Unwanted Guests Quotes

Spring arrived overnight, as if winter, like some unwanted guest, had abruptly shrugged its way into its coat and vanished, without saying good-bye.

Fine. A man—faerie—of few words. I had killed his friend, was an unwanted guest. I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.

I hated living in the small and claustrophobic atmosphere of my house. It didn’t feel like home anymore. I felt like an unwanted guest.

Announcing the intended arrival of some people is kind of like issuing a hurricane warning. 

learned that people will believe what they want to believe. And it’s truly frightening how easily they’ll believe it.

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

when the unwanted Guest Arrives i might be afraid i might be smile or say : my day was good let night fall

Unless you're prepared to deal with the aftermath, never invite yourself to a situation where your presence is not requested or welcomed. Don't pull out a chair at someone else's table, then turn around and be hurt when you feel unwelcomed.

Someone is here. Someone unwanted. Someone, not a guest. A noise of footsteps, as subtle as a cat’s, comes. The Mesmerizer narrows his eyes in that direction. “Intruder,” he mutters, knowing the stranger can hear him. The Roar of Death Sonata stops. Maroc has sensed the intruder, too.

I had come into this affair with my eyes open, knowing that one day this must end, and yet, when the sense of insecurity, the logical belief in the hopeless future descended like melancholia, I would badger her and badger her, as though I wanted to bring the future in now at the door, an unwanted and premature guest.

DULCINEA: "Was I cute?" Palamedes turns and moves upstage. PALAMEDES: "You're perfect.

True psychopaths can be very convincing...

Nothing irks me more than the vocabulary of social responsibility. The very word ‘duty’ is unpleasant to me, like an unwanted guest. But the terms ‘civic duty’, ‘solidarity’, ‘humanitarianism’ and others of the same ilk disgust me like rubbish dumped out of a window right on top of me. I’m offended by the implicit assumption that these expressions pertain to me, that I should find them worthwhile and even meaningful. I recently saw in a toy-shop window some objects that reminded me exactly of what these expressions are: make-believe dishes filled with make-believe tidbits for the miniature table of a doll. For the real, sensual, vain and selfish man, the friend of others because he has the gift of speech and the enemy of others because he has the gift of life, what is there to gain from playing with the dolls of hollow and meaningless words?

hell isn't imaginary; it's real. It's a real place and it's also a state of mind.

darkness was so absolute that it was disorienting. It was like floating in space, with nothing to mark where you

Disappointment is an unwanted—but invited—guest.

PALAMEDES: "May I see you?" DULCINEA: "Are you sure?" PALAMEDES: "For the first time, and the last.

Rumours arrive at a wedding like unwanted guests

Her words smelled of bonfires. They felt like dirt, filling his mouth. They tasted like Halloween. A.C. Wise For the Removal of Unwanted Guests

Being a chronic unwanted guest can really suck.

Iron—the door was iron, and enchanted with the best spells money could buy to keep out any unwanted guests, attackers, or magic.

