Valentines Best Quotes

Clary, Despite everything, I can't bear the thought of this ring being lost forever, any more then I can bear the thought of leaving you forever. And though I have no choice about the one, at least I can choose about the other. I'm leaving you our family ring because you have as much right to it as I do. I'm writing this watching the sun come up. You're asleep, dreams moving behind your restless eyelids. I wish I knew what you were thinking. I wish I could slip into your head and see the world the way you do. I wish I could see myself the way you do. But maybe I dont want to see that. Maybe it would make me feel even more than I already do that I'm perpetuating some kind of Great Lie on you, and I couldn't stand that. I belong to you. You could do anything you wanted with me and I would let you. You could ask anything of me and I'd break myself trying to make you happy. My heart tells me this is the best and greatest feeling I have ever had. But my mind knows the difference between wanting what you can't have and wanting what you shouldn't want. And I shouldn't want you. All night I've watched you sleeping, watched the moonlight come and go, casting its shadows across your face in black and white. I've never seen anything more beautiful. I think of the life we could have had if things were different, a life where this night is not a singular event, separate from everything else that's real, but every night. But things aren't different, and I can't look at you without feeling like I've tricked you into loving me. The truth no one is willing to say out loud is that no one has a shot against Valentine but me. I can get close to him like no one else can. I can pretend I want to join him and he'll believe me, up until that last moment where I end it all, one way or another. I have something of Sebastian's; I can track him to where my father's hiding, and that's what I'm going to do. So I lied to you last night. I said I just wanted one night with you. But I want every night with you. And that's why I have to slip out of your window now, like a coward. Because if I had to tell you this to your face, I couldn't make myself go. I don't blame you if you hate me, I wish you would. As long as I can still dream, I will dream of you. _Jace

Finch?" I ask him with my best fake smile. "Will you go to the stupid Sig Tau Valentine's Date party with me?" Finch hugged me to his side. "Yes, But only because you called it stupid.

You want a piece of all this fabulousness?" He gestured to himself. "Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn't cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine's Day gift." "Gross," said Clary. "Must you?" He grinned. "I must.

This song goes out to the girl who is my everything. I'm not an easy man to love, and music is about the best way I know how to express my feelings to her. This is called Faithfully.

I hope you feel better about yourself. I hope you feel alive. I hope that good things happen to you, and I hope that when the inevitable bad things happen you can handle them and learn a lesson and move on. I hope you know you're not alone and I hope you spend plenty of time with your family and/or friends and I hope you write more and get a seven-figure book deal. I hope next year no more celebrities die and I hope you get an iPhone if you want one. Or maybe a pony. I hope someone writes a song for you on Valentines Day that's a bit like Hey There Delilah, and I hope they have a good singing voice, or at least one better than mine. I hope that you accept yourself the way you are, and figure out that losing 20 pounds isn't going to magically make you love yourself. I hope you read a lot. I hope you don't have to almost die to figure out how valuable life is. I hope you find the perfect nail polish/digital camera/home/life partner. I hope you stop being jealous of others. I hope you feel good, about yourself and the people around you and the world. I hope you eat heaps of salt and vinegar chips because they're the best kind. I hope you accomplish all your hopes & dreams & aspirations and are blissfully happy & get married to Edward Cullen/George Clooney/Megan Fox/Angelina Jolie (delete whichever are inappropriate) & ride a pretty white horse into the sunset & I hope it's all sweet and wonderful because you deserve it because you did well this year in the face of sparkly vampires/great evil/low self-esteem.

The best thing Valentine ever did for me was send me to you.

I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?” He gestured at himself. “Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.” “Gross,” said Clary. “Must you?” He grinned. “I must.

I feel like men are more romantic than women. When we get married we marry, like, one girl, 'cause we're resistant the whole way until we meet one girl and we think I'd be an idiot if I didn't marry this girl she's so great. But it seems like girls get to a place where they just kinda pick the best option... 'Oh he's got a good job.' I mean they spend their whole life looking for Prince Charming and then they marry the guy who's got a good job and is gonna stick around.

Here lies a she sun, and a he moon there; She gives the best light to his sphere; Or each is both, and all, and so They unto one another nothing owe; And yet they do, but are So just and rich in that coin which they pay, That neither would, nor needs forbear, nor stay; Neither desires to be spared nor to spare. They quickly pay their debt, and then Take no acquittances, but pay again; They pay, they give, they lend, and so let fall No such occasion to be liberal. More truth, more courage in these two do shine, Than all thy turtles have and sparrows, Valentine.

So what are we, then?” I asked. “When someone asks who I am, what am I supposed to say?” “You say, ‘Hi, I’m Liv, Dean’s very hot and sexy lady.’” I couldn’t smother a giggle. “Seriously.” “Paramour?” “No.” “Cuddle bunny?” “God, no.” “Valentine? Sweetheart? Girlfriend?” “Girlfriend.” I rested my forehead against his chest. “I guess.” “Not the best word, but it’ll do in public.” He kissed my temple. “In private, you can just be my beauty.

I like the flaws best," Sam said. "They make her real.

But just promise me something, okay? I know how girls get. I know how they hate their boyfriends having a best friend who’s a girl. Just promise me you won’t cut me out of your life totally. That we can still hang out sometimes.' 'Sometimes?' Simon shook his head. 'Clary, you’re crazy.' Her heart sank. 'You mean...' 'I mean that I would never date a girl who insisted that I cut you out of my life. It’s non-negotiable. You want a piece of all this fabulousness?' He gestured at himself. 'Well, my best friend comes along with it. I wouldn’t cut you out of my life, Clary, any more than I would cut off my right hand and give it to someone as a Valentine’s Day gift.' 'Gross,' said Clary. 'Must you?' He grinned. 'I must.

It was best not to ask too many questions. Especially since you'd get the answers. And the answers were usually followed by a tightening of Kate's forehead and a tick in her left eye. The tightening could cause wrinkles, the tick a tumor, and Kate didn't need to borrow that kind of trouble.

The best narrative is one of infinite love. A spiritual affair--one not of the material world. Intermingled, with no beginning nor end--it will always stand the test of time.

He wants to use my body, to take advantage, and I want to let him. I want to be someone’s one night stand, some blithe slut... I want to allow myself to be like all those women I pretended to look down upon all my life, but whom I secretly envied for having the guts to have their legs spread by strange men in smoky bars.

The best thing about Valentine’s Day is that if you don’t have a lover, you badly remember to get one!

At times like these, size really does matter," I point out, at I extend my ginormous umbrella over her in a way that stops any rain droplets from falling on her. My Best Valentine's Day Ever, A Short Story by Zack Love

You can’t keep looking at me like that. I want you. If you give in to me, there’s no going back, and you’re not ready for someone like me. I don’t have the best self-control, and I’m a very selfish man.

Summoning my inner Kojak, I tried to convince myself that she would have sat next to me even had there been somewhere else on the bus to sit. Unfortunately, I didn't do a very good job of self-persuasion. Good thing I wasn't in court suing myself, because I would have lost. From: "My Best Valentine's Day.Ever: A Short Story

Foolishness is the human condition, and exactly what God handles best.

