Weston Quotes

To consult the rules of composition before making a picture is a little like consulting the law of gravitation before going for a walk.

Weston is everything And all at once. Weston is gentle And harsh. Weston can be blindingly bright But then he can also be Delicately soft. Weston is a paradox.

Sheesh, one hot girl walks into the house and all trust vanishes. -Vane Weston

I know exactly who I am. It’s everyone else who seems to be having a problem.

Weston did not know the Malacandrian word for laugh: indeed, it was not a word he understood very well in any language.

We're quiet for a moment. And then: 'Why did you call me Matt?' 'It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that I know you, I realise I should have called that character Dick.' He laughs, and then the couch shakes. 'Honestly, Gabe, I forgot you could be this much fun.

At his core, Weston Ryder was gentle, and I thought that was the best thing that a man could be.

I know things are messy with us, but do you really think I could just walk away from you?" This time he doesn't look away. "Do you really think I'd let you?

We were doomed from the start. A lost cause. A losing battle. And yet, in that narrow instant, I didn't give a single fuck.

Did you ever stop to think that even if I am a monster, I might be your soulmate anyway?

It's been a long time since you asked me for anything. I'm not going to fuck it up.

I'm Vane Weston: The Last Westerly Great- it sounds like something out of an anime cartoon.

You believe what he's saying - that they're demons?" Simon nods. "Like, from hell?'" "No," Rafa says, "from Comic-Con." He shakes his head. "Yes, from hell.

Most stories are based on something real.

Seriously." He turned me so I was facing him. "I'm not gonna lie. I want you. I want you so freaking bad that I'm pretty sure when I get to heaven I'm going to be sainted.

Calm down," Rafa says. "Yeah," I say, "because you're an expert at patience." "Which is why I look to you to set the example." "Oh, fuck off.

I had never realized before how quickly men deteriorate without razors and clean shirts. They are like potted plants that go to weed unless they are pruned and tended daily. A single day's growth beard makes a man look careless; two days', derelict; and four days', polluted. Blix and Weston hadn't shaved for three.

I hear you've been with every Rephaite in a skirt.' Crap. Where did that come from? 'Who told you that?' HIs smile shifts into something less amused. 'Daniel. Who else? The prick.' 'Is he a liar?' Rafa leans against the pale wall. 'I haven't been with everyone.' 'What about Taya?' 'Hell, no. I'm no monk, but I have standards.' I wonder what else Daniel was wrong about. 'What about me?' Rafa's teasing smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'You had standards too.

Thank you, Professor Weston... <— How about those ellipses? Did they fit there) —Gillian

Love. Nightmares. Angels. War.

Making mistakes simply means you are learning faster.

I would never have to wonder what it was like to be loved, because Weston Ryder would love me all the way.

How can you be so sure?" I badly want to believe him, but this is Rafa. The guy who's all action and no plan. His smile is tired, knowing. An echo of a shared past I don't remember. "Because I'm not smart enough to give up, and you don't know how to.

Praised be my Lord, for our sister water. St. Francis of Assisi, Canticle of the Sun

Mind your mettle, Tessa.”- Weston

Morning after morning, I wake up with him lingering in my thoughts and I feel guilty without having any idea why.

~ You know young Francis Weston? He that waits on the king? His people are giving out that you’re a Hebrew... Next time you’re at court, take your cock out and put it on the table and see what he says to that. ~ I do that anyway, if the conversation flags.

Our family was nearly torn apart on several occasions by arguments started when the refrigerator door was open for what my father deemed as ‘too long.

No pleasure is worth giving up for the sake of two more years in a geriatric home in Weston-super-Mare

Juliette Ferrars." A voice detonates my name. There's a heavy boot pressed on my back and I can't lift my head to distingush who's speaking to me. "Weston, dim the lights and release her. I want to see her face." The command is cool and strong like steel, dangerously calm, effortlessly powerful. The brightness is reduced to a level I'm able to tolerate. The imprint of a boot is carved into my back but no longer settled on my skin. I lift my head and look up. I'm immediately struck by his youth. He can't be much older than me. It's obvious he's in charge of something, though I have no idea what. His skin is flawless, unblemished, his jawline sharp and strong. His eyes are the palest shade of emerald I've ever seen. He's beautiful. His crooked smile is calculated evil.

You have no idea, do you? You two lost each other - I lost both of you." He hurls the bottle at the wall. It smashes against the tiles over the sink and the place instantly reeks of beer. "Screw this." He shifts. Two seconds later something hits the wall in his room.

Make your life count, Henry David Weston. For when you reach the end of your days, you will not look back and wish you'd garnered more money, or power, or fame. You will look back and wish that you had been a better parent, spouse, friend, and Christian. And you will wish for just a little more time with those you love.

You make me want to do better,” he says suddenly, and his voice is thick with emotion, so I go still. “You make me wish Weston Lark was real, because you will never look at me the way you look at him. I don’t know how to fix everything I’ve done wrong, Tessa. I don’t even know if I can. But I want to try.

I don’t believe I have been compromised. At least not past redemption. -Isabella Weston

The stars in their courses were fighting against Weston.

Weston helped me to not be afraid. Weston took me outside and showed me the world.

The air around Weston was always electric. A crackling force field that kept people away, fueled by his barbed tongue and acid wit. If I reached through it to touch him, no doubt I’d be shocked. It would hurt like hell.

I knew this was still here somewhere." He pulls a knife from the back of the drawer, takes it out of its sheath and shines the torch on it. I move closer until our shoulders touch. "That's beautiful," I whisper. "You gave this to me." I take the knife. It's heavier than I expect. "Please, tell me it was a gift and not something I stabbed you with.

Here is a story that’s stranger than strange. Before we begin you may want to arrange: a blanket, a cushion, a comfortable seat, and maybe some cocoa and something to eat. I’ll warn you, of course, before we commence, my story is eerie and full of suspense, brimming with danger and narrow escapes, and creatures of many remarkable shapes. Dragons and ogres and gorgons and more, and creatures you’ve not even heard of before. And faraway places? There’s plenty of those! (And menacing villains to tingle your toes.) So ready your mettle and steady your heart. It’s time for my story’s mysterious start...

He guides my fingers under his hair to the nape of his neck. To the shape of a crescent moon.

