Waite Phillips Quotes

The state can't give you free speech, and the state can't take it away. You're born with it, like your eyes, like your ears. Freedom is something you assume, then you wait for someone to try to take it away. The degree to which you resist is the degree to which you are free...

I may have no idea what I'm talking about," I said, a little ticked off now. "But we're all a part of a minority waiting for a majority to pull their heads out of their asses.

There you are," he said when she bobbed up. "I was getting worried." "What are you doing?" "Waiting till you're ready to drown." He smiled and eased back down on the seat. "And then I'm going to save your life. Dan did it for Phoebe and I'm going to do it for you." "Dan didn't try to murder her first!" she screamed. "I go the extra mile.

I had to do something," she said. "I couldn't just sit and wait for life to happen to me any longer.

You try spending six months sitting at somebody's bedside, waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn't one of God's good gifts.

Now wait a second..." Kenneth butted in. "Yeah, we haven't asked you the questions yet," Brandon finished for Kenneth. "Yeah, like what are your intentions toward our little Ryan," Patrick added, smirking. "What do you do for a living?" Brandon added. "Can you support Ryan's shoe fetish?" Kenneth threw his question in too. "Hmm, okay, here are my answers. I plan on feeding him, dancing with him and God willing fucking him until he can't walk straight. I help infertile chickens have baby chickens, and I think so. I'm hoping his feet are about my size. We can share shoes and everything," Phillip answered.

Maybe I should let my faithful manservant answer the rest of your questions, since he seems to have all the answers." "I'm saving her time," Bodie replied. "She brings you a redhead, you'll give her grief. Look for women with class, Annabelle. That's most important. The sophisticated types who went to boarding schools and speak French. She has to be the real thing because he can spot a phony a mile away. And he likes them athletic." "Of course he does," she said dryly. "Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It'll be a snap." "You forgot hot." Heath smiled. "And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Annabelle, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business." "Uh-huh. What about career women?" "I don't see how that would work." "The kind of potential mate you're describing isn't going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She's heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria's Secret modeling gigs." He lifted an eyebrow. "Attitude, Annabelle. Attitude.

It is as if, oddly, you were waiting for someone but you didn’t know who they were until they arrived. Whether or not you were aware that there was something missing in your life, you will be when you meet the person you want. What psychoanalysis will add to this love story is that the person you fall in love with really is the man or woman of your dreams; that you have dreamed them up before you met them; not out of nothing — nothing comes of nothing — but out of prior experience, both real and wished for. You recognize them with such certainty because you already, in a certain sense, know them; and because you have quite literally been expecting them, you feel as though you have known them for ever, and yet, at the same time, they are quite foreign to you. They are familiar foreign bodies.

Eat your heart out. Oh, wait. You can’t. It’s not organic.

It is difficult to enjoy people for whom we have waited too long. And in this familiar situation, which evokes such intensities of feeling, we wait and we try to do something other than waiting, and we often get bored - the boredom of protest that is always a screen for rage.

Is there wisdom in innocence? I think there is, but there is a cult now of drab men and women, for whom the world, and even life itself, is a kind of commodity. These critics, having eaten, now study their excrement to see what they consumed. On this they base certain conclusions. Their ignorance is uncompromising. Let us rather stand before the unknown, in very humble, quiet observance and wait while it reveals itself.

All love stories are frustration stories. As are all stories about parents and children, which are also love stories, in Freud's view, the formative love stories. To fall in love is to be reminded of a frustration that you didn't know you had (of one's formative frustrations, and of one's attempted self-cures for them); you wanted someone, you felt deprived of something, and then it seems to be there. And what is renewed in that experience is an intensity of frustration, and an intensity of satisfaction. It is as if, oddly, you were waiting for someone but you didn't know who they were until they arrived. Whether or not you were aware that there was something missing in your life, you will be when you meet the person you want. What psychoanalysis will add to this love story is that the person you fall in love with really is the man or woman of your dreams; that you have dreamed them up before you met them; not out of nothing - nothing comes of nothing - but out of prior experience, both real and wished for. You recognize them with such certainty because you already, in a certain sense, know them, and because you have quite literally been expecting them, you feel as though you have known them for ever, and yet, at the same time, they are quite foreign to you. They are familiar foreign bodies. But one things is very noticeable in this basic story; that however much you have been wanting and hoping and dreaming of meeting the person of your dreams, it is only when you meet them that you will start missing them. It seems the presence of an object is required to make its absence felt.

