Verity Book Quotes

I mean, most people want to escape. Get out of their heads. Out of their lives. Stories are the easiest way to do that.

The beautiful thing about books was that anyone could open them.

A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed.

I’m the awkward writer who posts a picture of my book and says, “It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.

Yeah, I mean, most people want to escape. Get out of their heads. Out of their lives. Stories are the easiest way to do that.

It was wonderful flirting with him, all the razor-edged literary banter, like Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. A battle of wit, and a test, too.

I haven’t read any of them, either. Not since her first book.” I spin and look at him. “Really?” “I didn’t like being inside her head.

It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.

Questions stripped away the platitudes and undermined the verities that provided a sheltered, nursery existence for people who did not want to think. Questions were the obligation of the intellect.

A writer should never have the audacity to write abut themselves unless they are willing to separate every layer of protection between the authors soul and their books.

For me, there are three steps to completing each of my books. 1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it. There’s never a point in my writing process where I feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to accomplish, or when I believe I’ve written something everyone needs to read.

August stopped rolling the apple, closed the book, forced himself to sit still, even though a still body was a busy mind- something to do with the potential and kinetic energy, if he had to guess; all he knew was that he was a body in search of motion.

Unfortunately, angels do not survive on the Earth... that’s a tragic verity.

For me, there are three steps to completing each of my books. 1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it.

writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed. An autobiography encouraging the reader to like the author is not a true autobiography. No one is likable from the inside out.

What a mystery blood was—how did a tiny gesture, a tone of voice, endure through generations like the harder verities of flesh? He had seen it again and again, watching his nieces and nephews grow, and accepted without thought the echoes of parent and grandparent that appeared for brief moments, the shadow of a face looking back through the years—that vanished again into the face that was now.

I don’t know why I’m surprised when I set the manuscript back in the drawer. The contents of the drawer rattle as I slam it shut angrily. Why am I angry? This isn’t my life or my family. I’d trolled Verity’s reviews before coming here, and in nine out of ten of them, the reviewer referenced wanting to throw their Kindles or books across the room.

A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they're willing to separate every layer of protection between the autor's soul and their book.

A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book.

Não penses no motivo que te levou a entrar na corrida, concentra-te na meta.

Seja de que forma eu encare o assunto, é óbvio que a Verity era mestre em manipular a verdade. A única dúvida que fica é: que verdade estava a manipular?

A maioria das pessoas vem para Nova Iorque para ser descoberta. Nós, os outros, vimos para nos escondermos.

Beyond the fact my brother is rich as Crocus,

Unfortunately, angels do not survive on the Earth... that’s a tragic verity… Pure souls need more perfect world: the one, where their kindness wouldn’t be seen as weakness; where their brightness wouldn’t trigger so much envy; where their sincerity and open heart wouldn’t be considered as an invitation to push them down and take advantage of them. You need to learn how to protect yourself.

For me, there are three steps to completing each of my books. 1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it. There’s never a point in my writing process where I feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to accomplish, or when I believe I’ve written something everyone needs to read.

We weave together the many skeins of our words, Into poems and stories and books, And the books are made so much more vivacious and colourful, For all the care that is woven in along with the words.

I’m the one who read your book. And it was good. Phenomenal. Which is why I suggested your name to her editor.” He lowers his head a little, looking me firmly in the eye. “Your writing matters to me, Lowen.

Orwell's short and intense life has for years borne witness to some of those verities of which we were already aware. Parties and churches and states cannot be honest, but individuals can. Real books cannot be written by machines or committees. The truth is not always easy to discern, but a lie can and must be called by its right name. And the imagination, like certain wild animals, as Orwell himself once put it, will not breed in captivity. Actually, that last metaphor is beautiful but inaccurate. Even in the most dire conditions, there is a human will to resist coercion. We must believe that even now in North Korea, there are ideas alive inside human brains that were not put there by any authority.

But modern man, unlike Christian [Pilgrim's Progress], has no book in his hand, he has no faith in Evangelist, and a heavenly city seems to him much more likely to be a mirage. The God-dimension is missing, and he does his thinking in a curious parody of Christian verities.