Hitherto, the Palestinians had been relatively immune to this Allahu Akhbar style. I thought this was a hugely retrograde development. I said as much to Edward. To reprint Nazi propaganda and to make a theocratic claim to Spanish soil was to be a protofascist and a supporter of 'Caliphate' imperialism: it had nothing at all to do with the mistreatment of the Palestinians. Once again, he did not exactly disagree. But he was anxious to emphasize that the Israelis had often encouraged Hamas as a foil against Fatah and the PLO. This I had known since seeing the burning out of leftist Palestinians by Muslim mobs in Gaza as early as 1981. Yet once again, it seemed Edward could only condemn Islamism if it could somehow be blamed on either Israel or the United States or the West, and not as a thing in itself. He sometimes employed the same sort of knight's move when discussing other Arabist movements, excoriating Saddam Hussein's Ba'ath Party, for example, mainly because it had once enjoyed the support of the CIA. But when Saddam was really being attacked, as in the case of his use of chemical weapons on noncombatants at Halabja, Edward gave second-hand currency to the falsified story that it had 'really' been the Iranians who had done it. If that didn't work, well, hadn't the United States sold Saddam the weaponry in the first place? Finally, and always—and this question wasn't automatically discredited by being a change of subject—what about Israel's unwanted and ugly rule over more and more millions of non-Jews? I evolved a test for this mentality, which I applied to more people than Edward. What would, or did, the relevant person say when the United States intervened to stop the massacres and dispossessions in Bosnia-Herzegovina and Kosovo? Here were two majority-Muslim territories and populations being vilely mistreated by Orthodox and Catholic Christians. There was no oil in the region. The state interests of Israel were not involved (indeed, Ariel Sharon publicly opposed the return of the Kosovar refugees to their homes on the grounds that it set an alarming—I want to say 'unsettling'—precedent). The usual national-security 'hawks,' like Henry Kissinger, were also strongly opposed to the mission. One evening at Edward's apartment, with the other guest being the mercurial, courageous Azmi Bishara, then one of the more distinguished Arab members of the Israeli parliament, I was finally able to leave the arguing to someone else. Bishara [...] was quite shocked that Edward would not lend public support to Clinton for finally doing the right thing in the Balkans. Why was he being so stubborn? I had begun by then—belatedly you may say—to guess. Rather like our then-friend Noam Chomsky, Edward in the final instance believed that if the United States was doing something, then that thing could not by definition be a moral or ethical action.

One important thing was not to forget what he hoped to achieve in life. Another important thing was not to confuse a romantic picture of himself—as a doctor in Africa, for example—with a real possibility. And he tried not to lose sight of the fact that he was an adult in an adult world, with responsibilities. This was not easy: he would find himself sitting in the sun cutting out paper stars for a Christmas tree at the very moment other men were working to support large families or representing their countries in foreign places. When in moments of difficult truth-seeking he saw this incongruity, he felt sick that he should be saddled with himself, as though he were his own unwanted guest.

He draped his forearm across the open window and let the ocean spray cool his skin. If only it would soothe the burning inside him, this pernicious emotion he could not name with accuracy. Disenchantment? Regret? Whatever it was, it accompanied him like an unwanted guest in his passenger seat.

New-fallen snow always makes her feel hopeful.

PALAMEDES: "If you're on the shore, then I'll find you." DULCINEA: "Which shore?" PALAMEDES: "Pardon?" DULCINEA: "It's a river. There are two shores. If this ends well, you'll find that out.

Nothing irks me more than the vocabulary of social responsibility. The very word ‘duty’ is unpleasant to me, like an unwanted guest. But the terms ‘civic duty’, ‘solidarity’, ‘humanitarianism’ and others of the same ilk disgust me like rubbish dumped out of a window right on top of me. I’m offended by the implicit assumption that these expressions pertain to me, that I should find them worthwhile and even meaningful.

And below them, Toll-by-Night set about folding itself away, like a stilt-legged monster into a closet. Its inhabitants crept back into the unwanted places, the crannies and cellars and forgotten attics, and locked themselves in. A bugle blew. A silver jingling swept through the town, sealing away all bad reputations and bitter-tasting names. Another bugle sounded. And day swept in like a landlord, not knowing that it was only a guest in night's town.

PALAMEDES: "You can do a lot of work with "if." "If I may-" that's, of course, a relatively well-documented example of a false courtesy. "May I?" - that's how you ask for permission, when you really want it. You only use "if I may" to preface something you're about to do anyway.