I have these secret pangs of shame about being single, like I wasn't good enough to get a husband. Rita reminded me of something I'd told her once, about the five rules of the world as arrived at by this Catholic priest named Tom Weston. The first rule, he says, is that you must not have anything wrong with you or anything different. The second one is that if you do have something wrong with you, you must get over it as soon as possible. The third rule is that if you can't get over it, you must pretend that you have. The fourth rule is that if you can't even pretend that you have, you shouldn't show up. You should stay home, because it's hard for everyone else to have you around. And the fifth rule is that if you are going to insist on showing up, you should at least have the decency to feel ashamed. So Rita and I decided that the most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my life and not be ashamed.

Your kids—and I imagine they had more help—dug a wide but shallow grave on Weston’s football field. They stole the kid’s car, drove it into the hole, and buried it. They even made a nice little tombstone for it.” Snorts

You have no idea, do you? You two lost each other - I lost both of you." He hurls the bottle at the wall. It smashes against the tiles over the sink and the place instantly reeks of beer. "Screw this." He shifts. Two seconds later something hits the wall in his room.

It's not in the perfection of life that things make sense, but in the chaos"- Weston Michel

Pirate queens never trip. -Isabella Weston

Weston Lark tried to keep her safe. Prince Corrick can't show her mercy.

Weston, with his foppish hair and calculating smile, wouldn’t last two minutes against her mother.

The first way not to shake hands is executed by receiving someone’s hand in yours and proceeding to squeeze it tightly, hurting the other party as if they were responsible for a past death in your family, or your adoption as a child.

Already, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart petrifying, my soul contracting; and I trembled lest my very moral perceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong confounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the baneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapors of earth were gathering around me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and thus it was that Mr. Weston rose at length upon me, appearing like the morning star in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness; and I rejoiced that I now had a subject for contemplation that was above me, not beneath.

The Yale anthropologist Weston La Barre goes far as to argue that `a surprisingly good case could be made that much of culture is hallucination` and that `the whole intent and function of ritual appears to be... a group wish to hallucinate reality`.

How can you forgive what I did?" "Because I know you. Because I've seen the best and the worst of you. Because of everything we've been through in the last hundred and thirty-nine years and what we've been through since you found me in the bar. God, because I want to move forward." "Yea, but --" "Because I love you, you idiot!

If I could count the infinity of you I’d place each second within your soul, and lay my breath between the stars that form your heart and whole.

nothing was seen or heard of Mr. Weston; until, at last, I gave up hoping, for even my heart acknowledged it was all in vain. But still, I would think of him: I would cherish his image in my mind; and treasure every word, look, and gesture that my memory could retain;

You have a thousand hearts’ worth of love to give. A thousand tears may fall when one heart breaks. But never cry for shame.” He kept my chin in his thick hand. “Even love lost was well-spent.

Ever since the robot was first invented, there have been people who swear up and down that this marks the first step towards the fall of man … To be fair, their arguments are backed with scientific fact taken from documentary films such as The Terminator, The Matrix, and RoboCop.

You're right. You're not a princess -- you're Little Red. and I'm the Big Bad Wolf.

He does not even hate Francis Weston, any more than you hate a biting midge; you just wonder why it was created.

He would have thought God could make his own decisions, but Weston believes the creator may be pushed and coaxed and maybe bribed a little.

Thirty minutes until I saw Weston. I shouldn't be this excited about a ride home.

I hope if you write about us tonight it feels like the beginning of a very long story" -Weston

Weston Belmont. Rose Hill’s very own Super-Crocodile-Dundee-Man at your service,” I reply with a dramatic salute.

I straighten and stretch my neck side to side. ‘I really need to hit something.’ Rafa’s mouth quirks. ‘I know what you need.’ ‘In your dreams.’ I know where this is going: it’s been the same banter for about five decades now. Usually he saves it for an audience. ‘In my dreams, Gabe, you end up slick with sweat and moaning.’ ‘I have food poisoning?’ He laughs, a beer halfway to his lips. Condensation drips from the bottle. He’s completely at ease here: three-quarter cargoes, frayed t-shirt, bare feet. ‘I’m just saying that if you need distracting, I’m your man.’ ‘If I wanted to go places everyone else has been, Rafa, I’d take a trip to Disneyland.’ He leans in closer. ‘Yeah, but don’t you want to know why everyone loves Space Mountain?

Of the seminal moments in my life, Careers Day in the autumn of Year 5 is my favorite. Everyone had to dress as whatever they wanted to be once they grew up. I had gone in a tweed jacket and a bow tie, and when Miss Weston asked me what I wanted to be, I told her that I wanted to be the Doctor. 'Shouldn't you be wearing a lab coat and stethoscope like Paul?' She pointed to Paul Black, who was trying to strangle everyone with the stethoscope in question. Before I could answer, a boy I didn't know from the other class spoke up. 'Paul's *a* doctor,' he explained, giving me a look of approval. 'He wants to be *the* Doctor.' 'Who?' 'Exactly,' we said at the same time, relieved that she understood. She didn't. We were sent to the quiet table to reflect on why cheeking teachers was wrong.

It wasn’t enough that I had to worry about playing well and winning the game, but I also had to deal with possibility that one of my teammates could be dragged off the field by the inhabitants of the mental hospital.

The wind took me away from you, Draped with fear, waking nightmare, I lost all sense of who I could become, Your exuberant hold slipped away, Irresolute, impulsive, irreconcilable.

You have ten minutes to be angry, ten minutes to be sad, ten minutes to be anything other than thankful that you have an eleventh minute to look forward to.

It is not a mistake to have strong views. The mistake is to have nothing else.

My priest friend Tom said you can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.

It appeared painful to regrow a set of hands, but I can hardly blame her for dabbling in street magic. Anyone can see she's addicted to being whole.

I have observed...in the course of my life, that if things are going outwardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.

The order goes to the Tower, ‘Bring up the bodies.’ Deliver, that is, the accused men, by name Weston, Brereton, Smeaton and Norris, to Westminster Hall for trial. Kingston fetches them by barge; it is 12 May, a Friday.

Weston: Look at my outlook. You don't envy it, right? Wesley: No. Weston: That's because it's full of poison. Infected. And you recognize poison, right? You recognize it when you see it? Wesley: Yes. Weston: Yes, you do. I can see that you do. My poison scares you. Wesley: Doesn't scare me. Weston: No? Wesley: No. Weston: Good. You're growing up. I never saw my old man's poison until I was much older than you. Much older. And then you know how I recognized it? Wesley: How? Weston: Because I saw myself infected with it. That's how. I saw me carrying it around. His poison in my body.

