­a faded dream; Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations, The tale of others' sufferings seem. Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding, How longs it for that time to be, When, through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie ! And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, On evening shade and loneliness; And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, Feel no untold and strange distress­ Only a deeper impulse given By lonely hour and darkened room, To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, Seeking a life and world to come.

I fantasized about having a mother who was also raised on Sesame Street, Happy Meals, and John Hughes movies. Maybe she could ask me white mom questions like “How are you feeling?” or say white mom things like “I love you to the moon and back.” We would share the same first language. She could help me pick out a dress that I actually liked, instead of the dress that was most discounted. We would understand each other and not fight as much.

It is high time for the living to get tough, for toughness is indispensable in the struggle to safeguard and develop the life-force; this will not detract from their goodness, as long as they stand courageously by the truth. There is ground for hope in the fact that among millions of decent, hard-working people there are only a few plague-ridden individuals, who do untold harm by appealing to the dark, dangerous drives of the armored average man and mobilizing him for political murder. There is but one antidote to the average man's predisposition to plague: his own feelings for true life. The life force does not seek power but demands only to play its full and acknowledged part in human affairs. It manifests itself through love, work and knowledge.

I dislike guilt." the Morrigan said." it is regret and recrimination and despair over that which cannot be changed. It is like eating ashes for breakfast. It is the whip that clerics use on the laity, making the sheep slaves to whatever moral code the shepherds espouse. it is a catalyst for suicide and untold other acts of selfishness and stupidity. I cannot think of a more poisonous emotion!" ... "Why do you bother to feel it?" Atticus: "Because an inability to feel guilt points to sociopathic tendencies.

I can see what a shock and how lonely it must have been when she went to the United States—from being surrounded by all these people who look like you, talk like you, accept your existence inherently, to living permanently in a place where all the opposites are true. When she first got here, a dentist took one look at her teeth and said she had "the mouth of a caveman." I used to think it was funny, like you might when you read that, but the truth is that American society, while being so rife with opportunity and so incredible in so many ways, also generally made her feel primitive.

One thing I have learned is that many, many people feel isolated with similar problems, unaware that they are not as alone or as different as they think.

I feel like oversized trousers on sale, not even made of good material, that no one wants to buy. They just hang in there hoping that someone someday will compromise for their low cost.

The paradoxical intercourse of audience and celebrity. The suppressed awareness that the whole reason ordinary people found celebrity fascinating was that they were not, themselves, celebrities. That wasn't quite it. (....) It was more the deeper, more tragic and universal conflict of which the celebrity paradox was a part. The conflict between the subjective centrality of our own lives versus our awareness of its objective insignificance. Atwater knew - as did everyone at Style, though by some strange unspoken consensus it was never said aloud - that this was the single great informing conflict of the American psyche. The management of insignificance. It was the great syncretic bond of US monoculture. It was everywhere, at the root of everything - of impatience in long lines, of cheating on taxes, of movements in fashion and music and art, of marketing. In particular, he thought it was alive in the paradoxes of audience. It was the feeling that celebrities were your intimate friends, coupled with the inchoate awareness that that untold millions of people felt the same way - and that the celebrities themselves did not. Atwater had had contact with a certain number of celebrities (there was no way to avoid it at BSG), and they were not, in his experience, very friendly or considerate people. Which made sense when one considered that celebrities were not actually functioning as real people at all, but as something more like symbols of themselves.

I believe that we're much healthier if we think of our selfishness as sin. Which is what it is: a sin. Even if there is nothing out there except a random movement of untold gases and objects, sin still exists. You don't need a devil with horns. It's a social definition of sin. Everything we do that is self-indulgent, and that is selfish, and that turns us away from our dignity as human beings is a sin against what we were born with, the capacities we have, what we could make of this planet. Our whole age has taken the line that if you feel bad about yourself, it's something that you can be relieved of by your goddamn analyst. Psst!—it's gone! And then you'll be happy, you know? But that feeling is not something you should be relieved of. It's something you should deal with. And there's no remission for what I mean by "sin," except doing something useful. The confessional does the same thing as the shrink, rather more quickly and cheaper. Three "Hail Mary"s, and you're out. But I've never been the kind of religious person that thinks saying "Hail Mary" is gonna get me out of it.

That's my window. This minute So gently did I alight From sleep--was still floating in it. Where has my life its limit And where begins the night? I could fancy all things around me Were nothing but I as yet; Like a crystal's depth, profoundly Mute, translucent, unlit. I have space to spare inside me For the stars, too: so full of room Feels my heart; so lightly Would it let go of him, whom For all I know I have started To love, it may be to hold. Strange, as if never charted, Stares my fortune untold. Why is it I am bedded Beneath this infinitude, Fragrant like a meadow, Hither and thither moved, Calling out, yet fearing Someone might hear the cry, Destined to disappearing Within another I.

Alexithymia includes the following: • difficulty identifying different types of feelings • difficulty expressing feelings • difficulty recognizing facial cues in others

Awakening of the kundalini is putting an end to attracting the wrong things in our lives. It begins by feeling and experiencing the completeness and fulfillment within us.

Matters of the heart are so incalculable!

Oh, Narcissus! My heart beats ink for you. A pulse in every line. It's your eyes my words want to be read by, your kind of mind they would be understood by, your heart they'd be felt by, and then you'd feel the same way that I do, if only these words could be read or heard by you.

When cars pick us up to go to the airport, drivers who don't know who I am will often call Daddy 'Mr. Wong.' They engage with him mostly, ask him the best way to get to the airport, and look to him for instructions on what to do with the luggage. The same happens at hotels and restaurants. People who don't know who I am always assume I took his last name. And it never bothers your father- he always says afterward that he's proud to be Mr. Wong. And whenever he does, I feel so lucky that I trapped him.

I know that some people disparage you for your lack of knowledge, and I know you may not understand me, Peter, but I wish you could, because you might be the only person who would. I feel that I can tell you anything Peter.

But there is pleasure, is there not, unrivaled by any other feeling in the world, to reach the last page of a book and know that you have lived in it, that you have stood witness to the performance of momentous deeds at the hands of extraordinary personalities? Do you not sometimes marvel at how the construction of a beautiful line can leave you either shaking with laughter or bawling like an untended infant? Is that not a miracle which deserves as much scrutiny as the wonders of science and nature?

When we feel either understimulated or overstimulated, we physically cannot reason, listen, or think about anything else. We can’t just ignore it. We can’t learn. We can’t be spontaneous or fun. We can’t rationalize well. And we can’t hear others’ needs, let alone be certain we understand our own. It’s like trying to see your own reflection in a pot of boiling water. Nothing is clear.

Largely, it’s what we usually refer to as sympathy or compassion—feeling delighted or afraid or concerned or thrilled for someone, doing what we can to alleviate any suffering, and securing them in love. That’s emotional empathy. And that we’ve got in spades.