Before Westcliff could launch into an unwanted diatribe regarding Annabelle, Simon sought to distract him. “You don’t seem to rub on well with Miss Bowman,” he remarked. As a diversionary tactic, the mention of Lillian Bowman was supremely effective. Westcliff responded with a surly grunt. “The ill-mannered brat dared to imply that Miss Peyton’s mishap was my fault,” he said, pouring a brandy for himself. Simon raised his brows. “How could it be your fault?” “Miss Bowman seems to think that, as their host, it was my responsibility to ensure that my estate wasn’t ‘overrun with a plague of poisonous vipers,’ as she put it.” “How did you reply?” “I pointed out to Miss Bowman that the guests who choose to remain clothed when they venture out of doors don’t usually seem to get bitten by adders.” Simon couldn’t help grinning at that.

Palamedes: I loved you. I love you still. I would have worked out how to love you better over time. Voice: It would have been very beautiful. Camilla would have had to cook. But I didn't just want beautiful ... I wanted it to last, and I wanted to wait, and I knew I couldn't have either. It's not that you were young and foolish, you know? It's just that you were young ... and I didn't want to steal any more youth from you. It made me feel rotten. Palamedes: This again? From you and her both? That merely by loving you, I added to your torments? Voice: (Encouragingly) Yes, and also my agonies.

I hated her because I wished to think she didn’t love me: I wanted to get her out of my system. What grievance, I wonder now, had I got against her, whether she loved me or not? She had been loyal to me for nearly a year, she had given me a great deal of pleasure, she had put up with my moods, and what had I given her in return apart from the momentary pleasure? I had come into this affair with my eyes open, knowing that one day this must end, and yet, when the sense of insecurity, the logical belief in the hopeless future descended like melancholia, I would badger her and badger her, as though I wanted to bring the future in now at the door, an unwanted and premature guest.

PALAMEDES: "So - hold on. You're telling me that you knew Tern, that you were paired with him, for even longer than I've known Camilla - that he must have sat next to you in the nursery and been at every single one of your undoubtedly insane birthday parties - and you don't in any way regret the fact that you killed and ate him?" There is a pause. IANTHE: "No.

Gwen has never been so frightened in her life. There's some comfort in knowing that the others are out here with her, even if she can't see them. It's like she's alone in a dark void. She can't bear to think about David, what the gunshots might mean. Is someone else dead? She wonders if soon there will be no one left at all. She wants to live, but she hopes that if she has to die, she isn't the last one. She doesn't think she could bear it. She is defenseless. She thinks of the small, sharp letter opener that had been lying on the writing desk in their room. She wishes she had it with her now.

That’s the Thornton place up there atop yon hill,” the farmer said, pointing. Lucinda gazed in mounting anger at the large, but unimpressive cottage that was barely visible through the thick trees, then she turned the full force of her authority on the hapless farmer. “You’re mistaken, my good man,” she said stoutly. “No gentleman of consequence or sense would live in such a godforsaken place as this. Kindly turn this decrepit vehicle around and return us to the village whence we came so that we can ask directions again. There was obviously a misunderstanding.” At that, both the horse and the farmer swung their heads around and looked at her with identical expressions of weary resentment. The horse remained silent, but the farmer had heard Lucinda’s irate complaints for the last twelve miles, and he was heartily sick of them. “See here, my lady,” he began, but Lucinda cut him off. “Do not address me as ‘my lady.’ ‘Miss Throckmorton-Jones’ will do very well.” “Aye. Well, whoever ye be, this is as far as I’m takin’ ye, and that thar is the Thornton cottage.” “You can’t mean to abandon us here!” she said as the tired old man exhibited a surge of renewed energy-obviously brought on by the prospect of ridding himself of his unwanted guests-and leapt off the wagon, whereupon he began to drag their trunks and bandboxes off the wagon and onto the side of the narrow ledge that passed for a road.

secrets are often like unwanted guests—and they always come at the worst possible time.

... while we were in inhabited country every Bedu for miles around would come to feed at our expense. It would be impossible to refuse them food: in the desert one may never turn a guest away, however unwanted he may be. T.E. Lawrence observed that 'the desert was held in a crazed communism by which Nature and the elements were for the free use of every known friendly person for his own purposes and no more.