[The cats] scamper in front of my legs, causing me to fall and face plant into whatever furniture is closest. They especially like to play this game when I’m carrying piping hot coffee.

Maybe you're right, Red. Maybe I am hateful. Maybe I ruined your life. Maybe I'm the devil, and the worst thing that ever happened to you, and a million other awful things... But did you ever stop to think that even if I am a monster... I might be your soulmate, anyway?

Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests." "No," he calmly replied, "there is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is-" "Mrs. Weston, I suppose," interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified. "No, Mrs. Knightley; and, till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself.

The fact is that Superman should be fat. He should be a lard-assed superhero with flabby arms, a beer gut, and soft muscles. ...when Superman bench-presses a Cadillac, he doesn't even break a sweat. It's like picking up a bag of feathers. Would Batman be buff if he bench-pressed feathers? Because that's essentially what Superman does every day.

Today words curve around my vision, Stumbling from my parched core To soak again those strands of silence.

I dunno what the hell's in there, but it's weird and pissed off, whatever it is." -The Thing, 1982, Directed by John Carpenter

WESTON, COLORADO, was a small ranch town with dusty streets, too many cowboy hats, and a main drag that had been built to

George Weston, after all was only a man—poor thing—and his wife made full use of every device which a clumsier and more scrupulous sex has learned, with reason and futility, to fear.

What do you feel?” Curiosity hung in the air. Matt was thankful Darian didn’t walk out except now he had to explain himself. “I feel jittery.” “Oh, then it’s gotta be love.” Darian shook his head and turned away. Matt knew sarcasm when he heard it. He grabbed Darian’s elbow and pulled him into his arms. Darian’s hands were smashed to his chest and his face was very close to Matt’s. “I’m not letting you walk out.” He asserted. “You make me feel sick.” “Oh, that’s so much better.

On my way home that evening I felt an effervescence of spirit which built up inside me until I felt like shouting out loud for the sheer hell of it. The school, the children, Weston, the grimy fly-infested street through which I hurried - none of it could detract from the wonderful feeling of being employed. At long last I had a job, and though it promised to tax my capabilities to the full, it offered me the opportunity - wonderful word - of working on terms of dignified equality in an established profession.

Rafa straightens. ‘'Just let me figure a few things out.’' ‘'Like why you didn’t help me?’' He shrugs, unrepentant. ‘'I thought it was an act. It didn’t cross my mind you wouldn’t fight.’' ‘'If I knew how to fight, Rafa, you wouldn’t still be conscious.’' That brings a quick grin to his face. ‘'See, now that gives me hope all’s not lost. You’re still in there somewhere.’' ‘'Who’s still in here? Who is it you and those psychopaths think I am?’' His smile fades. ‘'You really don’t know.

Whatever her purposes, I won’t have my grandsons raised by an invertebrate.” “Sebastian,” she chided softly, although her lips quivered with amusement. “I mean for her to partner with Weston Ravenel. A healthy young buck with sharp wits and a full supply of manly vigor. He’ll do her much good.” “Let’s allow Phoebe to decide if she wants him,” Evie suggested. “She had better decide soon, or Westcliff will snap him up for one of his daughters.

I was alone, for twenty-five years. And I didn't give a shit, because I didn't know what I was missing. Then, this stubborn, beautiful fucking brunette came barreling into my life and shoved her way through all the shadows.

You will never learn to fly unless you jump!

Freedom cannot be labeled nor won nor envied. Only when one doesn't realize what freedom is, is one truly free.

Right. Why make lemons into lemonade when you can throw them at people instead?

... He remembered once hearing his grandmother... say plaintively: "Why daughter, I presume I can go without -- BUT I CAN'T ECONOMIZE.

Explosions happened. People died. And I slept.

The Tuesday Seamstress said our souls were sewn apart. Delicate embroidered tomorrows travelled without a start.

It might've started as a lie, Faith, but it sure as hell didn't end as one. I might not have been real to you, and that's fine. But you have to know... you were real to me." His voice dropped so low I could barely hear him. "It was real to me. It's still real. The realest fucking thing I've ever felt.

Yes,’ said Oyarsa, ‘but one thing we left behind us on the harandra: fear. And with fear, murder and rebellion. The weakest of my people does not fear death. It is the Bent One, the lord of your world, who wastes your lives and befouls them with flying from what you know will overtake you in the end. If you were subjects of Maleldil you would have peace.’ Weston

ahead. The way out.” His deep, melodious voice crafted words of air and sound that landed gently on my chest, seeping into my bones. “But there is the Twice Born man, Weston,” he said, his hand tightening on mine. “The man who walks into the dark forest of his life and suffers. Sometimes unimaginably. The way back is forever closed to him, but the Twice Born man walks forward. The path becomes more twisted, the hardships seemingly impossible to overcome. But he keeps going until one day, the shadows lift. The branches cease to scratch at his skin and they part for him. He’ll regard the scars with pride as he emerges from the forest reborn. Stronger for what he has endured. Wiser. Transformed. And grateful for the lessons he learned.

We’re not doing that, and you know it.” He doesn’t speak again I lean closer, lower my voice. “I know things are messy with us, but do you really think I could just walk away from you?” This time he doesn’t look away. “Do you really think I’d let you?

but Ransom soon perceived that it regarded intelligence simply and solely as a weapon, which it had no more wish to employ in its off-duty hours than a soldier has to do bayonet practice when he is on leave. Thought was for it a device necessary to certain ends, but thought in itself did not interest it. It assumed reason as externally and inorganically as it had assumed Weston’s body.

No, I'm not smart," he whispered against her ear, "but I was wise enough to fall in love with you and clever enough to convince you to marry me. I hope I'm not so stupid that I would ever let you go.