Did you ever think about boys?' I say, staring up into the dark. 'There wasn't room,' she whispers, and her voice is unbelievably sad. 'At first, after Connor, I was just waiting. I was going to get a new boyfriend soon- as soon as I was prettier or better, more perfect. But after a while there was no room for anything else. If I though about kissing or sex, I just started feeling ugly, too awful for anything good.

So I'm delighted to open up a bit about these particular details, in honor of Valentine's Day (when every balding, chubby, and short actuary wants people - especially the babes out there - to know about his studly past" From: "My Best Valentine's Day.Ever: a Short Story

I'm thinking that my best friend killed herself so slow it was almost like a magic trick, and other people let her do it.

All of us, consciously or unconsciously, set out to have the best possible love life. Valentine's Day simply shines a light on the degree to which that didn't - or hasn't yet - materialized.

If I could do all of that on February 14th, it would be a personal best for me. Something to share with my crew for the glory and the laughs, or to cheer up the next buddy of mine to get dumped or cheated on. From "My Worst Valentine's Day.Ever: A Short Story

The concept of the best possible version of me is not merely an intention, it is an action. It is the daily practice of taking full responsibility for my thoughts, emotions, behaviours, and actions.

I get out my hairbrush and wish for her—the real Lillian, and not the worst, most selfish parts of her. I wish for a warm, true best friend, one who didn’t die.

Caring for the one who cares about you is the only best thing you can do to bolster the relationship.

Spanish is the language of the early morning in Manhattan. Frightened people become angry people - as history teaches us again and again. The best of traveling companions: relentlessly curious, tireless and totally without fear.

best Hitchcock films not made by Hitchcock. Here we go: Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment.

It was Stevenson, I think, who most notably that there are some places that simply demand a story should be told of them. ... After all, perhaps Stevenson had only half of the matter. It is true there are places which stir the mind to think that a story must be told about them. But there are also, I believe, places which have their story stored already, and want to tell this to us, through whatever powers they can; through our legends and lore, through our rumors, and our rites. By its whispering fields and its murmuring waters, by the wailing of its winds and the groaning of its stones, by what it chants in darkness and the songs it sings in light, each place must reach out to us, to tell us, tell us what it holds. ("The Axholme Toll")

Double Indemnity, Gaslight, Saboteur, The Big Clock . . . We lived in monochrome those nights. For me, it was a chance to revisit old friends; for Ed, it was an opportunity to make new ones. And we’d make lists. The Thin Man franchise, ranked from best (the original) to worst (Song of the Thin Man). Top movies from the bumper crop of 1944. Joseph Cotten’s finest moments. I can do lists on my own, of course. For instance: best Hitchcock films not made by Hitchcock. Here we go: Le Boucher, the early Claude Chabrol that Hitch, according to lore, wished he’d directed. Dark Passage, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall—a San Francisco valentine, all velveteen with fog, and antecedent to any movie in which a character goes under the knife to disguise himself. Niagara, starring Marilyn Monroe; Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn; Sudden Fear!, starring Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. Wait Until Dark: Hepburn again, a blind woman stranded in her basement apartment. I’d go berserk in a basement apartment.

Alai saw the tears but had the grace not to say so. "They're fartheads, Ender, they won't even let you take anything you own." Ender grinned and didn't cry after all. "Think I should strip and go naked?" Alai laughed, too. On impulse Ender hugged him, tight, almost as if he were Valentine. He even thought of Valentine then and wanted to go home. "I don't want to go," he said. Alai hugged him back. "I understand them, Ender. You are the best of us. Maybe they in a hurry to teach you everything." "They don't want to teach me everything," Ender said. "I wanted to learn what it was like to have a friend." Alai nodded soberly. "Always my friend, always the best of my friends," he said. Then he grinned. "Go slice up the buggers." "Yeah," Ender smiled back. Alai suddenly kissed Ender on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "Salaam.

I remembered Daemon's feather soft kisses on my cheek, and I remembered the clouds parting and the sun shining on a cold February day in Ireland. And as my baby girl was laid on my chest and my husband held my hand, I saw my best friend Kat walk into the sun kissed part in the clouds, hand in hand, along with the last regrets of my past.

The best time of a relationship is when your eyes speak when silence says everything Expressions are the beak

He smells of secondhand cigar smoke and a brew of perfumes from his bachelor party, but it would be enticing foreplay to shower him fresh before sullying him anew.

I don't know how it is in mathematics, but in life the best proof for something lies in its opposite.

Fury is the best fuel of all. It is so clean, so marvelous, so ruthless. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, rage against evil is better than sorrow. Sorrow can’t balance the scales.

Good and safe" are all I have been during my romantic career, keeping myself virtuous outside of relationships never putting out before I had a commitment and a half dozen dates under my belt.

I've been keeping an eye out for the Charlie Brown Valentine's Day special. I know it will be on soon, and I never miss a Charlie Brown special. The best one is the Halloween show about the Great Pumpkin - which I've only missed one year in my life, due to the local ABC station having technical difficulties - but all the Peanuts shows make me feel like I'm one step closer to Halloween.

Who had the bigger boat, wore the better outfit, got the best table seemed all that mattered. There were decade-old feuds over casual cracks long forgotten by everyone but the principals. They circled each other still—waiting to identify a weakness—looking for somewhere and some way to strike. People jockeyed for position, cut each other’s throats over the most petty, nonsensical shit imaginable. This from the people who, it gradually began to dawn on me, actually ran the world.

Drinks, like most things, are always the best before time melts away the taste, leaving things bland and watered down. Everything is better when it’s fresh which is why I never miss an opportunity when I see something I like. I’m a firm believer in jumping on things right away.

No, I don’t believe in reincarnation. Or an afterlife, to be perfectly frank. I think this is as good as it gets, which is why it’s so important to make the best of this life. To confront our problems, to work through them, so ultimately we can be free of them and enjoy the time we have.

FRIEND: Any advice for being single on Valentines day? ☹ ME: Whenever you see a couple laughing or kissing, start crying and scream at the guy saying…. ME: “HOW COULD YOU??!! YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING AND NOW THIS?!?!?! IT’S OVER” Then slap him and walk away, that would be interesting. FRIEND: This is why we are best friends

I've been keeping an eye out for the Charlie Brown Valentine's Day special. I know it will be on soon, and I never miss a Charlie Brown special. The best one is the Halloween show about the Great Pumpkin - which I've only missed one year in my life, due to the local ABC station having technical difficulties - but all the Peanuts shows make me feel like I'm one step closer to Halloween. The thing I like about the shows isn't the characters - it's the background. The colors are so amazing it almost takes my breath away. Every time I watch The Great Pumpkin I feel like I'm going to have a seizure during the scenes where Snoopy is in a dogfight. Just look at the background in those scenes. It really is too much to take. I can barely keep from holding my head in my hands and involuntarily groaning like I have a mouthful of the best chocolate cake ever made. I look at them and can literally smell the crisp autumn air - even in this cell. No horror movie in the world makes me feel the magick of Halloween as strongly as The Great Pumpkin.