Brothers,” he continues, “are lifelong. And though you take that field tonight, you have also taken that field before, just as you will tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. That field is your home—your battlefield—and those other men are intruders. They don’t respect it. They’re trespassing—unwanted guests..“I can assure you they didn’t,” my father says. Again, the room chants, “Hoorah!” I hold my breath because this next part, more than anything that led up to it, is what I’ve been waiting for. I check the camera, my father still centered in my frame and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. Our team has won the first two games of the year, but he knows that two is not ten. A loss, at this point, will be unforgiveable. “What’s that word on your backs?” His question echoes, and the answer is swift. “Honor, sir!” they all shout in unison. They always do. It’s more than memorization, and it’s always made me sit in awe of how it all plays out. “Honor! That’s right. There are no individuals in here. We all have one name. It isn’t the mascot. It isn’t your nickname or some fad that will be forgotten the second the yearbook is printed. It’s a word that means heart, that means drive and ambition, that means giving your all and leaving the best of every goddamned thing you’ve got out there on that field. Turn to your right!” They all do, seated in a circle on the benches, looking at the helmets and heads of their teammates. My dad should have been a preacher, or perhaps a general. He was born to stand before boys and make them believe that for two and a half hours, they are men. “Turn to your left!” All heads shift, the sound swift, but mouths quiet. “Honor. Brotherhood. Tradition.” He pauses, his team still sitting with heads angled and eyes wide on the dark blue sheen of the helmets and sweat-drenched heads next to them. “Again…” he says, and this time they say it with him. “Honor. Brotherhood. Tradition.” “Whose house is this?” my father asks, quiet and waiting for a roar. “Our house!” “Whose house is this?” He’s louder now. “Our house!” “Whose house…” My dad’s face is red and his voice is hoarse by the time he shouts the question painted above the door that the Cornwall Tradition runs through to the field. The final chant back is loud enough that it can be heard through the cinderblock walls. I know, because last week, I filmed the speech from outside. With chests full, egos inflated, voices primed and muscles ready for abuse, this packed room of fifty—the number that always takes the field, even though less than half of them will play—stands, each putting a hand on the back of everyone in front of them.

Steward was himself an able poet. His Italian sonnet “Virginia to Harlotta,” written at age nineteen, presciently describes a consciousness divided between virtuous chastity and thankless promiscuity: This is yours: to lie beside him all the night And feel the steady heat come out from him; The coolness of his hands, each slender limb Made restless by the absence of the light… To know the graceless touch, the never-quite- Sufficient kiss of lip on lip, or breast, And when the day comes, grey unwanted guest To see love’s death, each in each other’s sight. And this is mine: a solitary bed, And I so still…unwarmed, untouched, unkissed, With moonlight fingering flowers on my spread, And moaning trees and crying winds and mist… Weave me a spell, O bow-boy, so that he Embracing her sends his caress to me!

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If the master is not present in the house, all kinds of shady characters will take up residence there. When you inhabit your body, it will be hard for unwanted guests to enter.

A man- faerie-of few words. I had killed his friend, was an unwanted guest. I wouldn't want to talk to me, either.

She’s more one for grim fairy tales than picture postcards

She’s a city girl, born and bred; she’s not used to country driving. It gets so dark up here. She’s becoming anxious now – the drive has taken longer than planned.

She casts a furtive glance at the woman named Riley, who hasn’t said a word. She wonders what’s up with her. Something about her definitely seems off.

Too much familiarity, the dreariness of domesticity, of paying bills, raising children. Of having full-time jobs and always too much to do. She doesn’t know if a weekend away at a lovely and remote place in the country will make that much of a difference, but it could be a start.

They didn’t use to be like this. They used to be good together. All those years of eating with the kids has made them lose the knack of conversation. They should have hired more babysitters, gone out by themselves to restaurants more, she thinks regretfully, like the experts always advise.