For a long time that had seemed to her to be the key to life: Life--real life--was just a solitude waiting to be transfigured. If Phillip was with her, the solitude she needed would be shattered, and along with it whatever wondrous thing might have come her way if she had been alone.

Your journey will proceed faster with a brief delay.’ In other words, don’t go off half-cocked, but don’t wait until the other fellow shoots you either.” A

It's a terrific book and I can't wait for the movie," says Phillip Adams on Late Night Live, ABC Radio National.

He waited. Everything he was—everything he cared about—was tied up in this woman. He’d give her the moon if that’s what she wanted.

I’m so lucky,” he said, and his hands moved, sliding down her rib cage, over her belly, and then around to her backside. “I think I’ve waited my entire life for you.” “I know I’ve been waiting for you,” Eloise said.

If I dismiss the ordinary — waiting for the special, the extreme, the extraordinary to happen — I may just miss my life… To allow ourselves to spend afternoons watching dancers rehearse, or sit on a stone wall and watch the sunset, or spend the whole weekend rereading Chekhov stories—to know that we are doing what we’re supposed to be doing — is the deepest form of permission in our creative lives. The British author and psychologist Adam Phillips has noted, 'When we are inspired, rather like when we are in love, we can feel both unintelligible to ourselves and most truly ourselves.' This is the feeling I think we all yearn for, a kind of hyperreal dream state. We read Emily Dickinson. We watch the dancers. We research a little known piece of history obsessively. We fall in love. We don’t know why, and yet these moments form the source from which all our words will spring.

Phillip hardened his grip on Totka’s. “For all our manipulations, God always manages to get His way.” “A beautiful woman once told me our Jesus Creator is a good and wise chief, worthy of obedience without question. His plan is perfect. Wait, and you will see.

Stop! Ok, seriously, how old are you two? You’re acting like teenagers instead of old ass immortal men!" “Well, yea we are kind of old, but we’ve been around so long, we don’t have anything better to do. Living a long time can really turn you into a cranky bitch. Just wait ‘till you meet my father. We do all we can to enjoy ourselves. But I’m serious when I need to be.”~ Ariadne Phillips and Taznikos Abyssos

The ragged cat drags its belly across where the grass is short and the stones are sharp, under the lilacs that have no flowers. The flower smell is gone and the white falls off the trees. Seeds, Lark says, little seeds with parachutes to fly them, Termite, all in your hair, and she runs her fingers through his hair, saying how long and how pretty. He wants the grass long and strong, sounding whispers when it moves, but the mower cuts it. The mower cuts and cuts like a yowling knife. He hears the mower cutting and smells the grass pouring out all over the ground, the green stain so sharp and wet it spills and spills. The mower cuts everything away and Nick Tucci follows the mower, cutting and cutting while the orange cat growls low to move its soft parts across the chipped sharp stones. Deep under the lilacs where no one sees, the orange cat waits for the roar to stop.

It was astonishing how loudly one laughed at tales of gruesome things, of war’s brutality-I with the rest of them. I think at the bottom of it was a sense of the ironical contrast between the normal ways of civilian life and this hark-back to the caveman code. It made all our old philosophy of life monstrously ridiculous. It played the “hat trick” with the gentility of modern manners. Men who had been brought up to Christian virtues, who had prattled their little prayers at mothers’ knees, who had grown up to a love of poetry, painting, music, the gentle arts, over-sensitized to the subtleties of half-tones, delicate scales of emotion, fastidious in their choice of words, in their sense of beauty, found themselves compelled to live and act like ape-men; and it was abominably funny. They laughed at the most frightful episodes, which revealed this contrast between civilized ethics and the old beast law. The more revolting it was the more, sometimes, they shouted with laughter, especially in reminiscence, when the tale was told in the gilded salon of a French chateau, or at a mess-table. It was, I think, the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive, savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise. Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground. The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enormous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morning coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled. So we laughed merrily, I remember, when a military chaplain (Eton, Christ Church, and Christian service) described how an English sergeant stood round the traverse of a German trench, in a night raid, and as the Germans came his way, thinking to escape, he cleft one skull after another with a steel-studded bludgeon a weapon which he had made with loving craftsmanship on the model of Blunderbore’s club in the pictures of a fairy-tale. So we laughed at the adventures of a young barrister (a brilliant fellow in the Oxford “Union”) whose pleasure it was to creep out o’ nights into No Man’s Land and lie doggo in a shell-hole close to the enemy’s barbed wire, until presently, after an hour’s waiting or two, a German soldier would crawl out to fetch in a corpse. The English barrister lay with his rifle ready. Where there had been one corpse there were two. Each night he made a notch on his rifle three notches one night to check the number of his victims. Then he came back to breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.