Witnessing all of those hardworking female street vendors in Vietnam also made me understand why my mom felt so passionate about me and my sisters working. While we were in Vietnam together, she explained that the country had a history of always being in wartime, so women were expected to rise to the occasion of making money for the family. Vietnamese women were always ready to take over roles traditionally filled by men, Like A League of Their Own (but where everyone is Marla Hooch). I also understood why my mom wasn't into processing her feelings, and how she was taught to just get over tragedy. To survive, she had to believe things like depression and allergies were a choice. In a culture entrenched in wartime, those who chose to be unhappy or to refuse gluten didn't last long.

What’s it like to be us? Too much. We feel too much. React too much. Say too much. Need too much. So says the world. I say: the world is wrong. There is an exquisite trade-off for a life so differently led: complex imagination, limitless curiosity, profound compassion, and restless independent thought. They are the core of everything I am. They will be responsible for whatever legacy I leave behind.

A feeling struck me one fine day that people call ‘love’, Before that my life was empty, all I had was loneliness and sorrow… I loved the way it felt being with him, for I felt up above, Now everything was complete and nothing remained hollow… That person who cupid made me fall for, was a God descended from heavens, I loved him with all I had, a true heart and a pure soul… I thought I achieved the meaning of life, never did I felt so glad, But when he left me amidst a chaos, I had no one with me to console… I cried, it hurt, I wept and screamed, everyone called me ‘mad’, And still I wonder if in my life, that actually was his role… But a string still binds me to my past of untold vow, Some unsaid promises that linger between us even now, Although I don’t know where he went after that fateful day… I still try to convince myself every day, I know how, Each moment has been tough, each day a new challenge… Each hour passed as if it was my heart that always allowed, One more day to live without him, one more day to cherish… One more day to spend without the love of my life somehow, But he doesn’t know that one day, the girl herself would perish… Who loved him and lived each day of her life in his wait, For the man who never returned, for the man who wasn’t in her fate…

Psychologists have concluded that the need to feel loved is a primary human emotional need. For love, we will climb mountains, cross seas, traverse desert sands, and endure untold hardships. Without love, mountains become unclimbable, seas uncrossable, deserts unbearable, and hardship our lot in life.

In the darkness, Ayami's voice insisted overwhelmingly on its own identity. It was a corporeal voice. Just as, in the light of day, people can't help their gaze going to a beautiful woman, in the darkness they pay more attention to the voice. They accept the mystery of seeming to feel the other's gaze on their skin.

Even great, best selling writers produce works that fall flat from expectations. This writing thing isn't easy and everything you produce won't be a best seller, but you must write anyway. You have to write because you love it, because it fuels you, because you can feel the stories living inside you, nudging you, prodding you, itching to get out and the only thing worse than writing it and failing is not writing it. As the late Maya Angelou once said, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." Even if your work doesn't resonate with others, it is still worth writing. And that in itself, is what's important.

Oh, is that right? You know, a lioness will protect her cub by baring her teeth, by roaring, using her claws to defend her cub if she feels she has to - this mother, has other means. You are standing in the way of my daughter's best interests. If you try to pick our peach from our family tree, you will be picking a fight. Do you understand me?

Still, you can’t deny that, like goldfish and gummies, The Little Mermaid is fucking magical. I still feel sparkles in my stomach when I watch it. Despite Ariel wearing an ocean bra for most of that movie, and despite the fact that a man ultimately saves her from an evil plus-sized sea witch, and despite Ariel ditching her entire family for this man just because he’s a handsome prince, I gave in and showed The Little Mermaid to Mari on repeat. Those songs are also the shit. I’m a sucker for a drunk seagull best friend and since this is a safe space free of judgment: Ariel’s dad is kinda hot? I still find my feelings about King Triton confusing. He looks like Santa with abs and a tail.

Heightened memories of past threats will increase the wish to disappear, to hide, to avoid the conversation, or just to flat out quit (“flight”). Those same memories—of feeling like a failure, unwanted, or hurt—also make us quicker to anger, and with greater intensity. That’s our shield. We are trying to immediately stop what feels like a threat.

A good sadhaka, after having gained mastery over manipura, can examine their fears without feeling anxious.

Adjectives are opinions. Feelings. They are not absolutes.

Phil and Jase hunt more than anyone else in the family and take hunting more seriously than the others, so Miss Kay totally understands how I feel once duck season starts. She has said more than once, “I sure hope I don’t die during duck season because none of the men in the family would come to my funeral!” I have to say, she has good reason to be concerned.

Life itself turned our planet blue and green, as tiny photosynthetic bacteria cleansed the oceans of air and sea, and filled them with oxygen. Powered by this new and potent source of energy, life erupted. Flowers bloom and beckon, intricate corals hide darting gold fish, vast monsters lurk in black depths, trees reach for the sky, animals buzz and lumber and see. And in the midst of it all, we are moved by the untold mysteries of this creation, we cosmic assemblies of molecules that feel and think and marvel and wonder at how we came to be here.

Radical empathy involves putting in the work “to educate oneself and to listen with a humble heart to understand another’s experience from their perspective, not as we imagine we would feel.

We’re so divided as a nation, we’re so divided as a world, but the one thing that brings us together always is love and smiles and comedy and an outside family that makes you feel a part of it.

The Chronic is sonically incredible, but it’s hard to drive around singing songs about, ‘Eazy-E can eat a big fat dick,’” Rock wrote on his website. “But I got a feeling I’ll be singing ‘Gin and Juice’ when I’m ninety.

The real irony of all this talk about muted sense of self is that the very word autism comes from the Greek root autos, meaning “self” (as in “autograph” and “automobile”). We are self-referenced, certainly. It is so hard to understand others’ experiences of the world that being able to distinguish our wants, desires, and thoughts from anyone else’s is almost impossible. Our minds feel transparent. Not because we have so much sense of self. But because we have so little.

It was written, moreover, out of the deep conviction that the life of the sea is worth knowing. To stand at the edge of the sea, to sense the ebb and the flow of the tides, to feel the breath of a mist moving over a great salt marsh, to watch the flight of shore birds that have swept up and down the surf lines of continents for untold thousands of years, to see the running of the old eels and the young shad to the sea, is to have knowledge of things that are as nearly eternal as any earthly life can be. These things were before ever man stood on the shore of the ocean and looked out upon it with wonder; they continue year in, year out, through the centuries and the ages, while man's kingdoms rise and fall.

What are the chances of two Adelaide men, both involved in marijuana supply, meeting by chance on a plane to Bali just two weeks after Schapelle Corby's arrest? Then, after returning together during her trail, what are the chances of them also randomly bumping into the Corbys and being fast-tracked into their inner-circle to such a degree that they were given special access to Schapelle in jail just days out from her verdict hearing, when she was feeling at her most vulnerable?

We ordered a pizza for dinner, and while we were eating, I suddenly realized that today is Rose’s birthday. Sweet sixteen. I still feel horrible for forgetting. “I don’t have a present for you,” I told her. She responded: “You’re alive. That’s all I need.

This place is starting to feel like a home away from home," Rusty said, settling on the sofa. "We come here, we discuss evil sorcerers, we eat packets of peanuts. It's a soothing and familiar routine. Or it would be if people would just bring me some peanuts.