Of course they haven’t been happy. Her friends – with big mortgages, demanding jobs, problem teenagers, and ageing parents – aren’t happy, either. It’s impossible at this stage of their

Dana had everything to live for, Gwen thinks. It’s too horrible. It makes her realize that she should try to enjoy every moment. Live life to the fullest. She hasn’t been very good at that. Maybe it’s time to try.

It’s as if they’ve both been pulled back from the brink they’d faced last night. It’s awful to think so, but she’s hoping that it will prevent them from focusing again on their marriage in the cold, empty light of day. She does not want to go there, now that she knows just how precarious her position is.

He was used to people – friends and girlfriends – being intimidated by his wealthy, powerful family.

Gwen wouldn’t be able to handle it. Riley is the strangest collection of impressive skills, fierce bravery, and now, a terrible, unpredictable fragility.

Riley is wrong. David cannot be the man she’s thinking of. Riley is confused. Riley’s confused about a lot of things.

As much as Bradley loves the place – and loves his dad – he’s itching to leave. He doesn’t want to be trapped here, catering to people with more money than him, with the freedom to go wherever they want.

Murder is far-fetched,’ Henry says. ‘We’re not dealing with normal here. Somebody around here is a killer. Somebody had good enough reasons to kill Dana and Candice. I’m just trying to figure out what they are.

You think you can run off with this young woman and it’s going to be fabulous. You’ll move into her apartment, maybe buy yourself a convertible. No more people carrier for you, ferrying the kids to soccer three nights a week!

We’ve never had mobile reception,’ Bradley says, flushing slightly at the rebuke. ‘Or wi-fi. It’s in our brochure. Many of our guests come up here to get away from all

It’s not just her beauty, which is hard to ignore. It’s her glamour. Her awareness of her own gorgeousness. She makes every other woman in the room feel second rate without even trying.

and the only one who’s gay – she has been stuck with the lion’s share of caring for their widowed and declining mother, because her rather selfish sisters are too busy with their own demanding families, who adore them.

Perhaps it was simply because of her rather intimidating beauty. Perhaps it was the way she ostentatiously waved that diamond ring around.

She’d killed her. She’d killed Dani, the one person who knew what she’d done all those years ago, and all she felt was relief. And to know that she killed her before she could marry a rich man and have everything she ever wanted was especially satisfying. They would think Dana fell down the stairs. Lauren crawled back into bed and lay awake all night thinking about what she’d done. She felt no remorse.

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Self-doubt is the writer's natural enemy. It stalks you constantly, no matter how successful you become. It's like an unwanted guest that comes to stay – and never leaves. Don't fear it. Embrace it. Let it worry at you because, without self-doubt, you have no inner critic – that part of your brain that knows when you've done a good job and when you haven't.

Don`t let bad events stick into your memory. Let them just go away as you unwelcome unwanted guest.