He does not know what caused him to break off from Weston and walk out. Perhaps it was when the boy said 'forty-five or fifty'. As if, past mid-life, there is a second childhood, a new phase of innocence. It touched him, perhaps, the simplicity of it. Or perhaps he just needed air. Let us say you are in a chamber, the windows sealed, you are conscious of the proximity of other bodies, of the declining light. In the room you put cases, you play games, you move your personnel around each other: notional bodies, hard as ivory, black as ebony, pushed on their paths across the squares. Then you say, I can't endure this any more, I must breathe: you burst out of the room amd into a wild garden where the guilty are hanging from trees, no longer ivory, no longer ebony, but flesh; and their wild lamenting tongues proclaim their guilt as they die. In this matter, cause has preceded effect. What you dreamed has enacted itself. You reach for a blade but the blood is already shed. The lambs have butchered and eaten themselves. They have brought knives to the table, carved themselves, and picked their own bones clean.

Thank you.” A bright blush stained her cheeks. “For last night. For chasing the monsters away…” “Anytime. It’s kind of my job to protect you.” “A job sounds like you’re forced.” “Nah,” I argued. “Saying it’s my job just means it’s my identity in a way. You know how people go, ‘Hey, I’m Rick. I’m a janitor.’” I smiled. “Now I can say, hey I’m Weston, and I kill monsters on behalf of my very sexy girlfriend so she can sleep

Thank you.” A bright blush stained her cheeks. “For last night. For chasing the monsters away…” “Anytime. It’s kind of my job to protect you.” “A job sounds like you’re forced.” “Nah,” I argued. “Saying it’s my job just means it’s my identity in a way. You know how people go, ‘Hey, I’m Rick. I’m a janitor.’” I smiled. “Now I can say, hey I’m Weston, and I kill monsters on behalf of my very sexy girlfriend so she can sleep at night.

I can’t,” I say again, my eyes burning into hers. “I can’t, Tessa. You don’t know how many times I wished dawn wouldn’t come so quickly. How many times I wanted to stay with you instead of returning to this. How many times I wished I were truly Weston Lark, that Prince Corrick was the fabrication.

After all, this was the place where I’d had my first meaningful conversation with a female, it was the site of a football’s first encounter with my groin, and above all, it was the location where I was first punched in the face by a bully. Somewhere out there, a tooth of mine lay deep within the soil.

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c. set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women;' and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.

A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference.” “Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one’s family circle grievously.

Everyone is a mouth breather and everyone has rampant tooth decay.

Anything that excites me for any reason, I will photograph; not searching for unusual subject matter, but making the commonplace unusual.

Being spanked and tickled by Mr. T while he chants ‘Them bats is smart, they use radar, fool!’ is just fucking scary.

Interspersed within the blonde hairs were traitorous slivers of gray.

Life in all its brevity deserved to be lived, for the right reasons. Belonging Places.

I was misplaced air that cradled all around you, held to cobalt skies to shelter your fledgling wings.

Remember me when faded illumination transcends my name- Remarks are heard with beating silence and I am born on tranquil starlight-

What is the measure of life But the distance travelled From womb to catacomb, Does the ever after take account?

When I was young there were some things I didn’t understand. I never understood how Superman could love Lois Lane…

So the year passes into many yesterdays, and winter comes again.

past year—I stop, remember to breathe. Let it go.

YANKOWSKI.

The way of the nomad is to accept everything as it comes: there is no anticipation of better days, no longing for the unrequited, no despair for loss.

But one thing is certain. For me, a gay soldier is a soldier just like me. Who we love has nothing to do with the price of war, unless it’s a flag, or culture, or civilization.

If you won't be you...who will?

Can you see me― floating among those star fuelled dreams― stripped back to atoms across the night sky in iridescent tones― of nimble highs―

Emerald leaves crossed our paths with veracity marked in golden drafts, somewhere deep amid the pending vapours of humility and dance, did we dance across the skies?

Was it privilege to love you? Painted hues of viridescent lives to those lost seconds when we saw the world begin again in strides.

What sanctuary is there in indulging the whims of falling stars?

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome. Isaac Asimov

Her face was like a clear pool reflecting every change in a shifting sky.

The typical English painting is narrative in character. The English are a nation of diarists.

Mmm. Last night, you smelled like strawberries. Now, you smell like us,” he rumbles, and my knees weaken, then I ache when he rasps out, “Smell her, Weston.

It’s that annoying time of year again,” Aria said. “What time of year is that?” Weston asked. “She means Valentine’s Day,” Talon explained. “And she’s right; it is annoying.

Just when you thought you couldn’t piss me off even more, you go and out do yourself.” - Brian McGrath to Weston

I made my first public appearance on the stairs up to the school nurse's room, at St. Peter's Preparatory School, Weston-super-Mare, Somerset, England, on September 13, 1948.

But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune? -Mrs. Elton

Calm down Weston. It was just a window. I wasn’t aiming for your head.” - Samuel

A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.

...of this one thing we may be sure, the Grail is a living force, it will never die; it may indeed sink out of sight, and, for centuries even, disappear from the field of literature, but it will rise to the surface again, and become once more a theme of vital inspiration...

She realizes now that Weston Winters is very good at only letting people see what he wants them to. Golden-boy polish. Reckless confidence. Honeyed words. But he’s nothing but a liar, his pieces held together with cheap gilt. As she stares at him, unblinking, his smile withers. Half of her wants the satisfaction of flaying him to the bone, but the stronger, kinder half pities him.

Cherish your doubts, for doubt is the handmaiden of truth. Doubt is the key to the door of knowledge; it is the servant of discovery. A belief which may not be questioned binds us to error, for there is incompleteness and imperfection in every belief. Doubt is the touchstone of truth; it is an acid which eats away the false. Let no man fear for the truth, that doubt may consume it; for doubt is a testing of belief. The truth stands boldly and unafraid; it is not shaken by the testing; For truth, if it be truth, arises from each testing stronger, more secure. He that would silence doubt is filled with fear; the house of his spirit is built on shifting sands. But he that fears no doubt, and knows its use, is founded on a rock. He shall walk in the light of growing knowledge; the work of his hands shall endure. Therefore let us not fear doubt, but let us rejoice in its help: It is to the wise as a staff to the blind; doubt is the handmaiden of truth.

The sky's inclemency stirs up the angry winds; the watery clouds are soaking with ceaseless rain. The turbulent Vltava, swollen with rainy waves, Bursting, impetuous, breaks through its river banks.

Rising out of the water of the pool, I squeezed the water from my hair. It was then I heard a crash and looked over to the workout room to find Weston no longer on the treadmill, but lying against the wall.