In everything that we do, we are relentlessly, even if subconsciously, working towards feeling complete. We drink water when we are thirsty; we eat food when we are hungry. In whatever we feel we lack, nature propels us to take action so we may feel fulfilled. Some

With time, through your loss, you begin to see a light in your crevice--the light that can heal so many buried bruises--an untold story that somehow trembles and finds a way through your heart to your pen. And as the world reads it, a light begins to rise in the sky.

Being on the spectrum does not, in any way, mean that a woman or a girl is destined to be in an abusive relationship. Not at all. On the contrary, being aware that she is different and of the ways that she is different is the cornerstone to knowing how to empower her. What to teach her to watch for. What to teach her to cherish. To know, above all, that yes, like everyone in the world, there are things she can do and ways she must grow to be the best friend and partner she can be. And before she looks outward, she needs to know herself. Needs to know that without exception, she is believed. That even when her perspective is limited or her reactions feel extreme to others, they are entirely authentic and real for her. That we will honor and love her for them, not in spite of them. More than a promise, that’s a responsibility.

My thoughts always go back to the parents – here's their kid who wouldn't be coming back. I got this feeling all the way through. It didn't matter if I saw a dead American or German, I always figured he belonged to somebody. You knew somebody was going to miss him. - Forrest Guth

I don't feel at home where I am, or where I spend time; only where, beyond counting, there's freedom and calm, that is, waves, that is, space where, when there, you consist of pure freedom, which, seen, turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone, to pebbles and sand . . . where life's mean- ing lies buried, that never let one come within cannon shot yet. From cloud-covered wells untold pour color and light, a fete of cupids and Ledas in gold. That is, silk and honey and sheen. That is, boon and quiver and call. That is, all that lives to be free, needing no words at all.

Needs to know that without exception, she is believed. That even when her perspective is limited or her reactions feel extreme to others, they are entirely authentic and real for her. That we will honor and love her for them, not in spite of them. More than a promise, that’s a responsibility.

I would either head to the playground alone or sit beside her and read—which she said “looked weird.” Though she couldn’t know, those words hurt more than anything else. Feeling that we have let down our parents is a pain anyone can understand. But feeling that one’s innate self is a letdown just slays you.

I could not see the rats, scuttling in the shadows, or hear the crunching of termites, feasting on rafters and braces. I could not feel the ivy, ripping at stone, turning towers into sand. I knew nothing yet of the cloying sickness of relations in that house. To me, the manor was simply beautiful. I was, after all, a child.

When I was in second grade, my dad hurt his back and started walking with a cane that had a gold duck’s head for the handle. I think gripping onto a lower life-form’s cranium for support made him feel a lot more empowered about getting old, like, I’m still doing better than this poor fucking thing. Now, support my weight, duck!

We are told we feel one way when we feel something entirely different. We confuse what expressions are meant to match with which feelings—the ones we feel or the ones they say we feel? Or is that how the other person looks when they feel this way? Or are they feeling what I was actually feeling, not what they said I was feeling?

In ways that often feel mysterious, emotional material left unprocessed tends to appear and reappear in our lives. The unexamined life repeats itself and reverberates through the generations. The untold stories clamor for reenactment - they insist on being told. That which cannot be consciously identified forces itself into our reality and repeats itself.

She has always been fascinated with silence. For in silence she could sit and breathe nothing but the truth. She senses all the unexpressed feelings, the unsaid words, and the rotten untold stories in her chest. For in silence she embraces her solitude, she puts her pieces back together and creates a world of her own where she’ll always choose to live in and simply enjoy …

Among the most supported theories is that what is actually most useful about telling our secrets goes further than simple stress release; putting our experiences into words helps us begin to make sense of our thoughts and feelings. Remember, especially for children, secrets are often the product of moments when we say to ourselves, if we say anything at all, “There are no words. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know where to put that.” What does it mean, then, to take a feeling or an experience and, literally, “put it into words”? Words are labels and categories. They are boxes that organize the scattered contents of our minds. So when we talk about our experiences we are sorting them out, whether we intend to be or not, just by putting them into places where they might fit. We are able to say, “There are words. I do know what to do with that. I do know where to put that.” The very act of doing so makes our most confusing or disturbing experiences more organized and understandable, and it makes them less scary and upsetting as well. Like P. D. James said about the detective story, putting feelings into words can be a restoration of order.

Days are slow, but years are racing fast. No matter how hard I try, my life is not going to last. My social circle is becoming thinner. Even after so many wins, why don’t I feel like a winner? When I look at myself in the mirror, I see an elderly staring at me with horror. So much remains untold, but my brain is losing its hold. Now that I have become so old, being alive is what I behold.

Losing in love is as crucial of a step to developing goodness and humility in character as is failure to win is in any other endeavor. A love lost fires the hearth; a love won girds us with untold resolve. We find then lose love. We experience heartache and pain. We must continue our search for love. Feelings of love open us to experience all human emotions with a heightened sense of self-awareness.

Maybe we’re feeling left out or defective, ashamed or insecure. The feelings get too big and … for many of us, the fix is to binge on treasure troves of sugar and fat: pizza, ice cream, cookies, cheese, chocolate. For a little while, the chemical relief numbs out the hurt. Hurt? Worry? It’s all shoved deep down beneath layers of chips or donuts. Hidden. Out of sight and out of mind. Until the chemical buzz begins to wear off … and it turns out that the feelings never went away. They’re still here. And worse, now there’s self-loathing and shame to add to the mix. So we punish ourselves … until the hurt gets too big, and the cycle starts again. For those of us who starve ourselves, the story isn’t much different. We’re still trying to escape overwhelming feelings—of being a fraud, not good enough, unworthy, a failure. Instead of indulging in cover-up chaos, undereaters (like I was) discover relief—even a sense of power—in artificial control.

I want to see a thousand tiny places, smell their flowers, and taste the sauces made by their people. I want to feel the difference between the textures of grit in Sri Lanka and Morocco. I want to meet the woman who bakes the best bread i n the smallest town in New Zealand. I want to find the best vantage point to see Bosnia from Croatia. What do the Grand Marnier crepes taste like in Rouen? In Paris? There are untold numbers of tiny places and extraordinary people who occupy them. We will perhaps see a hundred of both.

Gosnell also may have been motivated by his anger. Many people who knew him told us about his ferocious temper, which could flare up at any time. A lot of that anger he took out on his patients, yelling and screaming at them and punching them with his fist when they complained of pain or woke during their abortions.10 And attention-seeking may have motivated him, too. He liked being in the same club as George Tiller and the other late-term abortion doctors, he liked the spotlight, the feeling of power. And now he thinks of himself as a martyr.

Cutting. Starving. Compulsive exercising. Drinking. Drugs. Hair pulling. Skin picking. These are not attention-grabbing strategies, or else why would we, who employ them, work so very hard to keep our behaviors secret? They are evidence of poor coping skills. Of terrible anxiety. Of invalidation and loneliness—and shame. Manifestations of anxiety and cognitive rigidity to the point of epidemic levels. Why? It’s all about relief. About trying to escape from your own feelings and experiences of the world that those of us on the spectrum are constantly told are wrong.