THE SHARPSHOOTER AT GETTYSBURG As he grew more and more parched, waiting near the Emmitsburg Road that reached up to Gettysburg, Jake thought of peaches and water, until he saw movement across the way, near a pile of wooden fence rails. Rebel skirmishers had been using those rails as cover all morning. Jake set the rear trigger of his Sharps. He prepared to barely caress its forward trigger, the hair trigger, as he waited for a chance to kill someone Jake knew, in all likelihood, was not so different from himself.

A nice lady opens the door on Peachtree Street and she’s got one of those faces that feels familiar like you’ve known her all her life. She buys a bunch of colored paper for her daughter who likes to draw. You ask how old her daughter is and she is four years younger than you. You ask what school she went to and she says that she kept her at home. You see her daughter peek at you from the hall and you think that maybe she was born wrong too. You figure she has never left this house. And you want to get her out of it. The next week you ask the woman if you can visit with her daughter. She brings you down the hall and into the sun room where her daughter is drawing. She’s quiet for a while and then she looks up and tells you she likes to sit in here and watch the birds outside. The light falls in on her hair like beach sunshine in the movies. There’s plants growing all around her. It’s like a jungle and you sit in the wicker chair across from her and wait for her to talk to you, like she’s a magical animal behind all the vines and leaves. All you can figure is that she’s just very, very shy. You think maybe you would have been this way too if you didn’t grow up in such a loud family.

Hey - Duggie! Duggie! Duggie!" He came running up to me, sparkler in hand. I felt like sticking one on him, the cheeky bastard. Nobody called me Duggie. He held the sparkler up in front of my face and said, "Wait. Wait." I was already waiting. What else was there to do? "Here you are," he said. "Look! What's this?" At that precise moment, his sparkler fizzled out. I didn't say anything, so he supplied the answer himself. "The death of the socialist dream," he said. He giggled like a little maniac, and stared at me for a second or two before running off, and in that time I saw exactly the same thing I'd seen in Stubbs's eyes the day before. The same triumphalism, the same excitement, not because something new was being created, but because something was being destroyed. I thought about Phillip and his stupid rock symphony and I swear that my eyes pricked with tears. This ludicrous attempt to squeeze the history of the countless millennia into half an hour's worth of crappy riffs and chord changes suddenly seemed no more Quixotic than all the things my dad and his colleagues had been working towards for so long. A national health service, free to everyone who needed it. Redistribution of wealth through taxation. Equality of opportunity. Beautiful ideas, Dad, noble aspirations, just as there was the kernel of something beautiful in Philip's musical hodge-podge. But it was never going to happen. If there had ever been a time when it might have happened, that time was slipping away. The moment had passed. Goodbye to all that. Easy to be clever with hindsight, I know, but I was right, wasn't I? Look back on that night from the perspective of now, the closing weeks of the closing century of our second millennium - if the calendar of some esoteric and fast-disappearing religious sect counts for anything any more - and you have to admit that I was right. And so was Benjamin's brother, the little bastard, with his sparkler and his horrible grin and that nasty gleam of incipient victory in his twelve-year-old eyes. Goodbye to all that, he was saying. He'd worked it out already. He knew what the future held in store.