I can't help wanting. I want you to burn as I burn. I want you to lie awake at night thinking of me. If you sleep, I want you to dream of me. I want you to tell me that you can't stand the sight of me dancing with another woman. I want to know this last week has been as miserable for you as it has been for me.

You and he were never ...you know. You were our best fighters. You bickered all the time, but you brought out the best in each other as warriors. Going into battle to you turned him on more than any woman could.' I give her a dubious look and she laughs.'Maybe a slight exaggeration, but he really did love it.' Her smiles fades.'And you and Jude were inseparable. That's why it made no sense that you would take the opposite side to either one of them - let alone both...It got worse after you and Jude disappeared last year. We thought he'd gone back to the Sanctuary to be with you. And when we heard you'd both dies...Honestly, I though Rafa was going to harm himself. He wouldn't talk to anyone for weeks. He drifted in and out of our operations, and then a few months ago he lost interest completely and stopped answering calls. We only know he was still alive because he's send Zak an occasional text. We he told Zak about the possibility you'd resurfaced there was no doubt he's come looking for you-' A fist bangs on the door. 'Gabe' Rafa barks. 'Your boyfriend's here. Get your arse into gear.' 'Yeah' I get to my feet. 'I'm the wind beneath his wings.

We all have the ability to change, Weston. Maybe not our DNA, but certainly the way we treat people is something we’re all capable of modifying. It’s not always easy, but the first step is awareness—recognizing what needs to be changed and wanting things to be different. Whether what you believe about yourself is true or not is almost immaterial. What’s important is that you believe it to be true, and you have the desire for things to change.

Oddly enough, in the very midst of the terror time, Weston found his mind wandering dangerously. He remembered that someone had once said that war was an interminably long stretch of boredom punctuated by seconds of pure terror.

Ruby poked at her rice, her mind racing. Perhaps he'd mistaken her for someone who had done a massage course or was qualified to give spriritual advice. She could only give advice on spirits, and only then if they were alcoholic.

you must use arguments to explain how you arrived at your conclusion. That is how you will convince others: by offering the reasons and evidence that convinced you. It is not a mistake to have strong views. The mistake is to have nothing else.

Confusion has seized us, and all things go wrong, The women have leaped from “their spheres,” And, instead of fixed stars, shoot as comets along, And are setting the world by the ears!… They’ve taken a notion to speak for themselves, And are wielding the tongue and the pen… Now, misses may reason, and think, and debate, Till unquestioned submission is quite out of date… Like the devils of Milton, they rise from each blow, With spirit unbroken, insulting the foe. —Maria Weston Chapman, 18402

The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship

One did not have to sell like Hemingway, Davenport, Hale, Rawlings, Weston, or Taylor Caldwell to get Perkins’s backing. In fact, his heart went out most readily to the person who desperately desired to be a writer but who could not produce a good book.

He broke away to catch his breath, but his mouth was soon drawn back to her skin, kissing her temple, her forehead, one cheek, then the other. “Mr. Weston,” she breathed shakily. “I . . . I think—” “I think you might call me Henry at this point, don’t you?” he teased.

Dear Mr. Weston, Hello again. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you. I guess things have been pretty quiet since the Salvation Army tried to take over the world. We are sorry, but after much deliberation we have elected not to assign any men to Protect Trillium Air Base. We feel that the Forces can protect themselves, and if they can't, who is going to protect the country? Also, thank you for sending us that shard of broken glass with the fingerprint on it. It was yours. Our mail clerk required four stitches and a tetanus shot. Relay our condolences to your Mr. Waghorn. We have no idea what unfortunate circumstance (for him) drew him to your ever-watchful attention, but he has no criminal record and his face is not known to us. Yours Sincerely, Bruce Hmmm, thought Sidney, Waghorn has no criminal record. "Let me see one of those," said Tom. "I'm sorry, Tom, but I can't show you the letters." Tom muttered something about a lack of trust. He was extremely alarmed at the intensity of Sidney's expression. As Sidney himself would have put it, the investigation was progressing. That meant trouble. There was always trouble when his brother got to the letter-writing stage. Tom would have to stay on his toes. Sidney opened the last letter. Dear Mr. Weston, Please stop bothering us. Cordially yours, The Ontario Provincial Police.

Jiminy," says the old woman. The mothballs gleam with excitement and she claps her hands. "A wolf!" "Gram!" Siobhan glares across the room. She turns to me. "You'll have to excuse her. She's real old. Wasn't a lot integrating between the species back in her day." I pad over and put out a paw. "Pleased to meet you, madam." She blushes, the varicose veins in her cheeks swelling with blood. Instead of taking my paw to shake, however, she turns it over as if it's a piece of bruised fruit in a market. "Hmmm..." She pores over my palm, nodding like a fortune-teller. Her spectacles slide comically down the bridge of her nose, and when she looks up at me, her face is full of mock astonishment. "Oh, my! What big teeth you have!" She giggles and kicks her slippered feet. "Gram!! The old elf claps her tiny hands. "I always wanted to say that!

I’ve seen it time and time again. Some fella from Saugus or Milton or Weston up a tree, yelling about a herd of moose, every damn one of em as big as a motorhome. Seems like moose can smell Massachusetts on a man or a woman. Or maybe it’s just all those new clothes from L. L. Bean’s they smell—I dunno.

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.

Father, I thank Thee for the night, And for the pleasant morning light, For rest, and food, and loving care, And all that makes the world so fair. Help me to do the things I should, To be to others kind and good, In all I do, in work and play, To grow more loving every day. Amen. —REBECCA J. WESTON (1835

The night, cold and silent, Held a warmth and sound That echoed through my thoughts. It wasn’t deafening as it crashed All around, only mildly amusing. The shadows devoured the light Which gracefully enhanced Their deep rich darkness. The world circled and danced, Leapt and ran, swimming Throughout the witching hour.

Developing and maintaining integrity require constant attention. John Weston, chairman and CEO of Automatic Data Processing, Inc., says, “I`ve always tried to live with the following simple rule: Don`t do what you wouldn`t feel comfortable reading about in the newspapers the next day.” That`s a good standard all of us should keep.

Katrina,” he said, his mouth going dry. “I’m feeling like Winnie. I’m ready to cry.” He slid down his bars to the mesh of the floor, feeling even more gloomy than ever before.   Katrina went over to offer some cheer, to say something kind into Mortimer’s ear. But what could she say? What could she do for a friend who felt so inconsolably blue? So gently, she rested her hand on his head. Because sometimes our words… … are best left unsaid.