To join the makers of the world is always to feel at least a little more self reliant, a little more omnicompetent. For everyone to bake his own bread or brew his own beer is, we're told, inefficient, and by the usual measures it probably is.....But though it is certainly cheaper and easier to rely on untold, unseen others to provide for our everyday needs, to live that way comes at a price, not least to our sense of competence and independence. We prize these virtues, and yet they have absolutely nothing to do with the efficiencies of modern consumer capitalism. Except perhaps to suggest that there might be some problems with modern consumer capitalism.

I cleaned my gun every day, and it was now paying off. The whole time my platoon sergeant made sure I stayed on target and helped direct me. I recall the sensation of him grabbing my leg to get my attention and pointing towards more targets. I remember walking my tracers into a bad guy’s gun, as he was doing the same to me, the rounds were so close I could feel the heat of the bullets on my neck, but I got him first. Some of the guys who saw it thought I was hit and were grabbing me trying to dress my non-existent wounds when we made it out of the kill zone. I also recall shooting a structure down along with the men inside it not more than 20 feet from me. The close proximity of their muzzle flashes startled me.

I don’t know what that flame is. Who the real me is. I keep trying to be who Natasha Ozera is supposed to be. I go to all the places I’m supposed to. I say the things I’m supposed to—well, most of the time. I do everything I’m meant to … but it turns out that I’m not actually doing them right. Maybe because I don’t really feel that they’re right.” “Maybe you need a new definition of what ‘right’ is.” “It’s hard to do anything new around here. You should have seen their faces tonight—including the queen’s—when I suggested a way to reallocate guardians to serve royal and non-royal Moroi. And that’s just the beginning! I think all Moroi should learn some basic fighting. I nearly said it. But then I backed down. I was too intimidated. The rules, the traditions, the judgment … no one can fight against that.” “Maybe because no one’s tried.

She slipped her phone into her pocket and looked up at Jared. “Well?” He was just looking at her; she couldn’t quite read his expression. “ ‘My best friend beat Rob Lynburn half to death with a chain’?” Jared asked. “I thought you said you were going for subtle.” Kami opened her mouth and closed it, so overcome with indignation that she could not speak. “But you really pulled off effective,” Jared added with a grin. Kami remembered how the feeling that provoked that grin had felt, his amusement rippling through her. She could not help smiling back. “Less of your sass, Lynburn. Nobody likes a tavern wench who gives them backchat. It’ll be hell on your tips.” “My tips are extremely good,” Jared noted. “Mrs. Jeffries from the post office seems to like how I wear a pair of jeans. Or possibly she’s waiting to like how I wear Perfectly Luscious Plum Lip Gloss.” “I think you should try it. I bet it would suit you.

One is often told that it is a very wrong thing to attack religion, because religion makes men virtuous. So I am told; I have not noticed it... You find as you look around the world that every single bit of progress in humane feeling, every improvement in the criminal law, every step toward the diminution of war, every step toward better treatment of the colored races, or every mitigation of slavery, every moral progress that there has been in the world, has been consistently opposed by the organized churches of the world... My own view on religion is that of Lucretius. I regard it as a disease born of fear and as a source of untold misery to the human race. I cannot, however, deny that it has made some contributions to civilization. It helped in early days to fix the calendar, and it cause Egyptian priests to chronicle eclipses with such care that in time they became able to predict them, These two services I am prepared to acknowledge, but I do not know of any others. - Bertrand Russell

One is often told that it is a very wrong thing to attack religion, because religion makes men virtuous. So I am told; I have not noticed it. . . . You find as you look around the world that every single bit of progress in humane feeling, every improvement in the criminal law, every step toward the diminution of war, every step toward better treatment of the colored races, or every mitigation of slavery, every moral progress that there has been in the world, has been consistently opposed by the organized churches of the world. . . . My own view on religion is that of Lucretius. I regard it as a disease born of fear and as a source of untold misery to the human race. I cannot, however, deny that it has made some contributions to civilization. It helped in early days to fix the calendar, and it caused Egyptian priests to chronicle eclipses with such care that in time they became able to predict them. These two services I am prepared to acknowledge, but I do not know of any others. BERTRAND RUSSELL, WHY I AM NOT A CHRISTIAN, AND OTHER ESSAYS ON RELIGION AND RELATED SUBJECTS SEVENTEEN EXODUS They went in bitterness and in hope.

Thus it is doubly difficult to write of this period calmly, so intense was the feeling, so mighty the human passions that swayed and blinded men. Amid it all, two figures ever stand to typify that day to coming ages,—the one, a gray-haired gentleman, whose fathers had quit themselves like men, whose sons lay in nameless graves; who bowed to the evil of slavery because its abolition threatened untold ill to all; who stood at last, in the evening of life, a blighted, ruined form, with hate in his eyes;—and the other, a form hovering dark and mother-like, her awful face black with the mists of centuries, had aforetime quailed at that white master’s command, had bent in love over the cradles of his sons and daughters, and closed in death the sunken eyes of his wife,—aye, too, at his behest had laid herself low to his lust, and borne a tawny man-child to the world, only to see her dark boy’s limbs scattered to the winds by midnight marauders riding after “damned Niggers.” These were the saddest sights of that woful day; and no man clasped the hands of these two passing figures of the present-past; but, hating, they went to their long home, and, hating, their children’s children live today.

Our sizable group was scattered among three different tables, and because the restaurant was a bit noisy, the kids’ table didn’t hear Alan lead us in the blessing. So Miss Kay went over to their table and led Mia and her cousins in their own prayer, thanking God for the food and asking Him to watch over Mia the next morning. After she finished, she asked the girls if they wanted to add anything. Mia said that she did. They all bowed their heads while Mia prayed for Mrs. Cathy, a dear friend of ours who was recovering from a recent mastectomy and undergoing chemotherapy for stage two breast cancer. Miss Kay came over to me and Jase with tears in her eyes, recounting what Mia had prayed. “I just assumed she was going to pray for herself, but she prayed for Cathy instead.” When I told Miss Kay that we pray for Cathy each night at bedtime, Kay said, “Well, I guess Mia thought there was no reason that this night should be any different.” She also mentioned that she asked Mia if she was nervous about the next day. “Not really” was Mia’s response. “But what do you feel?” Miss Kay asked her. “Nothing. I just don’t feel anything, really.” I guess I would interpret her response simply as Mia being at peace.

Like other species, we evolved in wilderness and although we are now able to satisfy many of our physical needs outside it (at least in the short term), psychologically we still need the vital diversity, complexity, grandeur, and beauty of wild places. We need to feel connected to something tangible that can be seen, smelled, tasted, that is much greater than out own fleeting existence. Call it religion. There are untold millions who believe in this religion although they may not come out and say so, mostly because its tenets are so deeply ingrained as to be taken for granted. No organized faith is therefore necessary. To me and others of this religion a wilderness made by God and/or by the mechanism of evolution is at least as, if not more, holy than a cathedral made by man, and to harm it is a desecration. I see enough glimpses of this wilderness in my forest to feel inspired by a feeling of interconnectedness with the web of life. It gives me a dream. It is a realistic dream that is not destructive, and that all can take part in and enjoy the results. Preserving and fostering the fantastic life on earth grants infinitely more practical and intellectual rewards than the expensive but trivial knowledge of whether there are microbes on Mars.