Why do you say things like that?” “Like what?” She’s back down crouching in front of me. “You say his family like you’re not a part of that.” I can see the heartbreak in her eyes as she continues. “Like you’re not my best friend just as much as he is. As if you’re not Raine’s father just as much as he is. Like being Jesse’s husband isn’t enough to make you part of this family.

And Doris had offered to pick up Valentine and Valentine had said, “My friend Pixie is on the way too, if you . . .” And included her, which was what a best friend should do, but then ignored her and refused to use her real name, her confirmation name, the name by which she would—maybe embarrassing to say but she thought it anyway—the name by which she would rise in the world.

Nothing in my life had prepared me for this.Not one single thing.I feel like a lad rat stuck in some horrible experiment meant to measure how I adapt to brutal forms of social segregation and weirdness.And the sad news is,I'm producing way below average results. I stand to the side of the lunchroom or cafeteria,or whatever they call it.The vegetarian lunch Paloma packed with great love and care tightly clutched in my fist,though I've no clue as to where I'm supposed to go eat it. Having already committed the most heinous crime of all by sitting at the wrong table, I'm not sure I'm up for trying again.I'm still shaken by the way those girls acted-so self-righteous and territorial,so burdened by my presence at the end of their bench. It's the seniors' table, I was told. I have no right to sit there. Ever. And that includes holidays and weekends. "Duly noted," I replied, grabbing my lunch and standing before them. "I'll do my best to steer clear of it on Christmas.Easter as well.Though Valentine's Day is a wild card I just can't commit to." And though it felt good at the time,I've no doubt it was a reckless act that only made things worse.

Is there something fundamentally, ethically … wrong about a meal so Pantagruelian in its ambition and proportions? Other than the “people are starving in Africa” argument, and the “250,000 people lost their jobs in America last month alone” argument, there’s the fact that they must necessarily trim off about 80 percent of the fish or bird to serve that perfectly oblong little nugget of deliciousness on the plate. There’s the unavoidable observation that it’s simply more food and alcohol than the human body is designed to handle. That you will, after even the best of times, the most wonderful of such meals, need to flop onto your bed, stomach roiling with reflux, the beginnings of a truly awful hangover forming in your skull, farting and belching like a medieval friar.

I didn’t know about all that, only that Texas had ZZ Top. The show, my first rock concert, took place in a huge outdoor field called Kings Village and featured five bands. It had rained the day before, and I ended up blasted drunk, falling around in the mud, and throwing up next to a row of reeking portable toilets before ZZ Top even made it to the stage. I thought it was one of the best days ever.

Peter had even named it once, when he said that he could always see what other people hated most about themselves, and bully them, while Val could always see what other people liked best about themselves and flatter them. Valentine could persuade other people to her point of view - she could convince them that they wanted what she wanted them to want. Peter, on the other hand, could only make them fear what he wanted them to fear.

My dad could go to work, he could get raises, he could be thanked for his contributions, he got a pay-check for his labor, but that didn't happen for moms. The best they could hope for would be a crayon valentine or a squashed, limp dandelion flower offered up from the damp hand of their wide-eyed and innocent child. Which wasn't nothing. In all my days I'd never considered anything to be more important than home. In a chaotic world, it was sanctuary; it was where love grew.

While women suffer from our relative lack of power in the world and often resent it, certain dimensions of this powerlessness may seem abstract and remote. We know, for example, that we rarely get to make the laws or direct the major financial institutions. But Wall Street and the U.S. Congress seem very far away. The power a woman feels in herself to heal and sustain, on the other hand--"the power of love"--is, once again, concrete and very near: It is like a field of force emanating from within herself, a great river flowing outward from her very person. Thus, a complex and contradictory female subjectivity is constructed within the relations of caregiving. Here, as elsewhere, women are affirmed in some way and diminished in others, this within the unity of a single act. The woman who provides a man with largely unreciprocated emotional sustenance accords him status and pays him homage; she agrees to the unspoken proposition that his doings are important enough to deserve substantially more attention than her own. But even as the man's supremacy in the relationship is tacitly assumed by both parties to the transaction, the man reveals himself to his caregiver as vulnerable and insecure. And while she may well be ethically and epistemically disempowered by the care she gives, this caregiving affords her a feeling that a mighty power resides within her being. The situation of those men in the hierarchy of gender who avail themselves of female tenderness is not thereby altered: Their superordinate position is neither abandoned, nor their male privilege relinquished. The vulnerability these men exhibit is not a prelude in any way to their loss of male privilege or to an elevation in the status of women. Similarly, the feeling that one's love is a mighty force for the good in the life of the beloved doesn't make it so, as Milena Jesenka found, to her sorrow. The feeling of out-flowing personal power so characteristic of the caregiving woman is quite different from the having of any actual power in the world. There is no doubt that this sense of personal efficacy provides some compensation for the extra-domestic power women are typically denied: If one cannot be a king oneself, being a confidante of kings may be the next best thing. But just as we make a bad bargain in accepting an occasional Valentine in lieu of the sustained attention we deserve, we are ill advised to settle for a mere feeling of power, however heady and intoxicating it may be, in place of the effective power we have every right to exercise in the world.

We’re trying to figure women out,” he explained. “What, in your opinion, would be the best Valentine’s Day present ever?” “We’re easy to please, any small detail will do,” Tate said. The collective male snort was loud. “It’s true,” Christy added coming out in her defence. “Yeah right. Any small detail will do, my ass,” Max began. “Let’s put it this way: what do my poor bros have to do for Valentine’s Day so that their Steak and BJ Day in a month will be memorable and won’t degrade into a handy and a hamburger?

What, then, is active imagination? In practice it’s exactly what Jung did in his visions and conversations with inner figures such as Philemon, Ka, and Salome mentioned above: entering a fantasy and talking with one’s “self”—at least a part of oneself “normally” left unconscious—asking questions and receiving knowledge that one—“you”—did not know. In many ways, it’s something we engage in often already, but in a shallow, fleeting way, when we “ask ourselves” what we think or will do about a situation. More abstractly, it’s a method of consciously entering into a dialogue with the unconscious, which triggers the transcendent function, a vital shift in consciousness, brought about through the union of the conscious and unconscious minds. Unexpected insights and self-renewal are some of the results of the transcendent function. It achieves what I call that elusive “Goldilocks” condition, the “just right” of having the conscious and unconscious minds work together, rather than being at odds. In the process it produces a third state more vivid and “real” than either; in it we recognize what consciousness should be like and see our “normal” state as at best a muddling through. We’ve already seen how the transcendent function helped Jung when faced with the dilemma of having to choose between science and the humanities. Then it operated through a dream, producing the mandala-like symbol of the giant radiolarian. In the simplest sense, the transcendent function is our built-in means of growth, psychological and spiritual—it’s “transcendent” only in the sense that it “transcends” the frequent deadlock between the conscious and unconscious minds—and is a development of what Jung earlier recognized as the “prospective tendencies in man.