I do not understand what you mean by “success;”’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, “I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,” and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards,—why do you talk of success? where is your merit?—what are you proud of?—you made a lucky guess; and that is all that can be said.

He grinned. “You think if we play nice, you won’t wind up with my cock inside you anymore.” I shifted in my seat. “Must you be so vulgar?” “What did I say?” He seemed genuinely confused. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Cock. Do you have to say it like that?” He grinned. “I’m sorry. Can you say that again? I didn’t hear you.” I squinted. “You heard me. I know you did.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Maybe. But I really liked hearing you say cock.” A busboy walked by our table just as Weston spoke. The guy looked our way and smirked, but kept going. “Keep your voice down.” Needless to say, he didn’t. “Is it just my cock you don’t like talking about? Or is it all cocks in general?

He says I was around five and crying and was vividly red in the cold spring air. I was saying something over and over; he couldn’t make it out until our mother saw me and shut down the tiller, ears ringing, and came over to see what I was holding out. This turned out to have been a large patch of mold—Orin posits from some dark corner of the Weston home’s basement, which was warm from the furnace and flooded every spring. The patch itself he describes as horrific: darkly green, glossy, vaguely hirsute, speckled with parasitic fungal points of yellow, orange, red. Worse, they could see that the patch looked oddly incomplete, gnawed-on; and some of the nauseous stuff was smeared around my open mouth. ‘I ate this,

I glance down at my threadbare t-shirt and baggy flannelette pyjama bottoms.

Men by nature believe that women should not have the ordering of our own lives.

In my experience' I say, 'power does not bring out the best in people. To the contrary, it tends to be corrupting.

Now I am free, the lord of evermore hopes, amid kingdoms lit by azure fires, absolute in self-remembered fortune

Willow trees up high bend amid ancient knowledge shared softly by antique winds. Through attained wisdom they mature, strong and certain, enchanting the bygone winds

Sky aflame With vermillion passion Adrift Empty streets Silently serenade Silken Within my pocket Hemingway hums Static.

Who knew such belongings? That the truest love Could blend The margins of life Into forgotten wants.

On a hill we rest, Watching virtue Hold the heavens.

Money not used to make money is money wasted.

Salud, Amor, Dinero----y Tiempo Para Gozarlos.

I try to be perfect but I'm not. I'm perfectly imperfect in every way.

I try to be perfect but I'm not. I'm perfectly imperfect in every way.

[Kandinsky] arrived, as they say, 'with snow on his boots', and it never really melted.

Arguing face to face can be a powerful thing, and done deftly and persistently, it can reinforce and build respect itself, even across major differences.

Come to a rousing end. End in style, with flair or a flourish.

Emotions generally led to irrational and stupid actions.  In this game, they were likely to be fatal.  He regained his composure and became logical, rational, disconnected. 

Writing is life – it’s where my heart leads me each day, and how I understand the world we live in.

I keep your soul In my ageing wallet, The unimportant stuff (Money, cards, coins) Stay loose in my pocket, A place as fickle as they.

Edward counseled that a photograph of consequence could be made from just about anything. Subject matter, in itself, was not critical. The understanding of the photographer was.

It has come to me of late that comparing one man’s work to another’s, naming one greater or lesser, is a wrong approach. The important and only vital question is, how much greater, finer, am I than I was yesterday? Have I fulfilled my possibilities, made the most of my potentialities? What a marvellous world if all would, — could hold this attitude toward life.

Hi, looking for a number in Weston, Florida. Is there anything for Magruder?” “How are you spelling that, sir?” “Magruder. M-A-G-R-U-D-E-R.” “Hold the line, sir.” Vivaldi’s Four Seasons started playing for what seemed like an eternity. It was probably only a couple of seconds. Eventually, the woman came back on the line. “Yes, sir, I’ve got one in the town of Weston, Florida.

Dallas-Emily: More of YOU. I like you A LOT and I know that with your career, you’re alone a lot (as am I) and I feel like the two of us have a real connection. J. Weston: We do not have a connection, Emily. Dallas-Emily: If we don’t, then how come the last time you were in town, we talked for HOURS and you treated me to a five course dinner? J. Weston: We spoke for twenty minutes and I bought you a

Mais, en attendant, c'était déjà merveilleux de s'asseoir dans le coin d'une salle silencieuse, avec des volumes empilés en face de lui, les mains plongées dans les cheveux, l'âme immergée dans un monde nouveau

I think I've been very lucky. The readers who write to me say they like the characters and the sense of a real world, often one they don't otherwise know about. And usually there's a funny bit in there somewhere.

Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older— and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston— no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.

A new love came into my life, a most beautiful one, one which will, I believe, stand the test of time...Perhaps C. will be remembered as the great love of my life. Already I have achieved certain heights reached with no other love.

The object [Duchamp's Fountain] was rejected , giving Duchamp the opportunity of issuing a statement, which he published in a review, The Blind Man. In his statement he emphasized that the act of choice was sufficient to justify it as a creative art. Placing it in such a way that its normal use was disguised caused a new reality for the object to be invented. To the criticism that it was rude he replied, logically enough,"How could this object be acceptable when displayed in a plumber's shop window and yet be immoral anywhere else?

Madam, My sincere thanks for your offer to speak to the tenants regarding the drainage issues. However, since you are already burdened with many demands, I have sent my brother, Weston, to handle the problem. He will arrive at Eversby Priory on Wednesday, and stay for a fortnight. I have lectured him at length about gentlemanly conduct. If he causes you a moment’s distress, wire me and it will be resolved immediately. My brother will arrive at the Alton rail station at noon on Saturday. I do hope you’ll send someone to collect him, since I feel certain no one else will want him. Trenear P.S. Did you really dye the shawl black? My Lord, Amid the daily tumult of construction, which is louder than an army corps of drums, your brother’s presence will likely go unnoticed. We will fetch him on Wednesday. Lady Trenear P.S. Why did you send me a shawl so obviously unsuitable for mourning? In response to Kathleen’s letter, a telegram was delivered from the village post office on the morning of West’s scheduled arrival. Madam, You won’t be in mourning forever. Trenear

But a bridge built primarily “to provide employment” is a different kind of bridge. When providing employment becomes the end, need becomes a subordinate consideration. “Projects” have to be invented. Instead of thinking only of where bridges must be built, the government spenders begin to ask themselves where bridges can be built. Can they think of plausible reasons why an additional bridge should connect Easton and Weston? It soon becomes absolutely essential. Those who doubt the necessity are dismissed as obstructionists and reactionaries.