Twas brillig, and a mortal's tones Did stretch a day beyond the braced; A princess slain, dead to her bones, A word distraught, a knight disgraced. Portentia, Queen of Wonderland, A crown of grief upon her soul, Vowed to repay the world of man, With mother's tears and pain untold. Addison, keeper of the realm, Now plagued with guilt from duties failed, Swears to uphold his Lady's whelms, Unyielding faith, but conscience veiled. And so, they two a war will wage, The Black Queen and her trusted Knight, For all to know a mother's rage And all to feel her daughter's plight, While sibling girls of white and red align against their mother's will. They share her pain, their sister dead, But they would not innocents kill. The Queen's defeat is at their hands. They strip her of her powers black, then bind her to the Nightmares' lands and split her crown and all it lacks. Behold the Heart! Behold the Eye! For here the Black Queen's power sleeps. Leave them to rest, and by and by The world will mend the broken deep. For if these artifacts awake, Surely then, too, the Queen shall rise. And all will suffer in her wake Beneath the blood-soaked screaming skies. Beware the Heart! Beware the Eye! Beware the Blade so Black! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

For me, the biggest conflict with the surgery date was that it fell on the same day as Cole’s junior/senior formal at school. The formal had been a big night for Reed two years earlier, with the highlight being a special ring ceremony. Juniors receive their senior rings and ask two special people in their lives to turn the ring on their finger. Reed has asked me to be one of those two people for him, which was a special honor for me. If Cole wants me there, I will reschedule Mia’s surgery. “Cole, who are you planning on having turn your ring?” I asked. “I didn’t get a ring, Mom. I really don’t want one,” Cole replied. Seriously? I thought. Boy, are you your father’s son or what? “All I really care about is getting some really good pictures.” I knew Cole was telling me the truth. He is not about fanfare or rituals. But he did want to remember the night. “Absolutely! I’ll make sure we have plenty of pictures of you,” I exclaimed. As it turned out, I think he was the most photographed student that night. Since I could not be there in person, people texted, e-mailed, and tagged me on Facebook with pictures of him. Again, my friends and Cole’s friends’ parents did what they could to help us through this difficult time. Something as simple as taking pictures was priceless to me. Yes, Cole was completely fine with my not being at the formal, but he was also sad that he could not be at the hospital for Mia. I assured him that there’s never a good time for surgery, and he shouldn’t feel guilty about attending his event--all of us wanted him to go and have a great time.

I dislike guilt,” the Morrigan said. “It is regret and recrimination and despair over that which cannot be changed. It is like eating ashes for breakfast. It is the whip that clerics use on the laity, making the sheep slaves to whatever moral code the shepherds espouse. It is a catalyst for suicide and untold other acts of selfishness and stupidity. I cannot think of a more poisonous emotion.” “I don’t like it either,” I admitted. “So why do you bother to feel it?” the Morrigan asked. “Because an inability to feel guilt points to sociopathic tendencies.” The Morrigan made a purring noise deep in her throat, and her hands rose to pinch her nipples. “Oh, Siodhachan. Are you suggesting I’m a sociopath? You always say the sweetest things.” I took a step back and raised my own hands defensively. “No. No, that wasn’t meant to be sweet or flirtatious or anything.” “What’s the matter, Siodhachan?” “Nothing. I’m just not being sweet.” The Morrigan’s eyes dropped. “Fair enough. Looks to me like you’re scared stiff.” I looked down and discovered that the sodding abundance and fertility bindings weren’t messing around. “Ignore that guy,” I said, pointing down. “He’s always intruding on my conversations and poking his head in where he’s not wanted.” “But what if I want him?” The Morrigan had an expression on her face that was almost playful; it humanized her, and for a moment I forgot she was a bloodthirsty harbinger of death and realized how stunningly attractive she was. She reminded me of one of those old Patrick Nagel prints, except very much in three dimensions and far more sexy. I found it difficult to come up with a clever reply, perhaps because most of the blood that used to keep my brain functioning well had relocated elsewhere.

As I write this, I know there are countless mysteries about the future of business that we’ve yet to unravel. That’s a process that will never end. When it comes to customer success, however, I have achieved absolute clarity on four points. First, technology will never stop evolving. In the years to come, machine learning and artificial intelligence will probably make or break your business. Success will involve using these tools to understand your customers like never before so that you can deliver more intelligent, personalized experiences. The second point is this: We’ve never had a better set of tools to help meet every possible standard of success, whether it’s finding a better way to match investment opportunities with interested clients, or making customers feel thrilled about the experience of renovating their home. The third point is that customer success depends on every stakeholder. By that I mean employees who feel engaged and responsible and are growing their careers in an environment that allows them to do their best work—and this applies to all employees, from the interns to the CEO. The same goes for partners working to design and implement customer solutions, as well as our communities, which provide the schools, hospitals, parks, and other facilities to support us all. The fourth and most important point is this: The gap between what customers really want from businesses and what’s actually possible is vanishing rapidly. And that’s going to change everything. The future isn’t about learning to be better at doing what we already do, it’s about how far we can stretch the boundaries of our imagination. The ability to produce success stories that weren’t possible a few years ago, to help customers thrive in dramatic new ways—that is going to become a driver of growth for any successful company. I believe we’re entering a new age in which customers will increasingly expect miracles from you. If you don’t value putting the customer at the center of everything you do, then you are going to fall behind. Whether you make cars, solar panels, television programs, or anything else, untold opportunities exist. Every company should invest in helping its customers find new destinations, and in blazing new trails to reach them. To do so, we have to resist the urge to make quick, marginal improvements and spend more time listening deeply to what customers really want, even if they’re not fully aware of it yet. In the end, it’s a matter of accepting that your success is inextricably linked to theirs.

Physicians of the Soul and Pain. All preachers of morality, as also all theologians, have a bad habit in common: all of them try to persuade man that he is very ill, and that a severe, final, radical cure is necessary. And because mankind as a whole has for centuries listened too eagerly to those teachers, something of the superstition that the human race is in a very bad way has actually come over men: so that they are now far too ready to sigh; they find nothing more in life and make melancholy faces at each other, as if life were indeed very hard to endure. In truth, they are inordinately assured of their life and in love with it, and full of untold intrigues and subtleties for suppressing everything disagreeable, and for extracting the thorn from pain and misfortune. It seems to me that people always speak with exaggeration about pain and misfortune, as if it were a matter of good behaviour to exaggerate here: on the other hand people are intentionally silent in regard to the number of expedients for alleviating pain; as for instance, the deadening of it, feverish flurry of thought, a peaceful position, or good and bad reminiscences, intentions, and hopes, — also many kinds of pride and fellow-feeling, which have almost the effect of anaesthetics: while in the greatest degree of pain fainting takes place of itself. We understand very well how to pour sweetness on our bitterness, especially on the bitterness of our soul; we find a remedy in our bravery and sublimity, as well as in the nobler delirium of submission and resignation. A loss scarcely remains a loss for an hour: in some way or other a gift from heaven has always fallen into our lap at the same moment — a new form of strength, for example: be it but a new opportunity for the exercise of strength! What have the preachers of morality not dreamt concerning the inner 'misery' of evil men! What lies have they not told us about the misfortunes of impassioned men! Yes, lying is here the right word: they were only too well aware of the overflowing happiness of this kind of man, but they kept silent as death about it; because it was a refutation of their theory, according to which happiness only originates through the annihilation of the passions and the silencing of the will! And finally, as regards the recipe of all those physicians of the soul and their recommendation of a severe radical cure, we may be allowed to ask: Is our life really painful and burdensome enough for us to exchange it with advantage for a Stoical mode of living, and Stoical petrification? We do not feel sufficiently miserable to have to feel ill in the Stoical fashion!