To lovers out there … People are avoiding love and avoiding relationships, because they think they will be hurt , but they are hurt by life as we speak. Life is hard, Life has challenges ,Life has problems or obstacles. You don’t have to go through everything alone. You can’t do everything alone. It will break you. It always good to have someone to help you. Someone to talk to. Someone who sees things differently. Always best to get second opinion. Someone to lighten the burden, to take the stress away. The solution of most of our problems in life. Is to get the right partner.

Soon thereafter, a maid brought Poppy a tray of neat boxes tied with ribbons. Opening them, Poppy discovered that one was filled with toffee, another with boiled sweets, and another with Turkish delight. Best of all, one box was filled with a new confection called "eating-chocolates" that had been all the rage at the London Exhibition. "Where did these come from?" Poppy asked Harry when he returned to her room after a brief visit to the front offices. "From the sweet shop." "No, these," Poppy showed him the eating-chocolates. "No one can get them. The makers, Fellows and Son, have closed their shop while they moved to a new location. The ladies at the philanthropic luncheon were talking about it." "I sent Valentine to the Fellows residence to ask them to make a special batch for you." Harry smiled as he saw the paper twists scattered across the counterpane. "I see you've sampled them." "Have one," Poppy said generously. Harry shook his head. "I don't like sweets." But he bent down obligingly as she gestured for him to come closer. She reached out to him, her fingers catching the knot of his necktie. Harry's smile faded as Poppy exerted gentle tension, drawing him down. He was suspended over her, an impending weight of muscle and masculine drive. As her sugared breath blew against his lips, she sensed the deep tremor within him. And she was aware of a new equilibrium between them, a balance of will and curiosity. Harry held still, letting her do as she wished. She tugged him closer until her mouth brushed his. The contact was brief but vital, striking a glow of heat. Poppy released him carefully, and Harry drew back. "You won't kiss me for diamonds," he said, his voice slightly raspy, "but you will for chocolates?" Poppy nodded. As Harry turned his face away, she saw his cheek tauten with a smile. "I'll put in a daily order, then.

Most fish—like skate wing—naturally taper off and narrow at the outer edges and toward the tail. Which is fine for moving through the water. Not so good for even cooking. A chef or cook looks at that graceful decline and sees a piece of protein that will cook unevenly: will, when the center—or fattest part—is perfect, be overcooked at the edges. They see a piece of fish that does not look like you could charge $39 for it. Customers should understand that what they are paying for, in any restaurant situation, is not just what’s on the plate—but everything that’s not on the plate: all the bone, skin, fat, and waste product which the chef did pay for, by the pound. When Eric Ripert, for instance, pays $15 or $20 a pound for a piece of fish, you can be sure, the guy who sells it to him does not care that 70 percent of that fish is going in the garbage. It’s still the same price. Same principle applies to meat, poultry—or any other protein. The price of the protein on the market may be $10 per pound, but by the time you’re putting the cleaned, prepped piece of meat or fish on the plate, it can actually cost you $35 a pound. And that’s before paying the guy who cuts it for you. That disparity in purchase price and actual price becomes even more extreme at the top end of the dining spectrum. The famous French mantra of “Use Everything,” by which most chefs live, is not the operative phrase of a three-starred Michelin restaurant. Here, it’s “Use Only the Very Best.

As [William] Valentiner noted in his uncompleted memoirs Remembering Artists, [Diego] Rivera’s [Detroit Industry] murals rooted the Detroit Institute of Arts to the many-faceted jewel of its central court because of the harmonious, fertile relationship between "the industrialist" and "the artist." Rivera remarked to Valentiner how especially struck he was that "Edsel had none of the characteristics of the exploiting capitalist, that he had the simplicity and directness of a workman in his won factories and was like one of the best of them." Their relationship was like the murals themselves, a superb expression of pluralism, toleration, and empathy for the other, and of a cosmopolitan sense of all the Americas, not just of the United States of America or Detroit alone.

Anyone who does creative work is familiar with this problem, and in many ways active imagination is similar to writing, painting, and so on; all creative work entails a give-and-take between inspiration (unconscious) and execution (conscious). (As I am writing this, for example, I have to allow my intuitions expression before I can start editing them.) The difference for Jung is that the aesthetic quality of the end product isn’t important; understanding it is. Nevertheless, one of the best introductions to active imagination are the letters On the Aesthetic Education of Man by the poet Friedrich Schiller, a contemporary of Goethe, which discuss in detail the dialogue between the creative (unconscious) and critical (conscious) drives and their union in art, both creating and experiencing it.

The whole suggestion is predicated on a damnable fucking lie—the BIG lie, actually—one which Richman himself happily helped create and which he works hard, on a daily basis, to keep alive. See … it makes for a better article when you associate the food with a personality. Richman, along with the best and worst of his peers, built up these names, helped make them celebrities by promoting the illusion that they cook—that if you walk into one of dozens of Jean-Georges’s restaurants, he’s somehow back there on the line, personally sweating over your halibut, measuring freshly chopped herbs between thumb and forefinger. Every time someone writes “Mr. Batali is fond of strong, assertive flavors” (however true that might be) or “Jean Georges has a way with herbs” and implies or suggests that it was Mr. Batali or Mr. Vongerichten who actually cooked the dish, it ignores the reality, if not the whole history, of command and control and the creative process in restaurant kitchens. While helpful to chefs, on the one hand, in that the Big Lie builds interest and helps create an identifiable brand, it also denies the truth of what is great about them: that there are plenty of great cooks in this world—but not that many great chefs. The word “chef” means “chief.” A chef is simply a cook who leads other cooks. That quality—leadership, the ability to successfully command, inspire, and delegate work to others—is the very essence of what chefs are about. As Richman knows. But it makes better reading (and easier writing) to first propagate a lie—then, later, react with entirely feigned outrage at the reality.

Before she could don her wide-brimmed hat and leave the sanctuary of their willow bower, Val did wrap his arms around her again, this time positioning his body behind hers. “I will come back after dark,” he whispered, “if you’ll allow it.” She went still, and he knew a moment’s panic. “Talk to me, Ellen.” He kissed her cheek. “Just be honest.” “My… tonight might not be a good time.” “Sweetheart…” Val let her go and turned her to face him. “I will not force myself on you, I just want… I want to see you.” To make sure she was all right, whatever that meant in the odd, new context in which he was trying to define the term. She must have sensed his bewilderment, because she turned away and spoke to him from over her shoulder. “My courses are due.” Val cocked his head. “So you become unfit company? Do you have the megrims and cramps and melancholy? Eat chocolates by the tin? Take to your bed?” “Sometimes.” Ellen peered at him, her expression guarded. “Then I will comfort you. I’ll cuddle you up and bring you tisanes and rub your back and your feet. I’ll read to you and beat you at cards and bring you hot-water bottles for your aches.” Ellen’s brows knit. “I truly am poor company at such times and usually before such times, as well.” “You are poor company for people who expect you to play on without missing a note, perhaps,” Val replied, holding her gaze. “May we sit a moment?” She nodded but had gone too shy even to meet his eyes. “My Uncle Tony’s wife,” Val said, wrapping an arm around Ellen’s shoulders, “is blunt to a fault. She told me relations with Tony were the best way to ease her cramps.” “Valentine!