The whole world knew about the piracy case of the tanker Maersk Alabama, which three Navy SEAL sharpshooters saved the imprisoned ship captain. Those SEALs spent a full day lying in wait with their weapons trained on the pirate boat, waiting for the kill command. When the order came down, they instantly fired their sniper rifles, with their own vessel bobbing at a different rate from the pirates’ boat, having no room for error if the captive was to survive. The snipers took out all three pirates in a single shot while sparing the kidnapped victim. Captain Richard Phillips was freed unharmed from the close quarters of that little boat, while the dead bodies of the three armed pirates slumped around him. Details of DEVGRU training are not available to explain this feat of timing and marksmanship, but the results testify to its deadly effect. SEAL Team Six founder Richard Marcinko has said that his budget for ammunition for his men’s training was greater than that of the entire Marin Corps. The comment might be dismissed as braggadocio if not for undeniable results produced under intense and deadly pressure. Consequently, by the time Jessica Buchanan was being marched into a pitched-black desert to her own mock execution two years later, the same people at the White House who took note of her disappearance had reason to wonder if it might be time for another visit to the region from the men you don’t see coming.

The greatest difference between present-day Christianity and that of which we read in these letters, is that to us it is primarily a performance; to them it was real experience. We are apt to reduce the Christian religion to a code or, at best, a rule of heart and life. To these men it is quite plainly the invasion of their lives by a new quality of life altogether. They do not hesitate to describe this as Christ "living in" them. Mere moral reformation will hardly explain the transformation and the exuberant vitality of these men's lives -- even if we could prove a motive for such reformation, and certainly the world around offered little encouragement to the early Christians! We are practically driven to accept their own explanation, which is that their little human lives had, through Christ, been linked up with the very life of God. Many Christians today talk about the "difficulties of our times" as though we should have to wait for better ones before the Christian religion can take root. It is heartening to remember that this faith took root and flourished amazingly in conditions that would have killed anything less vital in a matter of weeks. These early Christians were on fire with the conviction that they had become, through Christ, literal sons of God; they were pioneers of a new humanity, founders of a new kingdom. They still speak to us across the centuries. Perhaps if we believed what they believed, we might achieve what they achieved.

Then what are we waiting for? The situation has changed drastically. Nobody expected something like this. A force field around our entire solar system? Nobody’s going to believe us. Fucking insane. We need to pass on the information, and we need directives from Houston. And I’d still like to know what happened to the goddamn stars, David!

Beth’s father waited until he had everyone’s attention and then instructed them to join hands. He bowed his head. Sam did as well, although he had no idea what had concerned both of the women in the other man’s life. “Good friends,” Phillip said, “good meat. Good God, let’s eat.

Nada que valga la pena ha sido logrado sin el deseo de empezar, el entusiasmo de continuar y la persistencia para terminar", Waite Phillips.

Hopefully, you will encounter or have already encountered some silver or golden halos with the rare, truly charismatic people who give their all for us. They are out there, waiting for us to find them in the ether of our existence. Only a few of us will see their halos, beckoning from afar.

saw the wagon master looking out to the clearing in the middle of the circle. What looked like all of the people from the train approached them. One man seemed to be leading the group. Gage recognized him but didn’t recall the man’s name. “Mr. Colburn, we need to talk,” the man said when he stopped in front of Colburn. “Okay, Mr. Phillips, talk.” Colburn sipped a cup of coffee. “We heard what the men found out at that ranch. Don’t you think that means we should turn back, maybe go back to Kearney and wait for the Army to round up those Indians?” Colburn studied the man over the rim of his cup before answering. At the same time, he glanced at the faces of the people standing in front of him. “I thought we all agreed to go on to Montana from Kearney,” Colburn said.