True beauty is found not in the exceptional but in the commonplaces Where does the beauty lie, in the exceptional or the commonplace? Some people believe, true beauty can be find only in exceptional and there isn’t any beauty in commonplaces, and it seems, they are all quotidian objects; but yet, another group of people attribute to the factual beauty of commonplaces and believe the beauty of exceptional seems artificial and it’ll be ephemeral. After weighing the evidence, it is certain that the true beauty lie in the commonplace not in the exceptional. People are most move by natural feature than the artificial ones. Those people that believe the beauty lie in the exceptional prefer the artificial beauties, which is made by human, to the natural beauties. Consider Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Liza, one of the most beautiful painting in the world. For sure it is beautiful and few people who view the painting are not moved by the sheer beauty of it. But how much time a person can enjoy watching this art work and praise it? One hour? Two hours? One week? Like Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Liza, the cathedral of north dame in Paris is another exceptional object which is wonderful and there are too many tourist that travel untold miles to view cathedral. Nobody can tell it is not beautiful; but, does it sacrifice people’s tendency as much as the original beauties do? People interest to visit these beautiful building and wonderful painting at least one time to be familiar with those great art work but it cannot be considered as a true beauty which is one of the requirement of human to be alive. On the other hand, the natural beauties which are around us are fantastic and eternal. They are always improve motivation on people and make them pleased. Consider a flower, although every people have seen many kind of flowers, it is always beautiful and move people to appropriate them. Like flower, plants, stars, sun, moon, sky, sea every object in the nature can be caused of an excited on people and motivate them to be alive. The common place beauties are the most part of the human’s life. If people every time don’t appreciate every beauty around him, and he praise exceptional object when he encounter, it cannot be a fair conclusion that the exceptional objects are true beauty. Indeed people believe nature is constantly compeer of human along the history, like one of his organs, he is not praising them every time, but it is incredible for human to feel he must be alive without common place beauty. Ultimately, after considering both sides of the issue, it must be concluded that the true beauty lie in the commonplace not in the exceptional. Exceptional are the beauties which can be as a complementary for the natural beauties. Because people’s life can be current even without exceptional but without commonplace beauties it is impossible for people to be alive.

My name is Steve, and I am the hero of this world. There’s something about the single-player mode that makes me feel this way.

the illness of a good child is so far less trying than the sinfulness of one’s sons – like your two elder brothers. Oh! Then one feels that death in purity is so far preferable to life in sin and degradation!

¡Se siente rico! “It feels good in here!

Ten years have passed and every day that I walk throughout the city, I feel honored to be a part of it - and atom in the blood of a beating heart belonging to the most wonderfully diverse, smart, creative, passionate being.

And they want to find us guilty for this, but they don’t want to find us innocent, and that’s tragic because you see, if I were running the system and I wanted to clear up the system, I wouldn’t go around looking for guilty people. I would go around looking for innocent people and if I found some guilty people, I would convert them into being innocent and not guilty. Because when you’re guilty, you’re a criminal, according to the way this man thinks. And when you’re innocent, you’re not. So what will be the point of trying to find somebody guilty and making a criminal out of that person when the only thing a criminal can do is to influence crime. It would seem to me that if you want to solve the problem of somebody, you wouldn’t be looking to find that person guilty, find that person wrong, find that person innocent—or guilty. You would look—would be looking to find that person innocent because innocence is right and guilt is wrong, and you cannot get right from wrong or wrong from right.   What is the point of finding somebody wrong if you’re trying to make somebody right? What is the point of having a society that looks to find somebody criminal if you’re trying to get rid of crime? What is the point of having society convicting people of things they are told that they did, rather than things that they have seen that they have done? Do you know what evidence is? Evidence is what you see before you, and what I see before me are bombs on that man’s table. What I see before me are jugs on that man’s table. What I see before me are charges that that man put on me, but he’s not charging me with what is right. He’s not charging me with innocence. He’s not charging me with substance, he’s charging me with guilt. What did I do with guilt? Why are you charging me with guilt? Charge me with something that has substance, something that’s going to make me well if you feel that I’m sick. Something that’s going to make me healthy if you feel that I’m unhealthy. Something that’s going to make me strong if you feel that I’m not strong. I’m not a guilty man, I’m an innocent man! I didn’t come here to make trouble or bring trouble. But to bring the truth, an goddammit, that’s what I’m gonna do!

John & Mobay Africa presented their case. Some days John Africa would lean back in his chair and close his eyes. His court appointed attorney told him one day that if he continued to go off to sleep, it would hurt his case. His response was: “I’ll hurt my case if I don’t sleep!” The guy never said anything more to him about sleeping.   No matter what questions were asked of witnesses by the prosecution, there was never an objection made by either John or Mobay Africa. My sister LaVerne and I were asked about this at a later date. We explained that there were no objections made by either of them because that would suggest they only had a problem with the part they were objecting to. When in fact, they objected to all of it! . . . and so it went until it was time for closing arguments. Much of John Africa’s closing is as follows:   “Ona MOVE! Now we have to understand what this case is about. This case is about evidence. Now it’s evident that we’ve got some bottles and pipes and some people sitting around with those bottles and pipes, and we’ ve got some so-call bombs over there that are supposed to belong to myself and my brother. But as you can see, evidently the bombs are on that side of the room. We’ve been charged with terrorizing the city and making threats on civilians and the like. And they want to find us guilty for this, but they don’t want to find us innocent, and that’s tragic because you see, if I were running the system and I wanted to clear up the system, I wouldn’t go around looking for guilty people. I would go around looking for innocent people and if I found some guilty people, I would convert them into being innocent and not guilty. Because when you’re guilty, you’re a criminal, according to the way this man thinks. And when you’re innocent, you’re not. So what will be the point of trying to find somebody guilty and making a criminal out of that person when the only thing a criminal can do is to influence crime. It would seem to me that if you want to solve the problem of somebody, you wouldn’t be looking to find that person guilty, find that person wrong, find that person innocent—or guilty. You would look—would be looking to find that person innocent because innocence is right and guilt is wrong, and you cannot get right from wrong or wrong from right.   What is the point of finding somebody wrong if you’re trying to make somebody right? What is the point of having a society that looks to find somebody criminal if you’re trying to get rid of crime? What is the point of having society convicting people of things they are told that they did, rather than things that they have seen that they have done? Do you know what evidence is? Evidence is what you see before you, and what I see before me are bombs on that man’s table. What I see before me are jugs on that man’s table. What I see before me are charges that that man put on me, but he’s not charging me with what is right. He’s not charging me with innocence. He’s not charging me with substance, he’s charging me with guilt. What did I do with guilt? Why are you charging me with guilt? Charge me with something that has substance, something that’s going to make me well if you feel that I’m sick. Something that’s going to make me healthy if you feel that I’m unhealthy. Something that’s going to make me strong if you feel that I’m not strong. I’m not a guilty man, I’m an innocent man! I didn’t come here to make trouble or bring trouble. But to bring the truth, an goddammit, that’s what I’m gonna do!