Whoreson dog,” “whoreson peasant,” “slave,” “you cur,” “rogue,” “rascal,” “dunghill,” “crack-hemp,” and “notorious villain” — these are a few of the epithets with which the plays abound. The Duke of York accosts Thomas Horner, an armorer, as “base dunghill villain and mechanical” (Henry VI., Part 2, Act 2, Sc. 3); Gloucester speaks of the warders of the Tower as “dunghill grooms” (Ib., Part 1, Act 1, Sc. 3), and Hamlet of the grave-digger as an “ass” and “rude knave.” Valentine tells his servant, Speed, that he is born to be hanged (Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 1, Sc. 1), and Gonzalo pays a like compliment to the boatswain who is doing his best to save the ship in the “Tempest” (Act 1, Sc. 1). This boatswain is not sufficiently impressed by the grandeur of his noble cargo, and for his pains is called a “brawling, blasphemous, uncharitable dog,” a “cur,” a “whoreson, insolent noise-maker,” and a “wide-chapped rascal.

Once I closed my eyes, it was like magic. I got to live world’s best life. Smiled at his smile. Wrote to him twenty times, and then knocked on wood when he replied. I didn’t wanna jinx it, I kept my fingers crossed. But secretly, I dreamt about our date at the coffee shop. I wished for him to find me in traffic on his way, Or maybe, on a stormy night of Valentine’s Day. This was the city of sweet sorrow, But when he walked in that jacket he borrowed, I dreamt of getting a new apartment near subway. Two blocks away from his favorite café. Wrapped in his arms, warm and safe, We’d sit across the fireplace, “I love you,” he’d say. I believe in miracles. I crossed my heart. I prayed, I was the one. It’s just so sweet when you’re blind in love. I imagined dancing with him in rain. Not rainbow, unicorns, fairytales, I dreamt about his blue jacket. I was pretending he didn’t see me cry, He already knew I was crazy for his smile. Then he broke my heart one more time, But I knocked on wood, because he replied. I believe in miracles. I crossed my heart. I knew I wasn’t not the one. But it’s still so sweet when you’re blind in love.

From my vantage point in a busy working kitchen, when I’d see Emeril and Bobby on the tube, they looked like creatures from another planet—bizarrely, artificially cheerful creatures in a candy-colored galaxy in no way resembling my own. They were as far from my experience or understanding as Barney the purple dinosaur—or the saxophone stylings of Kenny G. The fact that people—strangers—seemed to love them, Emeril’s studio audience, for instance, clapping and hooting with every mention of gah-lic, only made me more hostile. In my life, in my world, I took it as an article of faith that chefs were unlovable. That’s why we were chefs. We were basically … bad people—which is why we lived the way we did, this half-life of work followed by hanging out with others who lived the same life, followed by whatever slivers of emulated normal life we had left to us. Nobody loved us. Not really. How could they, after all? As chefs, we were proudly dysfunctional. We were misfits. We knew we were misfits, we sensed the empty parts of our souls, the missing parts of our personalities, and this was what had brought us to our profession, had made us what we were. I despised their very likability, as it was a denial of the quality I’d always seen as our best and most distinguishing: our otherness. Rachael

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, written by Christie in 1926, is perhaps the most quintessential golden-age murder mystery ever written in absolutely every way—except one. But it is this one spectacular difference that sets it apart from other books of the era and that catapulted Agatha Christie into the upper echelons of the genre. In fact, as the ending was so unorthodox and apparently broke the rules of the Detection Club’s oath—tongue-in-cheek though they were—there was a movement to expel Christie from the club entirely! Only a vote by fellow female crime writer Dorothy L. Sayers saved her. If this doesn’t make you intrigued to read the book, you don’t need to just take my word for it—in 2013, nearly ninety years after its publication, the British Crime Writers’ Association voted it the best crime novel ever, calling it “the finest example of the genre ever penned.” It features typical golden-era elements within the text, like a floor plan of all the rooms of the house and heavily buried clues, and I’m of the opinion that the only way to do this particular book justice is to read it. Don’t watch an adaptation, don’t listen to an audiobook, and don’t use an e-reading device and deny yourself the pleasure of the rustling pages peppered with nuance. Buy a copy of the book and read it. It’s the only way you can read between the lines of this clever tale.

GM: What are the foods you recommend that have sufficient calorie density that make you feel full? What are the best foods to make the staples of your diet? PP: Whole grains, legumes, and starchy vegetables. More broadly, I tell people to make the staples of their diet the four food groups, which are whole grains, legumes, fruits, and vegetables. We have our own little pyramid that we use here at The Wellness Forum. Beans, rice, corn, and potatoes are at the bottom of the pyramid. Then steamed and raw vegetables and big salads come next, with fruits after that. Whole grains, or premade whole grain foods like cereals and breads, are all right to eat. Everything else is either optional or a condiment. As for high-fat plant foods—nuts, seeds, avocados, olives—use them occasionally or when they’re part of a recipe, but don’t overdo it; these foods are calorie-dense and full of fat. No oils, get rid of the dairy, and then, very importantly, you need to differentiate between food and a treat. I don’t think you can get through to people by telling a twenty-five-year-old that she can’t have another cookie or a piece of cake for the rest of her life. Where you can gain some traction is to say, “Look, birthday parties are a good time for cake, Christmas morning is a good time for cookies, and Valentine’s Day is a good time for chocolate, but you don’t need to be eating that stuff all the time.” People end up in my office because they’re treating themselves several times a day.

Imagine… There’s a roast goose in Hong Kong—Mongkok, near the outskirts of the city, the place looks like any other. But you sink your teeth into the quickly hacked pieces and you know you’re experiencing something special. Layers of what can only be described as enlightenment, one extraordinary sensation after another as the popils of the tongue encounter first the crispy, caramelized skin, then air, then fat—the juicy, sweet yet savory, ever so slightly gamey meat, the fat just barely managing to retain its corporeal form before quickly dematerializing into liquid. These are the kinds of tastes and textures that come with year after year of the same man making the same dish. That man—the one there, behind the counter with the cleaver—hacking roast pork, and roast duck, and roast goose as he’s done since he was a child and as his father did before him. He’s got it right now for sure—and, sitting there at one of the white Formica tables, Cantonese pop songs oozing and occasionally distorting from an undersized speaker, you know it, too. In fact, you’re pretty goddamn sure this is the best roast goose on the whole planet. Nobody is eating goose better than you at this precise moment. Maybe in the whole history of the world there has never been a better goose. Ordinarily, you don’t know if you’d go that far describing a dish—but now, with that ethereal goose fat dribbling down your chin, the sound of perfectly crackling skin playing inside your head to an audience of one, hyperbole seems entirely appropriate.