The thing I abhor most about autobiographies is the counterfeit thoughts draped over every sentence. A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little terrifying, but completely exposed. An autobiography encouraging the reader to like the author is not a true autobiography. No one is likable from the inside out.

1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it. There’s never a point in my writing process where I feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to accomplish, or when I believe I’ve written something everyone needs to read. Most of the time, I cry in my shower and stare at my computer screen like a zombie, wondering how so many other authors can promote their books with so much confidence.

This one is called So Be It. I flip through the first few pages, hoping I’ll get lucky and find that it’s an outline for the seventh book in the series. Almost immediately, I can tell that it isn’t. This seems…personal. I flip back to the first page of chapter one and read the first line. I sometimes think back on the night I met Jeremy and wonder, had we not made eye contact, would my life still end the same? As soon as I see Jeremy’s name mentioned, I scan a little more of the page. It’s an autobiography.

As a girl, it had been firmly set down that one ought never speak until one was spoken to, and when one did, one ought not speak of anything that might provoke or worry. One referred to the limb of the table, not the leg, the white meat on the chicken, not the breast. Good manners were the foundations of civilization. One knew precisely with whom one sat in a room based entirely on how well they behaved, and in what manner. Forks and knives were placed at the ten-twenty on one's plate when one was finished eating, One ought to walk straight and keep one's hands to oneself when one s poke, least one be taken for an Italian or Jew. A woman was meant to tend a child, a garden, or a conversation. A woman ought to know how to mind the temperature in a room, adding a little heat in a well-timed question, or cool a warm temper with the suggestion of another drink, a bowl of nuts, and a smile. What Kitty had learned at Miss Porter's School---handed down from Sarah Porter through the spinsters teaching there, themselves the sisters of Yale men who handed down the great words, Truth. Verity. Honor--was that your brothers and your husbands and your sons will lead, and you will tend., You will watch and suggest, guide and protect. You will carry the torch forward, and all to the good. There was the world. And one fixed an eye keenly on it. One learned its history; one understood the causes of its wars. One debated and, gradually, a picture emerged of mankind over the centuries; on understood the difference between what was good and what was right. On understood that men could be led to evil, against the judgment of their better selves. Debauchery. Poverty of spirit. This was the explanation for so many unfortunate ills--slavery, for instance. The was the reason. Men, individual men, were not at fault. They had to be taught. Led. Shown by example what was best. Unfairness, unkindness could be addressed. Queitly. Patiently.. Without a lot of noisy attention. Noise was for the poorly bred. If one worried, if one were afraid, if one doubted--one kept it to oneself. One looked for the good, and one found it. The woman found it, the woman pointed it out, and the man tucked it in his pocket, heartened. These were the rules.

In the land of Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted, and he loved them very much and prayed for them. 'It may be that my sons have sinned in their feasting.' Now the devil came before the Lord together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up and down the earth and under the earth. 'And hast thou considered my servant Job?' God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. 'Give him over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee and curse Thy name.' And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the devil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his mantel and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, 'Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and ever.' Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up again before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who talked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction, and His servant crying out: 'Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish me,' and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: 'Let my prayer rise up before Thee,' and again incense from the priest's censer and the kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then - only yesterday I took it up - I've never been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that is great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard the words of mockery and blame, proud words, 'How could God give up the most loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption from his sores with a pot-sherd - and for no object except to board to the devil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My Sake.' ' But the greatness of it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery - that the passing earthly show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on the first days of creation He ended each day with praise: 'That is good that I have created,' looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And Job, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for generations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was ordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in it! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with it to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature, everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what mysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth again. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more, when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising such each day, and, as before, my heart sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting, its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life - and over all the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving!

that white is a color. It is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. When, so to speak, your pencil grows red-hot, it draws roses; when it grows white-hot, it draws stars. And one of the two or three defiant verities of the best religious morality, of real Christianity, for example, is exactly this same thing; the chief assertion of religious morality is that white is a color. Virtue is not the absence of vices or the avoidance of moral dangers; virtue is a vivid and separate thing, like pain or a particular smell. Mercy does not mean not being cruel or sparing people revenge or punishment; it means a plain and positive thing like the sun, which one has either seen or not seen. Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming, like Joan of Arc. In a word, God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.