She yanked open the door, and her smile faded. The same Indian who had wanted to trade two horses for her was standing on the apple crate that served as a front step, his black hair dripping with water, his calico shirt so wet that his copper skin showed through in places. “No house!” he said. Lily was paralyzed for a moment. Here it was, she thought, the moment she’d been warned about. She was going to be scalped, or ravaged, or carried off to an Indian village. Maybe all three. She cast a desperate glance toward the shutgun, at the same time smiling broadly at the Indian. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but of course you can see that there is a house.” “Woman go away!” the Indian insisted. Lily’s heart was flailing in her throat like a bird trapped in a chimney, but she squared her shoulders and put out her chin. “I’m not going anywhere, you rude man,” she replied. “This is my land, and I have the papers to prove it!” The Indian spouted a flock of curses; Lily knew the words for what they were only because of their tone. She started to close the door. “If you’re going to be nasty,” she said, “you’ll just have to leave.” Undaunted, the red man pushed past Lily and strode right over to the stove. He got a cup from the shelf, filled it with coffee, and took a sip. He grimaced. “You got firewater?” he demanded. “Better with firewater.” Lily had never been so frightened or so angry in her life. With one hand to her bosom she edged toward the shotgun. “No firewater,” she said apologetically, “but there is a little sugar. There”—she pointed—“in the blue bowl.” When her unwanted guest turned around to look for the sugar, Lily lunged for the shotgun and cocked it. There was no shell in the chamber; she could only hope the Indian wouldn’t guess. “All right, you,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing the shotgun. “Get out of here right now. Just ride away and there won’t be any trouble.” The Indian stared at her for a moment, then had the audacity to burst out laughing. “The major’s right about you,” he said in perfectly clear English. “You are a hellcat.” Now it was Lily who stared, slowly lowering the shotgun. “So that’s why Caleb wasn’t alarmed that day when you and your friends rode up and made all that fuss about the land. He knows you.” “The name’s Charlie Fast Horse,” the man said, offering his hand. Lily’s blood was rushing to her head like lava flowing to the top of an erupting volcano. “Why, that polecat—that rounder—that son-of-a—” Charlie Fast Horse set his coffee aside and held out both hands in a plea for peace. “Calm down, now, Miss Lily,” he pleaded. “It was just a harmless little joke, after all.” “When I see that scoundrel again I’m going to peel off his hide!” Charlie was edging toward the door. “Lord knows I’d like to warm myself by your fire, Miss Lily, but I’ve got to be going. No, no—don’t plead with me to stay.” “Get out of here!” Lily screamed, and Charlie Fast Horse ran for his life. Obviously he didn’t know the shotgun wasn’t loaded. The

A small luxury hotel deep in the country, good food, no internet, pristine nature—it’s exactly what they both need.

No matter which flowers you cultivate in your garden, you're also welcoming weeds, but the real problem begins when you invite neglect which in turn will allow the unwanted guests to overtake your garden.

I learned that people will believe what they want to believe. And it’s truly frightening how easily they’ll believe it.

He’s been very successful as a defence attorney. As a human being – he’s not so sure. His partners at the firm have gently suggested that he take some time off, perhaps travel. But he has no one to travel with. He no longer has a wife.

Matthew is a warm, generous man, and she’s very much in love with him. Of course, the money doesn’t hurt. She thinks often of how lucky she is, of how awful it must be for most women – to marry and have children on a budget.

And she’s been self-medicating more than she’d care to admit these last few years, since she started going to the ugly, dangerous parts of the world.

He’s surprised that it’s the pretty, pale Gwen who has suggested it, rather than her hard-drinking friend who looks like she’s escaped from rehab.

But the word nag also makes her think of an old, broken-down mare – whiskered, swaybacked, and ugly. She fights tears and continues reading.

This can’t really be happening, not to her. She’s a very normal woman, with a very normal, even dull, life. Nothing exceptional ever happens to her. And deep down, she likes it that way.

It’s the way she views him. Overweight family man. A bit of a fool. Someone whose life is mostly over, who will never do anything interesting or exciting again. Just her presence near him, knowing that she believes this about him, makes him hate her.

So what? None of you can prove where you were all night. Why are you pointing the finger at me?’ He says, ‘I think we all need to take a step back here. We’re all getting a little paranoid.

I knew Bradley. He was always up to something – very enterprising, always had some scheme going. He’s involved with this somehow, I’m certain of it. He saw something, or knew something, and it got him killed. What did he know?

He thought it was Matthew who had killed everyone – born with a silver spoon in his mouth, maybe he’d killed his fiancée after an argument and then tried to cover it up with the natural arrogance of the born rich.

Dana didn’t look like she’d ever spent a single night in a miserable foster home, taking her frustration, rage, and fear out on others more vulnerable than herself.

And to know that she killed her before she could marry a rich man and have everything she ever wanted was especially satisfying. They would think Dana fell down the stairs. Lauren crawled back into bed and lay awake all night thinking about what she’d done. She felt no remorse.