That’s not the only present I brought you. It’s not even the best one.” He peels away from me and pulls a little velvet jewelry box out of his backpack. I gasp. Pleased, he says, “Hurry up and open it already.” “Is it a pin?” “It’s better.” My hands fly to my mouth. It’s my necklace, the heart locket from his mom’s antique store, the very same necklace I admired for so many months. At Christmas when Daddy said the necklace had been sold, I thought it was gone from my life forever. “I can’t believe it,” I whisper, touching the diamond chip in the middle. “Here, let me put it on for you.” I lift my hair up, and Peter comes around and fastens the necklace around my neck. “Can I even accept this?” I wonder aloud. “It was really expensive, Peter! Like, really really expensive.” He laughs. “I know how much it cost. Don’t worry, my mom cut me a deal. I had to sign over a bunch of weekends to driving the van around picking up furniture for the store, but you know, no biggie. It’s whatever, as long as you’re into it.” I touch the necklace. “I am! I’m so, so into it." Surreptitiously I look around the cafeteria. It’s a petty thought, a small thought, but I wish Genevieve were here to see this. “Wait, where’s my valentine?” Peter asks me. “It’s in your locker,” I say. Now I’m sort of wising I didn’t listen to Kitty and let myself go a little overboard this first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend. With Peter. Oh, well. At least there are the cherry turnovers still warm in my backpack. I’ll give them all to him. Sorry, Chris and Lucas and Gabe.

Haydée became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven, exclaimed in a voice stifled with tears, “Then you leave me, my lord?” “Haydée, Haydée, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and be happy.” “It is well,” said Haydée; “your order shall be executed, my lord; I will forget even your name, and be happy.” And she stepped back to retire. “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of Morrel on her shoulder, “do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see how she suffers?” Haydée answered with a heartrending expression, “Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am his slave; he has the right to notice nothing.” The count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost recesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he could not bear their brilliancy. “Oh, heavens,” exclaimed Monte Cristo, “can my suspicions be correct? Haydée, would it please you not to leave me?” “I am young,” gently replied Haydée; “I love the life you have made so sweet to me, and I should be sorry to die.” “You mean, then, that if I leave you, Haydée——” “I should die; yes, my lord.” “Do you then love me?” “Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love Maximilian.” The count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and Haydée, uttering a cry, sprang into them. “Oh, yes,” she cried, “I do love you! I love you as one loves a father, brother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the noblest of created beings!

Do we need to talk about my kissing you a year ago? I’ve behaved myself for two weeks, Ellen, and hope by action I have reassured you where words would not.” Silence or the summer evening equivalent of it, with crickets chirping, the occasional squeal of a passing bat, and the breeze riffling through the woods nearby. “Ellen?” Val withdrew his hand, which Ellen had been holding for some minutes, and slid his arm around her waist, urging her closer. “A woman gone silent unnerves a man. Talk to me, sweetheart. I would not offend you, but neither will I fare well continuing the pretense we are strangers.” He felt the tension in her, the stiffness against his side, and regretted it. In the past two weeks, he’d all but convinced himself he was recalling a dream of her not a real kiss, and then he’d catch her smiling at Day and Phil or joking with Darius, and the clench in his vitals would assure him that kiss had been very, very real. At least for him. For him, that kiss had been a work of sheer art. “My husband seldom used my name. I was my dear, or my lady, or occasionally, dear wife. I was not Ellen, and I was most assuredly not his sweetheart. And to you I am the next thing to a stranger.” Val’s left hand, the one she’d just held for such long, lovely moments between her own, drifted up to trace slow patterns on her back. “We’re strangers who kissed. Passionately, if memory serves.” “But on only one occasion and that nearly a year ago.” “Should I have written? I did not think to see you again, nor you me, I’m guessing.” Now he wished he’d written, though it would hardly have been proper, even to a widow. That hand Valentine considered so damaged continued its easy caresses on Ellen’s back, intent on stealing the starch from her spine and the resolve from her best intentions. And she must have liked his touch, because the longer he stroked his hand over her back, the more she relaxed and leaned against him. “I did not think to see you again,” Ellen admitted. “It would have been much easier had you kept to your place in my memory and imagination. But here you are.” “Here we are.” Haunting a woman’s imagination had to be a good thing for a man whose own dreams had turned to nightmares. “Sitting on the porch in the moonlight, trying to sort out a single kiss from months ago.” “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Ellen said, her head coming to rest on Val’s shoulder as if the weight of truth were a wearying thing. “But I’m lonely and sometimes a little desperate, and it seemed safe, to steal a kiss from a handsome stranger.” “It was safe,” Val assured her, seeing the matter from her perspective. In the year since he’d seen Ellen FitzEngle, he’d hardly been celibate. He wasn’t a profligate Philistine, but neither was he a monk. There had been an older maid in Nick’s household, some professional ladies up in York, the rare trip upstairs at David’s brothel, and the frequent occasion of self-gratification. But he surmised Ellen, despite the privileges of widowhood, had not been kissed or cuddled or swived or flirted with in all those days and weeks and months. “And now?” Ellen pressed. “You show up on my porch after dark and think perhaps it’s still safe, and here I am, doing not one thing to dissuade you.” “You are safe with me, Ellen.” He punctuated the sentiment with a kiss to her temple then rested his cheek where his lips had been. “I am a gentleman, if nothing else. I might try to steal a kiss, but you can stop me with a word from even that at any time. The question is, how safe do you want to be?” “Shame

Our Bobbies pretended to change flat tires, our Cheryls were the best skiers, our Michaels threw rocks at the garbage men. They played Ring Around the Roses and held hands with other women's children for the first time. They bobbed for apples; they made Valentines.

Dear Human, My Human, the Old Lady (that’s her name) is a Russian scientist. Old Lady made a big scientific discovery: found the key to my eternal youth. Or even to immortality, if we like. Old Lady made herself immortal first. I don’t blame her. Next, Martha-the-White-Rat. Then, me and my sister Milly—we trace our pedigree through the purest blood lines of Bavarian-born Spaniels. But then she stopped. My other siblings look all aged by now. But at my 17, I look no more than three or four. My sister Milly got stuck at puppy age. We watch the photos of our relatives on Facebook, and we are saddened that Old Lady did not make them immortal too. That she keeps it a secret. And I am so worried about my friend Fox Theodore. He is at the hight of his financial and physical might now, but I know he will age. My best friend. I once tried to unlock the Secret. Me and Raccoon. (Raccoon’s a human, but he is sort of my buddy.) That turned out to be my big mistake. Lots other Humans came coveting the Secret too, which resulted in a lot of unpleasant and funny stories. More unpleasant. In the aftermath, Old Lady had to flee and I got misplaced. All my own fault. Now I’m trying to get found. Have you seen my Old Lady? You’d recognize her: her hands and face are way too young, plus she always clips her amber brooch. If you see her, tell her where I stay: 7 White Goose Lane, Ducklingburg, South Duck United State of America P.S. Tell her from me that she is the very finest Human in the whole world and that I am very lonely here without her. Zip, the Spaniel Dog

This life can make you feel depressed, leaving you with so much stress, but all you can do is try your best.