None,” Einstein said. “Relativity is a purely scientific matter and has nothing to do with religion.”51 That was no doubt true. However, there was a more complex relationship between Einstein’s theories and the whole witch’s brew of ideas and emotions in the early twentieth century that bubbled up from the highly charged cauldron of modernism. In his novel Balthazar, Lawrence Durrell had his character declare, “The Relativity proposition was directly responsible for abstract painting, atonal music, and formless literature.” The relativity proposition, of course, was not directly responsible for any of this. Instead, its relationship with modernism was more mysteriously interactive. There are historical moments when an alignment of forces causes a shift in human outlook. It happened to art and philosophy and science at the beginning of the Renaissance, and again at the beginning of the Enlightenment. Now, in the early twentieth century, modernism was born by the breaking of the old strictures and verities. A spontaneous combustion occurred that included the works of Einstein, Picasso, Matisse, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Joyce, Eliot, Proust, Diaghilev, Freud, Wittgenstein, and dozens of other path-breakers who seemed to break the bonds of classical thinking.52 In his book Einstein, Picasso: Space, Time, and the Beauty That Causes Havoc, the historian of science and philosophy Arthur I. Miller explored the common wellsprings that produced, for example, the 1905 special theory of relativity and Picasso’s 1907 modernist masterpiece Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

If so be ye have tasted that the Lord is gracious." 1 Peter 2:3 If:--then, this is not a matter to be taken for granted concerning every one of the human race. "If:"--then there is a possibility and a probability that some may not have tasted that the Lord is gracious. "If:"--then this is not a general but a special mercy; and it is needful to enquire whether we know the grace of God by inward experience. There is no spiritual favour which may not be a matter for heart-searching. But while this should be a matter of earnest and prayerful inquiry, no one ought to be content whilst there is any such thing as an "if" about his having tasted that the Lord is gracious. A jealous and holy distrust of self may give rise to the question even in the believer's heart, but the continuance of such a doubt would be an evil indeed. We must not rest without a desperate struggle to clasp the Saviour in the arms of faith, and say, "I know whom I have believed, and I am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him." Do not rest, O believer, till thou hast a full assurance of thine interest in Jesus. Let nothing satisfy thee till, by the infallible witness of the Holy Spirit bearing witness with thy spirit, thou art certified that thou art a child of God. Oh, trifle not here; let no "perhaps" and "peradventure" and "if" and "maybe" satisfy thy soul. Build on eternal verities, and verily build upon them. Get the sure mercies of David, and surely get them. Let thine anchor be cast into that which is within the veil, and see to it that thy soul be linked to the anchor by a cable that will not break. Advance beyond these dreary "ifs;" abide no more in the wilderness of doubts and fears; cross the Jordan of distrust, and enter the Canaan of peace, where the Canaanite still lingers, but where the land ceaseth not to flow with milk and honey.

church attendance was compulsory — the service was a remote affair. The whole emphasis was on the mystery of it, the priests like a secret society, the Latin words so awesome in their ancient verity that, although some phrases would have stuck over the years, the whole intention was to impress and to subdue and not to enlighten. There was of course no English Hymnal, and no Book of Common Prayer. You were at the mercy of the priests. Only they were allowed to read the word of God and they did even that silently. A bell was rung to let the congregation know when the priest had reached the important bits. The priest stood not as a guide to the Bible but as its guardian and as a guardian against common believers. They would not be allowed to enter into the Book.