To be sure, Judas Iscariot was not exactly the sort of character that Christian Mjomba - or anyone else at St. Augustine’s Seminary for that matter - would have wanted to be nicknamed after. But the fact was that Mjomba had never made a secret of his views on the world. Everyone in the seminary brotherhood knew his stand on apartheid and things like that; and they were considered very liberal. In the conservative environment that prevailed at St. Augustine’s Seminary, they were also tantamount to betrayal! It was about the most unsavory that anyone could have wished to be associated with. But that was the label he had got stuck with. Everybody knew, besides, that it wasn’t some uninformed gentile or misguided unbeliever who had betrayed the Deliverer and handed Him to His killers. And Judas Iscariot wasn’t just anybody either. Judas was one of the twelve who had been handpicked by the Deliverer to form the core of the convocation that would become the Sancta Ecclesia. In addition to being the Deliverer’s purse bearer, Judas Iscariot also drank wine from the same cup as his Master! The man who would betray the Deliverer with a kiss was a member of the inner circle of the burgeoning Christ Fellowship; and, before long, his name had become so repulsive even among Romans, it had replaced that of Brutus, the friend of Cæsar who had conspired with others and stabbed the emperor in the back, as a symbol of betrayal. A traitor par excellence! Whenever Mjomba thought about Judas’ betrayal of the Messiah of the world with a kiss, it was not the act of betrayal itself that came to mind. It was not even the chilling words “Would’st thou betray thy Master with a kiss, Judas?” that were addressed to the betrayer by the Deliverer in the moment when Judas, no doubt representing all humanity, embraced the Nazarene and kissed him on the cheek so the temple’s constabulary wouldn’t grab and take into custody the wrong person! It was the Deliverer’s address to Peter a little earlier on in the Upper House as the fisherman, who himself would swear that he did not know the Nazarene, not once but three times, in front of a shivering crowd not long afterward, balked at the notion of the miracle worker and Son of Man could stoop to wash his (the fisherman’s) dirty feet, namely “Not all are clean, Peter!” And that was, in all probability, after Judas’s feet had already been washed by the Nazarene. That, in any event, was the character after whom Christian Mjomba had been nicknamed by his buddies in what he initially regarded as something that was itself an act of betrayal. The traitors! He could not understand how people could be so insensitive about the feelings of others! And even though he had never said it, he had never liked it a bit - until he started work on his theological thesis." - Joseph M. Luguya, Humans: The Untold Story of Adam and Eve and their Descendants

To be sure, Judas Iscariot was not exactly the sort of character that Christian Mjomba - or anyone else at St. Augustine’s Seminary for that matter - would have wanted to be nicknamed after. But the fact was that Mjomba had never made a secret of his views on the world. Everyone in the seminary brotherhood knew his stand on apartheid and things like that; and they were considered very liberal. In the conservative environment that prevailed at St. Augustine’s Seminary, they were also tantamount to betrayal! It was about the most unsavory that anyone could have wished to be associated with. But that was the label he had got stuck with. "Everybody knew, besides, that it wasn’t some uninformed gentile or misguided unbeliever who had betrayed the Deliverer and handed Him to His killers. And Judas Iscariot wasn’t just anybody either. Judas was one of the twelve who had been handpicked by the Deliverer to form the core of the convocation that would become the Sancta Ecclesia. In addition to being the Deliverer’s purse bearer, Judas Iscariot also drank wine from the same cup as his Master! The man who would betray the Deliverer with a kiss was a member of the inner circle of the burgeoning Christ Fellowship; and, before long, his name had become so repulsive even among Romans, it had replaced that of Brutus, the friend of Cæsar who had conspired with others and stabbed the emperor in the back, as a symbol of betrayal. A traitor par excellence! "Whenever Mjomba thought about Judas’ betrayal of the Messiah of the world with a kiss, it was not the act of betrayal itself that came to mind. It was not even the chilling words “Would’st thou betray thy Master with a kiss, Judas?” that were addressed to the betrayer by the Deliverer in the moment when Judas, no doubt representing all humanity, embraced the Nazarene and kissed him on the cheek so the temple’s constabulary wouldn’t grab and take into custody the wrong person! It was the Deliverer’s address to Peter a little earlier on in the Upper House as the fisherman, who himself would swear that he did not know the Nazarene, not once but three times, in front of a shivering crowd not long afterward, balked at the notion that the miracle worker and Son of Man could stoop to wash his (the fisherman’s) dirty feet, namely “Not all are clean, Peter!” And that was, in all probability, after Judas’s feet had already been washed by the Nazarene. "That, in any event, was the character after whom Christian Mjomba had been nicknamed by his buddies in what he initially regarded as something that was itself an act of betrayal. The traitors! He could not understand how people could be so insensitive about the feelings of others! And even though he had never said it, he had never liked it a bit - until he started work on his theological thesis." ― Joseph M. Luguya, Humans: The Untold Story of Adam and Eve and their Descendants

To be sure, Judas Iscariot was not exactly the sort of character that Christian Mjomba - or anyone else at St. Augustine’s Seminary for that matter - would have wanted to be nicknamed after. But the fact was that Mjomba had never made a secret of his views on the world. Everyone in the seminary brotherhood knew his stand on apartheid and things like that; and they were considered very liberal. In the conservative environment that prevailed at St. Augustine’s Seminary, they were also tantamount to betrayal! It was about the most unsavory that anyone could have wished to be associated with. But that was the label he had got stuck with. Everybody knew, besides, that it wasn’t some uninformed gentile or misguided unbeliever who had betrayed the Deliverer and handed Him to His killers. And Judas Iscariot wasn’t just anybody either. Judas was one of the twelve who had been handpicked by the Deliverer to form the core of the convocation that would become the Sancta Ecclesia. In addition to being the Deliverer’s purse bearer, Judas Iscariot also drank wine from the same cup as his Master! The man who would betray the Deliverer with a kiss was a member of the inner circle of the burgeoning Christ Fellowship; and, before long, his name had become so repulsive even among Romans, it had replaced that of Brutus, the friend of Cæsar who had conspired with others and stabbed the emperor in the back, as a symbol of betrayal. A traitor par excellence! Whenever Mjomba thought about Judas’ betrayal of the Messiah of the world with a kiss, it was not the act of betrayal itself that came to mind. It was not even the chilling words “Would’st thou betray thy Master with a kiss, Judas?” that were addressed to the betrayer by the Deliverer in the moment when Judas, no doubt representing all humanity, embraced the Nazarene and kissed him on the cheek so the temple’s constabulary wouldn’t grab and take into custody the wrong person! It was the Deliverer’s address to Peter a little earlier on in the Upper House as the fisherman, who himself would swear that he did not know the Nazarene, not once but three times, in front of a shivering crowd not long afterward, balked at the notion of the miracle worker and Son of Man could stoop to wash his (the fisherman’s) dirty feet, namely “Not all are clean, Peter!” And that was, in all probability, after Judas’s feet had already been washed by the Nazarene. That, in any event, was the character after whom Christian Mjomba had been nicknamed by his buddies in what he initially regarded as something that was itself an act of betrayal. The traitors! He could not understand how people could be so insensitive about the feelings of others! And even though he had never said it, he had never liked it a bit - until he started work on his theological thesis." - Joseph M. Luguya, Humans: The Untold Story of Adam and Eve and their Descendants