Group f.64 believed that photographic beauty was defined by beautiful prints produced by purely photographic means. The subjects need not be beautiful. What might appear ugly or commonplace could have value through the respectful understanding and expression of the photographer.

A diet rich in readily available nutrients allows the bones to mineralize properly, particularly during gestation and early development, and gives the teeth immunity to decay throughout the stresses of life. Not surprisingly, he found that the native diets that conferred such good health on healthy, so-called primitive groups were rich in minerals, particularly calcium and phosphorus, necessary for healthy bones and teeth. What is surprising about the work of Weston Price is his discovery that these healthy diets always contained a good source of what he called "fat-soluble activators," nutrients like vitamin A and vitamin D, and another vitamin he discovered called Activator X or the Price Factor. These nutrients are found only in certain animal fats. Foods that provided these nutrients were considered sacred by the healthy groups he studied. These foods included liver and other organ meats from grazing animals; fish eggs; fish liver oils; fish and shellfish; and butter from cows eating rapidly growing green grass from well-mineralized pastures. Price concluded that without a rich supply of these fat-soluble nutrients, the body cannot properly use the minerals in food. These fat-soluble nutrients also nourish the glands and organs to give healthy indigenous peoples plenty of immunity during times of stress.

He began quietly, “You recall, of course, that I won the Smallwood spelling contest every year I was there?” “Yes, Mr. Weston,” she replied evenly, eyes remaining on the portrait. “And you might also recall that your father declared my handwriting the best he’d ever had the privilege to read?” “Yes, Mr. Weston.” He looked at her composed profile and felt admiration fill him. When she said no more, he slowly shook his head, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Well done, Miss Smallwood.” He started to turn away but paused to add, “He did admire you, you know. He just didn’t know how to show it.” She gave him an incredulous look. “Mr. Pugsworth?” “Yes,” Henry said, then walked away, thinking, Him too.

As to “Aesthetic Considerations,” Ansel counseled, “A photograph that is merely a superficial record of the subject fails as an aesthetic expression of that subject. The expression must be an emotional amplification, and this emotional amplification relates to point of view, organization, revelation of substance through textures, tonal relations, and the perfection of the technical expression of all these elements.”54

Typically we learn to “argue” by assertion. That is, we tend to start with our conclusions—our desires or opinions—without a whole lot to back them up. And it works, sometimes, at least when we’re very young. What could be better? Real argument, by contrast, takes time and practice. Marshaling our reasons, proportioning our conclusions to the actual evidence, considering objections, and all the rest—these are acquired skills. We have to grow up a little.

No heroine in Charlotte and Anne Bronte's fiction omits this duty, even in times of danger and perturbation of mind; but most of them also live through moments when the greatest mercy they can hope for is to be saved from utter despair. Jane Eyre in the coach on her flight from Thornfield, Caroline Helstone in the valley of the shadow, Lucy Snowe isolated with the 'cretin' in the Rue Fossette, Agnes Grey pining for Mr Weston, and Helen Huntingdon brutally ill-treated and humiliated - all of them turn to God for help in their efforts not to sink altogether under the burden of their distress. Not the least of the troubles is their awareness of the sinfulness of giving up hope. Authors of religious manuals repeatedly warned their readers not to 'yield for a moment to Satan's temptations to despair. If you do not strive, you know you must be lost.' No wonder human endeavours were felt to be unequal to the task of vanquishing the combination of acute suffering and the threat of spiritual ruin if one were to allow oneself to be crushed by it.

His arms folded across his chest. He stared at me without speaking, moving toward me until my back hit the driver’s side door. Leaning forward, he braced a hand on the glass beside my head. “What the fuck were you thinking? If I hadn’t been there—” He broke off, his eyes slamming shut. “I know, I know. I don’t know what would have happened.” I raised my shaking hands to his heaving chest. “Thank you for being there.” His eyes flashed open and zeroed in on me. “I’ve never been more pissed off at you.” “I wish you weren’t.” My fingers balled his T-shirt in a tight grip. “Please, Weston, don’t be mad at me.” He bent down, his nose almost brushing mine. “I’m so fucking angry, Elise. You have no idea what I want to do with you right now.” I inhaled. His hot breath hit my lips. A wild, frantic current flowed in the narrow space between us. Adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream. My mind scrambled. Then he was on me, or I was on him. There was no telling who moved first. We collided, our lips suctioning to one another, his tongue delving into my mouth. Fingers threaded through my hair, tugging my head back. He kissed me hard, violent, and I clawed at him.

The Golden Bough captured the imagination of many artists in the early twentieth century. Eliot, certainly, was immersed in it, discussing it familiarly in his graduate school papers and book reviews and constantly alluding to it in his art. The most straightforward advice he offers to readers of The Waste Land (given in the notes to the poem) is, in paraphrase, that any serious reader of the poem must take into consideration modern scholarship in myth and anthropology, especially Frazer Golden Bough and Jessie Weston From Ritual to Romance. The poet says that he is indebted to this scholarship for his title, his plan, his symbolism, and many of his references to ancient religion and society. His claim about the title, taken from the monomyth of Frazer and Weston, his claim about the symbolism, associated with the birth-death-rebirth cycles of the myths, and his claim about the miscellaneous undergirding references have been discussed by Grover Smith and other scholars. We wish to focus more on Eliot's claim about being indebted to Frazer for the plan of the poem. We believe it refers, at least in part, to Frazer's use of the comparative method and to his practice of assembling many perspectives and allowing these perspectives to make his point. It must be noted at once that Eliot was quite selective in his admiration of Frazer. For example, he did not admire Frazer's positivism. Frazer put his faith in science and celebrated what he called the evolution from magic to religion to science. Nor did Eliot share Frazer's conclusions. In his 1913 paper on the interpretation of primitive ritual, he says that Frazer's interpretations of specific myths (the myth of the dying god is his example) are almost certainly mistaken. But Eliot did admire Frazer's erudition and his increasingly nontheoretical presentation of many angles of vision which in themselves tend to generate an overarching abstract primitive vision. In 1924, on the occasion of the publication of a condensed edition of The Golden Bough, Eliot wrote a review in which he lauded Frazer for having "extended the consciousness of the human mind into as dark a backward and abysm of time as has yet been explored." Eliot argues that Frazer's importance for artists is in his exemplary withdrawal from speculation, his adoption of the absence of interpretation as a positive modus operandi.