NORA AND LIBBY’S ULTIMATE READING LIST Incense and Sensibility by Sonali Dev The Roughest Draft by Emily Wibberley and Austin Siegemund-Broka Yinka, Where Is Your Huzband? by Lizzie Damilola Blackburn Arsenic and Adobo by Mia P. Manansala A Special Place for Women by Laura Hankin A Thorn in the Saddle by Rebekah Weatherspoon Just Last Night by Mhairi McFarlane An Extraordinary Union by Alyssa Cole The Editor by Steven Rowley The Siren by Katherine St. John A Lot Like Adiós by Alexis Daria Verity by Colleen Hoover The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore The Fastest Way to Fall by Denise Williams So We Meet Again by Suzanne Park By the Book by Jasmine Guillory Payback’s A Witch by Lana Harper A Week to Be Wicked by Tessa Dare

It stops here. With me and you. It ends with us. ❤️

1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Keep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it.

I’m suprised to feel tears running down my cheeks. Everytimes I pick up this journal I think I’ll be fine— that it all happened so long ago and I won’t still feel what I felt back then.

I realized maybe Atlas wasn’t supposed to be my whole life. Maybe he was supposed to be a part of it. Maybe love isn’t something that comes full circle. It just ebbs and flows, in and out, just like the people in our lives.

even when the tiger smiled, he was still a tiger.

He regarded with suspicion any political party – on the right or the left – which claimed to be acting in the interests of the working class.

on

Thousand Leagues Under the Sea out like a sword. “What are you going to do?” The Magister turned to her. “First, as I promised, I’ll free all fictional creatures I can find. I’ve explained the way things work to my friends, here. And they’d like to speak to their creators, much as I’d still like to.” He held out a hand. “Give me Jonathan Porterhouse, and no harm shall come to you.” Bethany swallowed hard. “What for?” “He will accompany any and all other writers into a fictional world, where they will be free to live or die as they can.” He spread his hands. “It is the only way to ensure an end to their power, and seems the fairest way to imprison them. After all, it is no more than they have done to us.” Bethany’s eyes went wide. “You can’t just send everyone into books! Do you have any idea what would happen?” “Do you know what happened to me?” the Magister roared. “Fighting a war for the freedom of my people, only to find none of it is real? Let the writers of this world decide if their dystopian futures, their dangerous magic, their monsters and stories of terror are so entertaining once it’s their own life or death they’re living out!” Her legs shaking, Bethany took a step forward. “I’m not going to let you do this,” she said quietly. “I can’t.” “Bethany, don’t,” Kiel whispered to her, but she shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do that I can’t undo,” she told the Magister. “So go ahead. Steal my power some more. I’ll just find a way to put everything back where it belongs, and will keep at it as long as I live.” “I understand,” the Magister said. “Then I suppose you leave me with no other option.” “NO!” Kiel shouted, but it was too late. The Magister gestured, and Bethany immediately crumpled to the ground, unmoving. CHAPTER 30 What’s the problem?” Charm said, waving her robotic hand for Owen to hurry up. “We don’t have much more time!” “Give me a minute,” Owen told her, trying not to look at the skeleton sitting on the computer-circuit throne. Kiel had mentioned wanting to bring his parents back to life using magic (before he found out he was a clone of Dr. Verity, of course), but the Magister had always forbidden it, saying that such dark magic led to horrible results.

And Demelza had been the active conniver in the change, so she could not complain. Indeed, it was Verity’s elopement that had caused a sharper breach between the families, and, in spite of Demelza’s self-sacrifice of last Christmas, the breach was not properly closed. The responsibility was not now Francis’s. Since the illnesses of last Christmas and little Julia’s death he seemed most anxious to show his gratitude for what Demelza had done. But Ross would have none of it. The failure of the Carnmore Copper Company lay insuperably between them. And if what Ross suspected about that failure was right, then Demelza could not blame him. But she would have been much happier with it otherwise. Her nature always preferred the straightforward settlement to the lingering bitter suspicion.

The thing I abhor most about autobiographies is the counterfeit thoughts draped over every sentence. A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to separate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed. An autobiography encouraging the reader to like the author is not a true autobiography. No one is likable from the inside out. One should only walk away from an autobiography with, at best, an uncomfortable distaste for its author.

Verity never read your book.

A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they are willing to separate every layer of protection between the authors soul and their books.