The final score was five to zero, with high-scoring Brother, the hockey hero! The cheers for the Cousins were long and loud. They left the ice to the roar of the crowd. So there you have it. A stellar performance by Brother Bear and another victory for the Bear Country Cousins. This puts the Cousins in the big Valentine’s game against… the Beartown Bullies-- a dubious privilege at best. There was a special cheer for Brother as well. The cheerleaders gave him a well-deserved yell. They then addressed Brother in more personal terms. “Yuck, when it comes to mush, I’d rather eat worms.

Happy Valentine's Day, to whom, who holds the hands of beloved one, in its hands; and prayers and sweet wishes, for the best in the coming year, for whom, who has not that to celebrate this Day, today.

Whenever science makes a discovery, the Devil grabs it while the angels are debating the best way to use it.

To lovers out there … One day we must break away from the myths that if you single and not dating. It means you are well mannered , raised well and you are a good person. If you’re dating then you are ratchet, wild, fast forward and you like things. Most people who are not dating is not by choice but is by circumstance . Some are not dating because they can’t find right partners. Some are in the closet. Some they fear to be heart broken, pregnancy ,commitment, to be burden. Some are busy don’t have time. Some don’t have money. Dating doesn’t make people hoes. Not dating it doesn’t make people saints either.  We should stop bad mouthing, slandering, name calling, slut shamming people who are trying their best to find right partners or to find love. Especial when we can’t do what they are doing because of our fears, even thou we also want what they want. To be loved .

To lovers out there … Sometimes you will say you don’t eat something because It wasn’t cooked or done properly. When you find someone who makes it perfectly you end up enjoying it and start loving it. This is the same as relationship, marriage, dating or love. Most people who hate relationships, marriage, dating or love . It is because they got love from wrong people or from people who could not love them better or right. When you find the right person. Love will be the best thing for you.

Let my heart and mind The heart loves, The mind thinks, The heart wants to believe in what it loves, But the mind denies to feel before it thinks, The day brings her forth in beauty’s all possible forms, The night hides her from the eyes desperate to see her, Then the mind creates her in all known and felt forms, While the heart begins to only beat for her, The pulse of life seeks her in everything, While the fear of death scares the mind, But the heart is busy creating her life’s impressions in everything, So that when the mind dies, it loves her with its own mind, But neither the heart nor the mind bother to consult me, For the mind believes what it thinks and the heart believes only what it feels, And my mind constantly thinks of her, my heart only loves to feel her, and ah what a joy they both bring to me, Because only when my heart is loving her, my mind the true pulse of life feels, So I finally get to know the heart in love, My mind that loves to think only her thoughts, And finally I allow my heart to be the heart of love, And my mind the mind of loving thoughts, Her thoughts, her love, her feelings, her everything, Until I lose every sense that defines me, Because now just like my heart, wherever I might be, I only see her in everything, Even her sensation now fills a major part of me, And finally I manage to give all these feelings a name, That always feels and sounds the same, She, her beauty, her feelings and her name, The world around me has not evolved, but it certainly has changed, but her feeling and my love for her remain the same, So my love Irma, let my heart feel you long enough, For it loves beating for you, Let my mind think of you long enough, For I love it, when it only thinks of you!

Let my heart and mind The heart loves, The mind thinks, The heart wants to believe in what it loves, But the mind denies to feel before it thinks, The day brings her forth in beauty’s all possible forms, The night hides her from the eyes desperate to see her, Then the mind creates her in all known and felt forms, While the heart begins to only beat for her, The pulse of life seeks her in everything, While the fear of death scares the mind, But the heart is busy creating her life’s impressions in everything, So that when the mind dies, it loves her with its own mind, But neither the heart nor the mind bother to consult me, For the mind believes what it thinks and the heart believes only what it feels, And my mind constantly thinks of her, my heart only loves to feel her, and ah what a joy they both bring to me, Because only when my heart is loving her, my mind the true pulse of life feels, So I finally get to know the heart in love, My mind that loves to think only her thoughts, And finally I allow my heart to be the heart of love, And my mind the mind of loving thoughts, Her thoughts, her love, her feelings, her everything, Until I lose every sense that defines me, Because now just like my heart, wherever I might be, I only see her in everything, Even her sensation now fills a major part of me, And finally I manage to give all these feelings a name, That always feels and sounds the same, She, her beauty, her feelings and her name, The world around me has not evolved, but certainly has changed, but her feeling and my love for her remain the same, So my love Irma, let my heart feel you long enough, For it loves beating for you, Let my mind think of you long enough, For I love it, when it only thinks of you!

Somewhere in another universe or timeline, I am what you deserve. I do what you deserve. I love you the way you deserve. I care about you. I haven’t lost you. I haven’t let you go. We are parents. You and kids are my everything. I do what you deserve in Valentine’s Day every year. Don’t forgive this version of me in this universe, even though you deserve the best here. But know that, even with all of my imperfectness, I have loved you all the ways I can, with all my heart. Wednesday, Valentine’s Day February 14, 2024 Slemani

Zara,” I cut her off. “I can handle it. Just spit it out.” Her hands stop touching my head. “But can you? Handle it, I mean. Because I’m watching my best friend drown trying to keep you afloat.

My brain remembers Jesse’s best friend, Zara. The mother of Jesse’s first daughter, Zara. Our egg donor, Zara. Our surrogate, Zara.

Do you think that's what love is? Not what they say on the front of those cheesy Valentine's cards you see in petrol stations - you complete me - but is it when someone has seen you at your worst but still looks at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to them? I think it might be.

I will understand if you are done… flirting with me. We will be neighbors when you complete your renovations, at least until you sell the place.” “Flirting.” Val frowned. “I am very persuasive, and yet you consider my best efforts at seduction to be worth only the label flirting.” Ellen’s gaze dropped to her lap. “In any case, I will understand.” “Good of you.” Val’s frown intensified as he tried to puzzle out what exactly was bothering him. “And am I to understand if you’ve lost interest in me? If you decide a man who seeks some honesty with his lover is a little too much work? If you prefer weeding your daisies to sharing passion in my arms?” Ellen’s gaze swiveled to meet his. “I have not lost interest, Valentine. I wish I had, because I don’t understand how you can tolerate the sight of me, and yet I still crave your embrace. I crave the simple scent of you, all cedar and whatever else it is you wear. I crave the texture of your hair against my fingers and the taste of you on my tongue…” She stopped herself, maybe shocked at her own words and the vehemence of them. The truth of them. Val gently pushed her head back to his shoulder. “That’s putting it plain enough.

I love you.” “Wow. That too on Valentine’s Day!” “That’s just a coincidence.” A perfect love story started to brew as they embarked on a journey of love and romance. The day the world celebrated love was the day they would start their love story too. What a perfect melodrama, even the best of romantic movies might not have such a climax. A perfect love story was just brewing.