I set a fast pace back towards the House and their footsteps followed close behind me, punctuated with hissed fragments of conversation as they tried to figure out what to do. As we closed in on the glass building, the boy declared that he was going to seek out Darcy and left us, his feet hitting the path at a thumping pace as he ran. I ignored them both and kept going all the way back to the House, taking the stairs two at a time before striding through the common room. I received several curious glances as we passed but most people had headed to their rooms already and the look I threw the others was enough to stop them from taking photographs or asking questions. I made it to my bedroom door before Sofia caught up to me again and she was even brave enough to grab my arm to halt me. “What?” I asked, lacing my voice with a bit of threat. Sofia blanched at my tone but didn’t back down and I found myself equally surprised and impressed by the devotion of this nothing little Fae to the girl in my arms. “Why are you taking her to your room?” she demanded. “I’ve got her bag right here with her key and-” “And while she’s in this state she could lose control again and burn the whole House down,” I replied. “I’ll have to stay with her tonight until she sleeps off the alcohol you watched her consume.” There was more than a hint of accusation in my tone but the girl didn’t even flinch this time. “And that’s all you’re going to do?” Sofia demanded. “You’re not going to play some trick on her or hurt her or...” She didn’t finish that accusation but her gaze flickered to the point where my hand was gripping Roxy’s bare thigh as I held her. “I’m not a fucking rapist,” I snapped. “I can have any girl I want in my bed any night of the week, why would I want to molest an unconscious one who hates me?” Sofia backed off instantly, seeming satisfied by whatever she’d seen in my eyes as her shoulders sagged a little. “Okay, I didn’t mean to imply...just...look after her,” she said, frowning at Roxy again with concern as she passed me her bag and backed up. I made to turn away from her then an idea occurred to me. “Wait…Sofia, right?” I asked, trying to sound vaguely friendly. It wasn’t something I attempted often and the frown she gave me said I was terrible at it. “Yes…” “I er, have this… cousin. Third cousin actually, who just emerged as a Pegasus…” “Good for her. Why are you telling me this?” she asked suspiciously. “It’s a him. He’s called…Phillip.” “Phillip?” She looked at me like no one in the world was actually called Phillip and I had to admit I’d never met one. Dammit. Why did I pick that fucking name? “Yeah. Well, as you can imagine in a family of pure blooded Dragons, Phillip isn’t coping so well with the shame of-” “Shame of what?” she asked, a clear challenge in her eyes for me to dare to finish that sentence. And in hindsight implying her Order was shameful probably wasn’t the best way to get her to help me. I shifted Roxy in my arms and sighed, wondering if I should just abandon this idea. But this girl had impressed me tonight despite her weakness and I didn’t really have anyone else to ask so I barrelled on. “I’ll level with you. Me calling your Order shameful is about the closest to a compliment he’d get from a member of my family on the subject. He’s been locked in his house, hidden away from the world, his father has actually considered killing him to conceal his true nature. He’s…alone. And he could really use someone of his Order to talk to…” My throat felt tight, I didn’t know if this was a terrible idea but Xavier had sounded so broken on the phone earlier, so desperate, I just wanted to try and help him. And maybe having another Pegasus to talk to would help him see some good in what he was. (Darius POV)

I love you," she interrupted him. "Neil. I can't wait another second to tell you. I love you." "I love you too," said Neil. "That's lovely," said Artemis. "Keep walking.

When we are frustrated, the unlived life is always beckoning; the unlived life of gratified desire returns as a possibility. Waiting too long poisons desire, but waiting too little pre-empts it; the imagining is in the waiting.

Turns out we weren’t missing anything—but our testers were. They spent the first thirty minutes looking for tools—the wire stripper, the flathead screwdriver; no, wait, we need a Phillips. Where did I put that little one again? Once they got everything they needed, the rest of the installation flew by. Twenty, thirty minutes tops.

I think what’s occurring is a stealthy rebranding: the word ‘problem’ has become too emotionally loaded to be uttered in polite company in case we think bad things about the companies responsible. So software bugs are now issues rather than problems, even if they stop our computers working and ruin our day. Or, for my CEO, the bug is an opportunity. He was in the software business, and the only opportunity a broken computer gives you is the opportunity to wait for tech support to call back. We now have ‘performance issues’ with staff who fall asleep on their keyboard, or ‘brand issues’ with companies that nobody likes, or, worst of all, ‘balance sheet issues’, as described by Lehman Brothers, shortly before it ceased to be Lehman Brothers. At least they didn’t call it a ‘balance sheet opportunity’, though I bet someone suggested it. Rule of thumb on issues: it doesn’t matter whether your company admits to balance sheet issues or problems, it still might be time to send out your CV.

This was the Linc not many people saw. The vulnerable man beneath the businessman he presented to the world. “You need sleep. Do you have a car waiting?” she asked because he used a driver to get around the city.

No hace falta que tu espera sea improductiva, Él conoce nuestros infatigables corazones. Conoce nuestra necesidad de hacer mientras esperamos. Así que cuando tu vida está detenida por lo que no puedes controlar, y cuando estás aguardando respuestas que parecen nunca llegar, Dios dice que uses ese tiempo para trabajar donde te encuentras. Dios dice que aprendas el arte de esperar con propósito.