Surely a man who maintains his reason while others around him are losing theirs – surely such a man could never kill his wife or anyone else?

think Lauren is probably a psychopath – and very good at pretending that she isn’t.’ He hesitates. ‘They’re different you know – not like you and me.

And Lauren, the murderer of the other three, can’t exactly say anything without implicating herself. She can’t say, But I didn’t kill Henry! She can’t say a thing.

Henry doesn’t know which is worse—the possibility that one of the people in their little group might be a murderer, or the possibility that there is someone they’re not aware of, moving about the hotel, who has already killed two people.

Henry looks at his wife with veiled loathing. He hates when she gets like this, all high and mighty. She’s such a martyr; she has no idea how hard that’s been to live with. How joyless must life be? She’s a miserable woman, constantly complaining. At least, it seems that way to him.

Should I also be glad of our unwanted guest?" "Unwanted?" Her eyes widened as her voice rose. "She's the goddess of love, fertility, beauty, and desire. Who could be more perfect for a wedding? Although..." She tapped her lush lips, considering. "She does have a bad side, but you can't blame her. Who wouldn't have issues if you'd been born from the sea foam created from Uranus's blood after his youngest son, Cronus, castrated him and threw his genitals into the sea?" The woman in pink choked on her food. The man with the goatee barked a laugh. Jay crossed his legs, although his family jewels weren't under threat. "She also had many adulterous affairs," Zara continued to her now rapt audience of singles. "Most notable with Ares. So maybe cutting off her head is a good thing." She lifted a forkful of biryani. "Did you know her name gave us the word aphrodisiac? Or that her Latin name, Venus, gave us the word venereal for venereal dis----" Jay cut her off with a raised hand. "Not something I really wanted to think about over a meal.

Yes?’ Phryne was beginning to dislike her unwanted guest so much that she was hoping he would choke on his whisky, even though it was not the good whisky.

Embrace Efficiency, Elevate Flavor: Smart Kitchen Tools for Culinary Adventurers The kitchen, once a realm of necessity, has morphed into a playground of possibility. Gone are the days of clunky appliances and tedious prep work. Enter the age of the smart kitchen tool, a revolution that whispers efficiency and shouts culinary liberation. For the modern gastronome, these tech-infused gadgets are not mere conveniences, but allies in crafting delectable adventures, freeing us to savor the journey as much as the destination. Imagine mornings when your smart coffee maker greets you with the perfect brew, prepped by the whispers of your phone while you dream. Your fridge, stocked like a digital oracle, suggests recipes based on its ever-evolving inventory, and even automatically orders groceries you've run low on. The multi-cooker, your multitasking superhero, whips up a gourmet chili while you conquer emails, and by dinnertime, your smart oven roasts a succulent chicken to golden perfection, its progress monitored remotely as you sip a glass of wine. But efficiency is merely the prologue. Smart kitchen tools unlock a pandora's box of culinary precision. Smart scales, meticulous to the milligram, banish recipe guesswork and ensure perfect balance in every dish. Food processors and blenders, armed with pre-programmed settings and self-cleaning prowess, transform tedious chopping into a mere blip on the culinary radar. And for the aspiring chef, a sous vide machine becomes a magic wand, coaxing impossible tenderness from the toughest cuts of meat. Yet, technology alone is not the recipe for culinary bliss. For those who yearn to paint with flavors, smart kitchen tools are the brushes on their canvas. A connected recipe platform becomes your digital sous chef, guiding you through each step with expert instructions and voice-activated ease. Spice racks, infused with artificial intelligence, suggest unexpected pairings, urging you to venture beyond the familiar. And for the ultimate expression of your inner master chef, a custom knife, forged from heirloom steel and lovingly honed, becomes an extension of your hand, slicing through ingredients with laser focus and lyrical grace. But amidst the symphony of gadgets and apps, let us not forget the heart of the kitchen: the human touch. Smart tools are not meant to replace our intuition but to augment it. They free us from the drudgery, allowing us to focus on the artistry, the love, the joy of creation. Imagine kneading dough, the rhythm of your hands mirroring the gentle whirring of a smart bread machine, then shaping a loaf that holds the warmth of both technology and your own spirit. Or picture yourself plating a dish, using smart portion scales for precision but garnishing with edible flowers chosen simply because they spark joy. This, my friends, is the symphony of the smart kitchen: a harmonious blend of tech and humanity, where efficiency becomes the brushstroke that illuminates the vibrant canvas of culinary passion. Of course, every adventure, even one fueled by smart tools, has its caveats. Interoperability between gadgets can be a tangled web, and data privacy concerns linger like unwanted guests. But these challenges are mere bumps on the culinary road, hurdles to be overcome by informed choices and responsible data management. After all, we wouldn't embark on a mountain trek without checking the weather, would we? So, embrace the smart kitchen, dear foodies! Let technology be your sous chef, your precision tool, your culinary muse. But never forget the magic of your own hands, the wisdom of your palate, and the joy of a meal shared with loved ones. For in the end, it's not about the gadgets, but the memories we create around them, the stories whispered over simmering pots, and the laughter echoing through a kitchen filled with the aroma of possibility.