Country life agrees with a man.” Nick slung an arm around Val’s shoulders. “So does a certain aspect of nature best enjoyed on blankets by the side of streams.” “What?” Val stopped and glared at his friend. “St. Just and Axel both saw you on Saturday, enjoying the shade with your Ellen,” Nick said, grinning. “What a lusty little beast you are, Val. I am pleased to think I’ve set a good example for you.” “Blazing hell.” Val dropped his eyes, a reluctant smile blooming. “I suppose I ought to be grateful they didn’t come running over the hill, bellowing for the watch.” “Suppose you should, but really, I think there’s a lot to be said for the healing power of some friendly, uncomplicated swiving.” “You think there’s a lot to be said for any kind of swiving.” “I do.” Nick’s expression was dead serious. “More to the point, you were overdue, Valentine, and not just for some romping.” “Maybe.” Val resumed walking, and Nick dropped his arm. “I was, probably. But one doesn’t always find what one needs when one needs it.” “One doesn’t, but you’re doing a fine job improvising.” Val glanced at him, seeking hidden meaning in Nick’s use of a musical term, but Nick’s handsome face was schooled to innocence. By

There, it’s the old ways and no mistake; there it’s only a corpse gone purple at the bottom and two coins no one will ever take back and the bread soaked through with sweat and your sins gleaming in every maggot, and sand under my eyelids and the wrappings still waiting and four jars lined up neatly with the faces watching, and my feet aching and my body going heavy everywhere and my throat too dry to swallow but my teeth gleaming wide, and the dark night all around us and a long walk home, and far off, silent, coming closer: wolves. The sounds for that, they’ve never put a name to.

You look as if you’ve just lost your best friend.” Eve took a place beside Jenny on this observation, which leavened Jenny’s sense of desolation with a spike of resentment. “With all my family around me, how could I possibly be in want of companionship?” Eve watched their mutual siblings stepping through a minuet while their brother Valentine held forth at the piano. “The same way I can long to dance while the minuet plays all around me.” Marriage had settled Eve, and impending motherhood had only honed her already formidable instincts. “You’re admiring your husband, Lady Deene, even when you can’t dance with him.” “He’s promised me a waltz, though Valentine will probably find one to play at the speed of a dirge.” She fell silent for a moment as the dancers one-two-three’d around the space created by the music room and an adjoining parlor. “You would make a wonderful mother, Jenny.” The worst pain was not in the words Eve offered, but the combination of pleading and pity with which she offered them. “Becoming a mother usually contemplates becoming a wife first, and I’ve no wish to wed some man for the sole purpose of bearing his babies.” Not the sole purpose… As the dancers twirled and smiled, it occurred to Jenny that Victor had made her promise not to stop painting, but he hadn’t said anything specific about eschewing motherhood. Had he? Another pause in the conversation, while the music played on. Eve, however, was notably tenacious, so Jenny waited for the next salvo, and Eve did not disappoint. “You look at Bernward the way I look at Deene, the way Maggie looks at Benjamin, the way—” “Louisa looks at Joseph, I suppose.” And Sophie at her baron too, of course. They needn’t start on how the Windham brothers regarded their respective wives. “Louisa’s gaze is a touch more voracious. I was going to say, the way Mama looks at Papa.” Ouch. Ouch, indeed. The duke and duchess turned down the room with the grace of a more elegant age, and yet, their gazes spoke volumes about the sheer pleasure of sharing a dance. Jenny stated the obvious as matter-of-factly as possible. “Their Graces dance beautifully.” Eve’s feet were propped on a hassock. She wiggled her toes in time with the music, the left and right foot partnering each other. “Bernward also dances quite well.” Elijah was dancing with Valentine’s lady, Ellen’s preferred partner being ensconced at the keyboard, as usual. “Bernward is dancing carefully, lest Valentine take exception.” Eve twitched her skirts. “Bernward is dancing with one eye on you, you ninnyhammer, and with the certain knowledge that all three of our brothers are waiting for him to come over here and get you to stand up with him. How many more times do you think you can check on the punch bowl between sets without Bernward taking insult?” Check

Anger has always resonated with me best.” Professor Morgan laughed. “What does a young, beautiful girl have to be so angry about?” Condescending men, least of all, I thought, but I kept the words locked up behind my breastbone.

One of the best threesomes of Sam’s life had happened on Valentine’s Day, in fact. The couple had later broken up, the woman ending up in his bed for a few months before he tossed her.

Hey Cap'n! What're the swords for?" "Squawk, sea monsters!" Abraham replied. Even he grasped a miniature cutlass in his left claw. Eve cocked an eyebrow. "Really?" "Best to be prepared," the tier three parrot said. "It's not because you're pirates?" "Nope." Eve pointed over the bow. "And there's a merchant ship on the horizon." "Have to be ready to defend ourselves," he squawked back. Eve rolled her eyes, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "That man's raising a skull-and-crossbones flag." "Squaaaawk, just a formality.

Like are you prepared? The dazzle is strong here: I was dating this boy named Bobby He showed up at my front door He bought me a valentines present But it was November 4th He knocked on the door so proud That he'd bought me this present I opened it up and gave him a scowl Guess what yall He bought me mudflaps....baby I don't even own a truck He's Got me out here in the driveway Puttin on a nut and bolt Then he drove me down an old dirt road And he said how you like your gift my yo And I said are you fucking kidding me, man? I can't believe that you bought meeeee Som fuckin mudflaps baby I don't even own a truck He said you don't understand my lady I bought them for us..... He said I wanted to take you out in the field But is muddy as shit and were going uphill So bet your ass I saw them flaps and said to myself My baby gets the best deal someone fucking *Music stops just claps* Mudflaps baby I don't even own a truck He's hot me out here in the driveway Putting on a nut and bolt The end. Dazzled. I told you

This is for the best, Rye. After all, you were afraid to tell my brother about that fake kiss we had on Valentine's Day in college.

To lovers out there …. A relationship should bring the best In you. If the relationship brings the worse In you then that relationship is not for you. If it makes you want to do bad things, start thinking bad things or harmful things, desiring to do bad things on others. If it makes you want to do the very same things, you complain about saying they are wrong. Know you are in a bad or toxic relationship .

That's exactly why I love you, Birdie. You want me to be the best version of me. But you're the one who brings out the best of me. It was never her or anyone else. It was always just a matter of time before I realized how I felt about you.

I could tell, even over the phone, that sobriety had brought Charlotte home to herself—her best self.

There is this utterly fascinating rumor of a glorious sort of love. And even though we are crafted for it, the best that we can do is to catch the slightest hem of it before it slips away yet again. For we have yet to learn that what we seek is not the love of another person, but the love of God coursing through another person.

Andrei walked a lot: this was the best and most pleasant state for him--to be walking, to move no matter where. Thoughts are simpler when you walk, and you can amuse them with what you see along the way