Puedes cumplir con el propósito del Señor y mientras esperar con esperanza.

He put his hat back on his head and said good-bye to Charity, who continued to stare at him with wide eyes. She didn’t say anything in response to his gesture. I started to chastise my daughter for being rude, but before I could get a word out, she took a deep breath, turned toward me and said, “Mama, this man looks just like Prince Phillip . . . from Sleeping Beauty.” She fastened her gaze back on Noah, staring at him with an expression that bordered on adoration. “Are you Prince Phillip? My mama has been waiting for you such a long, long time.

Ugh, sorry. Watching parliamentary procedure always makes me bored and angry. I think it has to do with the Star Wars prequels.” Phillip furrowed his brow. “Wait a minute. They made prequels to Star Wars?” Martin winced. He remembered that he, Tyler, Gary, and Jeff had all sworn never to tell Phillip about the Star Wars prequels. “There are some things about the future that he’s better off not knowing,” Jeff had argued.

T-shirt was drenched in sweat. He had never felt so afraid, and yet there was a certain exhilaration to it. But there were also no guarantees that his escape plan was going to work. Phillip was a man who seldom liked to take chances. In addition to the escape tunnel, he had a boat waiting for him—a small, unassuming fishing boat. He had a guy keeping watch, patrolling

You know, that’s one of the problems with this place,” Joe said. “You guys. When you opened this bar, there were five of us at loose ends, and not looking to settle down. The only ones settled with women were Zeke, Corny, Phillips and Stephens. The rest of us were getting well into our thirties, pretty damn happy to be single. Plenty of women out there to keep us busy for a little while. Then you guys—Jesus. You not only hooked up, you found these incredible…” Jack poured himself a shot to join his friend in commiseration. “We got lucky,” he said. “It goes way past luck,” Joe said. “Some god was smiling on you.” He looked into his glass. “I’m just an idiot. I had my arms around this woman for one long, incredible night and I thought—this is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life. And she slipped away from me that fast,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I woke up alone.” He lifted his drink to his lips. Chairs

I listened to some John Phillip Sousa today and imagined you marching in your dress blues. Will you send me a picture when you graduate? I can’t wait to see you all serious in front of the flag. You do serious pretty well, so I don’t think you will look too different to me

The truest help we can render an afflicted man is not to take his burden from him, but to call out his best strength that he may be able to bear it.” —PHILLIPS BROOKS

In that moment Paulette stepped outside anything that had ever hurt her before. Harve needed her more than she needed herself. But she had nothing to say. Nothing to offer him. She came up empty. “I may not have shot any of those babies in safety seats, but I took out my share o’ guys in a country I started thinking we had no right bein’ in. I could tell myself they’d signed up for it, knowing they might not go home, but that just didn’t cut it after a while.” … … “Oh, they were scumbags, alright. Other guys in my unit’d be ready to just level the kids too, cause they were getting in our way, but I said, Wait. Let me try goin’ in first. Let me come at ’em from the rear. “Other times I just lost myself in the righteous glory of cluster bombing the hell outa those bastards. “And for that one moment, in all the cheering and explosions it’s like all was right with the world. It was John Phillip Sousa at Disneyland. “But then you wake up a little. You just snuffed out future generations. Maybe bad guys can have good kids if you let ’em. We’ll never know now.” He was coming close to crying. “And then you see all those pieces; kid parts lying everywhere. “And their little faces. “If they even still had faces. “Once you finish throwing up, and then toss back a few at camp pub, your next job is to find something inside you that you can bury that under. “And then … what? Just go on living?” - From “The Gardens of Ailana

What was at stake for him was not so much risk taking as the experiencing of the risk. He could bring the drama to climax—of fight or flight, as it were—but he was merely ridding himself of the drama. It was anticipation itself that had become a phobic object,because it ushered him towards a threshold of action. Between waiting and wanting and doing something about it there was a terror, a delay that seemed unbearable. There was a Jekyll of definite intent, and a Hyde fobbing him o with either satisfaction—the kiss “planted” as he would say—or evasion, the hurried (and harried) rush home.