It feels like they’re playing at something, some sort of parlor game, or murder mystery evening, with the lights out. Only no one’s having fun.

Not unattractive but getting on. Maybe pushing forty.

I hated living in the small and claustrophobic atmosphere of my house. It didn't feel like home anymore.I felt like an unwanted guest. I hated being waited on all the time. I hated that my parents were so patient with me. I did. That's the truth. They didn't do anything wrong. They were just trying to help me. But I hated them.

it was always a moon-shot in a microlight that we’d get there tonight. Stay positive. It’ll make as much difference as being negative, but does your soul more good.

She knows her marriage is in . . . disrepair. She wouldn't say it's in trouble, exactly. But it needs work. They have drifted apart, begun to take each other for granted. She's guilty of it too. How does a modern marriage survive all the forces that converge to tear it apart? Too much familiarity, the dreariness of domesticity, of paying bills, raising children. Of having full-time jobs and always too much to do.

Some people who don’t know what to do with their own time believe they can feel free to waste my precious time and energy trying to keep bombarding me with their visits.

You know, I equate work here to when you come home at night and you say to your wife, ‘Honey, is everything OK?’ and she says, ‘Yes, yes, everything is OK.’ But deep down you know in your heart something isn’t right. Well, that’s the feeling I have here. And what’s not right about working here is that I always feel like an unwanted guest.

You are an uninvited and unwanted house guest. So you'll drink it and you'll fucking love it, or your next beverage will be drain cleaner. Clear?

…this story happened in China to the extent that it was permitted to do so—which is to say very little. ¶ It is a ghetto story, a tale of double exile: exile from our native country (which for me was Japan, since I was convinced that I was Japanese), and exile from China which surrounded us but from which we were cut off, by virtue of our status as profoundly unwanted guests. ¶ Make no mistake, however, in the end, China has the same weight in these pages as the Black Death had in Bocaccio’s Decameron: though hardly mentioned, it RAGES throughout.

Nothing irks me more than the vocabulary of social responsibility. The very word ‘duty’ is unpleasant to me, like an unwanted guest. But the terms ‘civic duty’, ‘solidarity’, ‘humanitarianism’ and others of the same ilk disgust me like rubbish dumped out of a window right on top of me. I’m offended by the implicit assumption that these expressions pertain to me, that I should find them worthwhile and even meaningful.

Miss Manners’ attitude is that it is better to bar the door to unwanted guests than to back them out through it.

Alcohol comes into your life slowly. When you are young, he knocks at the door politely. Once you let him in and he feels comfortable, he wants to stay. He brings laughter and tears, you think he brings courage, but in reality, he brings chaos, unless you can stop him. He can become the unwanted guest in your house. He will take over your home, your family, and your life if you are not aware of his silent presence.