Perhaps some men should measure their worth by the number of women they truly satisfied in bed and not by the amount they have laid with.

Most of the time, I cry in my shower and stare at my computer screen like a zombie, wondering how so many other authors can promote their books with so much confidence.

Verity by Colleen Hoover and The Book of Accidents by Chuck Wendig.’ ‘Ooh, Verity is a bit disturbing but great. I haven’t read the other.

I’d trolled Verity’s reviews before coming here, and in nine out of ten of them, the reviewer referenced wanting to throw their Kindles or books across the room.

I don’t have much confidence,” she said. “A lot of what I’ve been taught isn’t making sense.” “That’s the nature of teaching. Something happens, and intelligence first apprehends it, then makes up a rule about it, then tries to pass the rule along. Very small beings invariably operate in that way. However, by the time the information is passed on, new things are happening that the old rule doesn’t fit. Eventually intelligence learns to stop making rules and understand the flow.” “I was told that the eternal verities—” “Like what?” God laughed. “If there were any, I should know! I have created a universe based on change, and a very small being speaks to me of eternal verities!” “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just, if there are no verities, how do we know what’s true?” “You don’t offend. I don’t create things that are offensive to me. As for truth, what’s true is what’s written. Every created thing bears my intention written in it. Rocks. Stars. Very small beings. Everything only runs one way naturally, the way I meant it to. The trouble is that very small beings write books that contradict the rocks, then say I wrote the books and the rocks are lies.” He laughed. The universe trembled. “They invent rules of behavior that even angels can’t obey, and they say I thought them up. Pride of authorship.” He chuckled. “They say, ‘Oh, these words are eternal, so God must have written them.

I would skip through pages of Tess of the d’Urbervilles until I reached a part where one of the characters said something, meaning I barely read any of it, given how much of the book seemed to be about trees.

Stop,” she cried. “I have not yet shown my father the full extent of my respect.” Verity stepped forward and spit on the pine box and then turned and walked away.

book and says, “It’s an okay book. There are

There was...the discrepancy between what one expected of the accomplished medieval scholar (and, later, the penetrating exponent of theological and spiritual matters) and the robust, no-nonsense, unmistakably strident man, clumsy in movement and in dress, apparently little sensitive to the feelings of others, determined to cut his way to the heart of any matter with shouts of distinguo! before re-shaping it entirely. One quickly felt that for him dialectic supplied the place of conversation. Any general remarks were of an obvious and even platitudinous kind; talk was dead timber until the spark of argument flashed. Then in a trice you were whisked from particular to fundamental principles; thence (if you wanted) to eternal verities; and Lewis was alert for any riposte you could muster. It was comic as well as breathtaking; and Lewis would see the comedy as readily as the next man.

Remember, it is not the thing believed in, but the belief in your own mind which brings about the result. Cease believing in the false beliefs, opinions, superstitions, and fears of mankind. Begin to believe in the eternal verities and truths of life which never change. Then, you will move onward, upward, and Godward. Whoever reads this book and applies the principles of the subconscious mind herein set forth, will be able to pray scientifically and effectively for himself and for others. Your prayer is answered according to the universal law of action and reaction. Thought is incipient action. The reaction is the response from your subconscious mind which corresponds with the nature of your thought. Busy your mind with the concepts of harmony, health, peace, and good will, and wonders will happen in your life.

Tenk deg alle menneskene man møter i løpet av livet. Det er så mange. De kommer inn som bølger, renner inn og ut med tidevannet. Noen bølger en mye større og gjør større inntrykk enn andre. Noen ganger fører bølgene med seg ting dypt nede fra havbunnen, ting som de siden etterlater seg på stranden. Avtrykk mot sandkornene som beviser at bølgene en gang har vært der, lenge etter at tidevannet har trukket seg tilbake.

Bare fordi vi ikke endte opp på den samme bølgen, betyr det ikke at vi ikke er del av det samme havet.

Vi er alle bare mennesker som av og til gjør dårlige ting. Ingen er bare dårlige, og ingen er bare gode. Noen er bare nødt til å jobbe hardere med å undertrykket det dårlige.