Fetch: You think about death? Khay: Yeah. I'm terrified of it. Not because of the pain or what I think is waiting on the other side. I just don't want this to end. That's why I joined the Genie in the first place. I love every minute of being here. Being me. Curse or no curse, pre or post-Coda, I just... if I stop and just feel, I... I can become overwhelmed. On nothing. On the fact that we're here. That any of this exists.

Felicia was waiting for me, and for a moment I forgot to ask any questions- forgot everything except the pleasure of looking at her.

A man watches his pear tree day after day, impatient for the ripening of the fruit,” Lincoln once explained to an abolitionist. “Let him attempt to force the process, and he may spoil both fruit and tree. But let him patiently wait, and the ripe pear at length falls into his lap.

about to start a second Great War? Her. For one. And she’s just one of many mistakes.” May flinched, looking down at the ground. “That wasn’t . . . your fault. You don’t need to run away.” His eyes widened, and he pointed out toward the field of grass. “GO.” May groaned in frustration. “You can’t join her, Jack. You can’t! I don’t know what you think you’re doing—” “I’m doing what needs to be done!” he shouted. “I’m not Phillip, I’m not you. I wasn’t born into a royal family, May. I was born with a mind, and that’s about it, and that’s what I’m going to use now. Whatever I need to do, I’ll do!” “You need my help,” May said, her voice softening again. “You have to know that, Jack. Whatever’s going on, you can’t do it alone. You need your friends. You have to know that!” “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Jack said, bitterness swimming behind his eyes. “I thought the same way once, but I was wrong. I know what I’m meant to do now. One of them will betray you, and one will die, right? I know what I have to do.” May’s entire body went cold. “What do you mean, you know what you have to do? What are you planning?” She grabbed his arm, but he tore it away. “LEAVE,” he said, his eyes closed tight, and May could feel a tug on herself, like a river current pulling her away. “NO!” she screamed. “You can’t do this, whatever you’re planning! She’s not worth it! NONE of this is worth it!” “LEAVE,” he said again, and this time the current almost swept her away. “Jack, I’m not a dream!” she screamed. “The Charmed One can tell you! I’m here in the dream world! I’m stuck here, but I’ll find a way out. Don’t do anything . . . don’t do anything crazy!” She was practically begging him now. “PLEASE. Wait for me. I’ll come find you, I promise. Just don’t do anything! WAIT FOR ME!” Jack started to say something, then stopped, just staring at her. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered

Wherever and whenever we are excessive in our lives it is the sign of an as yet unknown deprivation. Fanatics are people who have had to wait too long for something that may not exist. Wherever there is an excessive frustration there is a false solution; this would be an excessive way of putting it. Our excesses are the best clues we have to our own poverty; and our best way of concealing it from ourselves.

To desire is to be doubly left out; left out from the presence of the object of desire, and left out of the desiring of one’s objects of desire. Wanting and a certain kind of aloneness are inextricable; as Barthes wrote, in one’s mind it is never the other who waits.

The distance between us and any star over the horizon is increasing faster than light can cross it. The universe is expanding, every chunk of space is swelling, every day, every year. No one knows why. There’s something called dark energy, but that’s just a name. No one knows what it really is. “But wait!” you exclaim, “the universe is only 13.8 billion years old! Shouldn’t the horizon be 13.8 billion light years?” Surprisingly, the answer is no. Think of space as a grid of squares. Then imagine that each square grows by 1% over some period of time, say, a million years. That means the square next to us is 1% further away after a million years. But the next square over is 2% further away, then 3%, etc. A square that is 100 squares away becomes twice as far away as it used to be. A 1000 squares away, becomes 20 times further. It’s multiplicative. The further out you go, the greater the multiplier. Eventually, you’ll get to a square that is expanding away from us faster than light could travel the distance—even though nothing has really traveled that distance. The grid has simply grown larger.

Don't worry about me, I'm just tired. I will be ok, just wait another day. It is nothing I assure you. Would you believe it’s a cold or flu? Don't worry about me, really, I’m fine. I stayed up too late, there’s a lot on my plate. I don’t know what else I can say, Just believe me; and please go away.

You know I was waiting.” “Well, you waited too long and now I’ve met Hisst.” Her grip softened and she resumed the slow, gentle strokes. “A fucking lizard? One who is willing to share you?” “One who wants me enough that he’s willing to share.” The words hung in the air.