To be sure, Judas Iscariot was not exactly the sort of character that Christian Mjomba - or anyone else at St. Augustine’s Seminary for that matter - would have wanted to be nicknamed after. But the fact was that Mjomba had never made a secret of his views on the world. Everyone in the seminary brotherhood knew his stand on apartheid and things like that; and they were considered very liberal. In the conservative environment that prevailed at St. Augustine’s Seminary, they were also tantamount to betrayal! It was about the most unsavory that anyone could have wished to be associated with. But that was the label he had got stuck with. Everybody knew, besides, that it wasn’t some uninformed gentile or misguided unbeliever who had betrayed the Deliverer and handed Him to His killers. And Judas Iscariot wasn’t just anybody either. Judas was one of the twelve who had been handpicked by the Deliverer to form the core of the convocation that would become the Sancta Ecclesia. In addition to being the Deliverer’s purse bearer, Judas Iscariot also drank wine from the same cup as his Master! The man who would betray the Deliverer with a kiss was a member of the inner circle of the burgeoning Christ Fellowship; and, before long, his name had become so repulsive even among Romans, it had replaced that of Brutus, the friend of Cæsar who had conspired with others and stabbed the emperor in the back, as a symbol of betrayal. A traitor par excellence! Whenever Mjomba thought about Judas’ betrayal of the Messiah of the world with a kiss, it was not the act of betrayal itself that came to mind. It was not even the chilling words “Would’st thou betray thy Master with a kiss, Judas?” that were addressed to the betrayer by the Deliverer in the moment when Judas, no doubt representing all humanity, embraced the Nazarene and kissed him on the cheek so the temple’s constabulary wouldn’t grab and take into custody the wrong person! It was the Deliverer’s address to Peter a little earlier on in the Upper House as the fisherman, who himself would swear that he did not know the Nazarene, not once but three times, in front of a shivering crowd not long afterward, balked at the notion of the miracle worker and Son of Man could stoop to wash his (the fisherman’s) dirty feet, namely “Not all are clean, Peter!” And that was, in all probability, after Judas’s feet had already been washed by the Nazarene. That, in any event, was the character after whom Christian Mjomba had been nicknamed by his buddies in what he initially regarded as something that was itself an act of betrayal. The traitors! He could not understand how people could be so insensitive about the feelings of others! And even though he had never said it, he had never liked it a bit - until he started work on his theological thesis." _Joseph M. Luguya, Humans: The Untold Story of Adam and Eve and their Descendants

He's worried about you, Charles.  They all are." "They should hate me." "No they shouldn't, and they don't.  You're being absurd, and you know it." "But I've failed them.  I doubted their love, allowed myself to be deceived by letters I should have known were false, and caused them untold grief and sorrow . . . and now I have compounded that by coming back and showing them just what depths I've sunk to.  How ashamed they must be of me.  How ashamed I am of myself.  What must they think?" "They're your family, Charles.  You don't need to impress them, or pretend you're something you're not.  If you can't be yourself around them, and be accepted for the man that you are, then who can you be yourself around?" "You," he said bleakly.  "I can be myself around you.  I tell you things I've never told anyone else, I feel completely at ease around you, but then, you know all of my secrets and I have nothing to hide from you.  You have seen inside my head —" he gave a bitter little laugh — "literally.  'Sdeath, why shouldn't I feel comfortable around you?  You can see right through me." "And you think that Lucien cannot?" she asked, smiling and raising one brow.  "Really, Charles.  You are underestimating him." "Lucien is accustomed to seeing capability and confidence from me.  He was disappointed in me tonight.  Disgusted." "Worried, perhaps, more than disappointed.  Never disgusted.

Lydia? Do you feel any sort of remorse or revulsion for what we have to do to survive?” Lydia frowned as Rafael Villar’s words came back to her. Some of our kind feel that we are monsters; Deveril is one of those. Did Vincent truly believe he was a monster? He’d lived for nearly two centuries. She couldn’t imagine someone existing with such profound self-loathing for so long. Her chin lifted. No matter, she was determined to change his mind. She made sure Vincent heard the conviction of her words. “It doesn’t hurt them. We take only a pint or two at most. In fact, they seem to be quite euphoric after we’re done with them.” Lydia bit her lip. In the case of her most recent meal, “euphoric” was an understatement. Vincent nodded, though he appeared reluctant to believe her. “So you do not regret my Changing you?” “I am finding great pleasure in this existence.” Lydia willed him to see and hear the truth in her words. “My keener vision has revealed untold beauty in the night. Don’t you see it?” With a sweep of her hand, she encompassed the brilliant full moon, the silvery clouds, and the cleverly lit trees surrounding them. “I can smell the perfume of a hundred different flowers. My ears delight to hear a nightingale song, the music of human laughter. I’ve never before felt so alive.” The

Wars are battles of words, not just bullets. From 1861, the Confederacy had the task of demonizing its foe as debased, abnormal, and vile. Southerners had to make themselves feel viscerally superior, and to convince themselves that their very existence depended on the formation of a separate country, free of Yankees.

The day of Mia’s first surgery was not only a big day for her; it was a big day for me, too. Handing my three-month-old daughter to the anesthesiologist and watching her walk away with my baby was one of the most heart-wrenching things I have ever done. I knew that Mia was in someone else’s care and that I had absolutely no control over what happened to her until after the procedure. I tried my hardest not to cry, but after the anesthesiologist walked through the secure doors, I broke down in Jase’s arms. He was very emotional about the situation, too, but the two of us handled our intense feelings in different ways. I went to join our family in a large foyer area, where about fifteen of them had gathered to support us, and Jase headed outside to a small grove of trees near the parking lot. As I mentioned earlier, being outdoors makes Jase feel closure to the Creator, who he knows can do mighty things. That grove of trees, which was surrounded by such a large concrete jungle, became a special place for Jase, a place where he said many heartfelt prayers.