... but when Martha left, I stayed. I thought that because I was drunk, maybe everything would be different, that as the night waned, Cross would eventually come to me. But instead, when the DJ played "Stairway to Heaven" as the last song of the night, Cross slow-danced with Horton Kinnelly and then the song ended and they stood side by side, still close together, Cross rubbing his hand over Norton's back. It all felt both casual and random--in the last four minutes they seemed to have become a couple. And though they had not interacted for the entire night, I understood suddenly that just as I'd been eyeing Cross over the last several hours, he'd been eyeing Horton, or maybe it had been for much longer than that. He too had been saving something for the end, but the difference between Cross and me was that he made choices, he exerted control, his agenda succeeded. Mine didnt. I waited for him, and he didn't look at me. And that was what the rest of senior week was like, though it surprised me less each time, at each party, and by the end of the week, Cross and Horton weren't even waiting until it was late and they were drunk--you'd see them entwined in the hammock at John Brindley's house in the afternoon, or in the kitchen at Emily Phillip's house, Cross sitting on a bar stool and Horton perched on his lap.

Many, if not most people smoked cigarettes everywhere and there seemed to be a lot of pushing and shoving. I thought I was standing at the bus stop to catch the bus to Akko but no one else seemed to be waiting in line so I asked a woman standing near by if this was where to catch the bus. “Yes, this is the bus stop.” She answered matter of factly. So, I waited the half hour until the bus arrived and when it pulled up to the bus stop I was pushed aside by 25 or 30 people who ran up and pushed and shoved their way onto the bus.

She was back. Even so, Will didn't move. He would wait her out, fake-relaxing in the uncomfortable chair with his head not against the wall, tapping his hands to Bureaucratic Barbara's brainwashing beat as an act of solidarity with every other man she'd tried to enervate with her bell and refusal to offer change. [inner dialog of Will Phillips]

afternoons I remember still: how the light seemed a bell; how it seemed I'd been living inside it, waiting— I'd heard all about that one clear note it gives.

The world is going to change, by default, but if you wait for the world to change you, the change will not be for the better.

One of J. B. Phillips’s books is entitled Your God Is Too Small. Our God becomes too small when we make God in our own image, instead of heeding the image of God in us. In us, not outside us, but in us, waiting to be recognized. Our call, no matter what our vocation, is to witness to the God within, the God who is One.

I’ve never felt more ashamed of myself.” Another tear drops from her cheek. “It didn’t even register what he had said until his hand was down my pants, and he was… He was already done.” She tries to laugh, but it’s more like a wince. “He jerked himself off with two pumps and came on my leg. I’d never been more disgusted than I was in that moment. I told him that I thought he cared about me, but when he looked at me with sympathy, like he felt sorry for me for misunderstanding what this was, I snapped. I yelled at him to leave and that I never wanted to see him again. And he told me that he would always care about me, but he had to take the opportunity he was given.” “What the fuck does that mean?” I stand up, swatting at the mosquitos getting on my nerves, and remember I had left a lighter in the tackle box next to the stack of kindling. She smiles at me when I look up from starting the fire. “We were from a different class of people than the clients I was working for. His fiancée is the daughter of a pretty big name who runs a huge financial institution. What comes of his career and the lifestyle he wants was solely based on him marrying her. I was a coincidence or an inconvenience.” She rubs her hands along the tops of her thighs, working out what else she might want to share. “I thought he cared about me, and I’ve never felt so stupid in my entire life for getting that wrong.” My head hurts from gritting my teeth so fucking hard. My fists have balled up at my sides, eager to punch the next Phillip I meet right in the fucking ear. I swallow it all down, though, because she’s telling me something true, and it might be part of something I’ve been itching to understand. “How does that bring you here?” She clears her throat and waits a few seconds before responding. “I needed to leave.

The reformer is careless of numbers, disregards popularity, and deals only with ideas, conscience, and common sense,” Wendell Phillips remarked. “He feels, with Copernicus, that as God waited long for an interpreter, so he can wait for his followers. He neither expects nor is overanxious for immediate success. The politician dwells in an everlasting NOW. His motto is ‘Success’—his aim, votes. His object is not absolute right, but…as much right as the people will sanction. His office is not to instruct public opinion, but to represent it.

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