The conclusion of the whole matter appears to me to be this, that behind Romance lies Folk-lore, behind Folk-lore lie the fragments of forgotten Faiths: the outward expression has changed, but the essential elements remain the same. What the Grail was from the first, that throughout its development it has remained, the symbol and witness to unseen realities, transcending this world of sense; on whatever plane the effort be made, the attempt to penetrate from the outer to the inner, to apprehend behind the sign the thing signified, to bring the lower, and temporary, life into contact with the higher and enduring is a task worthy the highest energies of man. I do not think it matters in the least whether or not the Grail was originally Christian, if it was from the first the symbol of spiritual endeavour.

I’ll tell you what’s true,’ said Weston presently. ‘What?’ ‘A little child that creeps upstairs when nobody’s looking and very slowly turns the handle to take one peep into the room where its grandmother’s dead body is laid out–and then runs away and has bad dreams. An enormous grandmother, you understand.’ ‘What do you mean by saying that’s truer?’ ‘I mean that child knows something about the universe which all science and all religion is trying to hide.’ Ransom said nothing. ‘Lots of things,’ said Weston presently. ‘Children are afraid to go through a churchyard at night, and the grown-ups tell them not to be silly: but the children know better than the grown-ups. People in Central Africa doing beastly things with masks on in the middle of the night–and missionaries and civil servants say it’s all superstition. Well, the blacks know more about the universe than the white people. Dirty priests in back streets in Dublin frightening half-witted children to death with stories about it. You’d say they are unenlightened. They’re not: except that they think there is a way of escape. There isn’t. That is the real universe, always has been, always will be. That’s what it all means.’ ‘I’m not quite clear–’ began Ransom, when Weston interrupted him. ‘That’s why it’s so important to live as long as you can. All the good things are now–a thin little rind of what we call life, put on for show, and then–the real universe for ever and ever. To thicken the rind by one centimetre–to live one week, one day, one half hour longer–that’s the only thing that matters. Of course you don’t know it: but every man who is waiting to be hanged knows it. You say “What difference does a short reprieve make?” What difference!!’ ‘But nobody need go there,’ said Ransom. ‘I know that’s what you believe,’ said Weston. ‘But you’re wrong. It’s only a small parcel of civilised people who think that. Humanity as a whole knows better. It knows–Homer knew–that all the dead have sunk down into the inner darkness: under the rind. All witless, all twittering, gibbering, decaying. Bogeymen. Every savage knows that all ghosts hate the living who are still enjoying the rind: just as old women hate girls who still have their good looks. It’s quite right to be afraid of the ghosts. You’re going to be one all the same.’ ‘You don’t believe in God,’ said Ransom. ‘Well, now, that’s another point,’ said Weston. ‘I’ve been to church as well as you when I was a boy. There’s more sense in parts of the Bible than you religious people know. Doesn’t it say He’s the God of the living, not of the dead? That’s just it. Perhaps your God does exist–but it makes no difference whether He does or not. No, of course you wouldn’t see it; but one day you will. I don’t think you’ve got the idea of the rind–the thin outer skin which we call life–really clear. Picture the universe as an infinite glove with this very thin crust on the outside. But remember its thickness is a thickness of time. It’s about seventy years thick in the best places. We are born on the surface of it and all our lives we are sinking through it. When we’ve got all the way through then we are what’s called Dead: we’ve got into the dark part inside, the real globe. If your God exists, He’s not in the globe–He’s outside, like a moon. As we pass into the interior we pass out of His ken. He doesn’t follow us in. You would express it by saying He’s not in time–which you think comforting! In other words He stays put: out in the light and air, outside. But we are in time. We “move with the times”. That is, from His point of view, we move away, into what He regards as nonentity, where He never follows. That is all there is to us, all there ever was. He may be there in what you call “Life”, or He may not. What difference does it make? We’re not going to be there for long!

He saw a man who was certainly Weston, to judge from his height and build and coloring and features. In that sense he was quite recognizable. But the terror was that he was also unrecognizable. He did not look like a sick man: but he looked very like a dead one. The face which he raised from torturing the frog had that terrible power which the face of a corpse sometimes has of simply rebuffing every conceivable human attitude one can adopt towards it. The expressionless mouth, the unwinking stare of the eyes, something heavy and inorganic in the very folds of the cheek, said clearly: “I have features as you have, but there is nothing in common between you and me.” It was this that kept Ransom speechless. What could you say—what appeal or threat could have any meaning—to that? And now, forcing its way up into consciousness, thrusting aside every mental habit and every longing not to believe, came the conviction that this, in fact, was not a man: that Weston’s body was kept, walking and undecaying, in Perelandra by some wholly different kind of life, and that Weston himself was gone. It looked at Ransom in silence and at last began to smile. We have all often spoken—Ransom himself had often spoken—of a devilish smile. Now he realized that he had never taken the words seriously. The smile was not bitter, nor raging, nor, in an ordinary sense, sinister; it was not even mocking. It seemed to summon Ransom, with a horrible naïveté of welcome, into the world of its own pleasures, as if all men were at one in those pleasures, as if they were the most natural thing in the world and no dispute could ever have occurred about them. It was not furtive, nor ashamed, it had nothing of the conspirator in it. It did not defy goodness, it ignored it to the point of annihilation. Ransom perceived that he had never before seen anything but halfhearted and uneasy attempts at evil. This creature was wholehearted. The extremity of its evil had passed beyond all struggle into some state which bore a horrible similarity to innocence. It was beyond vice as the Lady was beyond virtue.

Weston, having been born in Chicago, was raised with typical, well-grounded, mid-western values. On his 16th birthday, his father gave him a Kodak camera with which he started what would become his lifetime vocation. During the summer of 1908, Weston met Flora May Chandler, a schoolteacher who was seven years older than he was. The following year the couple married and in time they had four sons. Weston and his family moved to Southern California and opened a portrait studio on Brand Boulevard, in the artsy section of Glendale, California, called Tropico. His artistic skills soon became apparent and he became well known for his portraits of famous people, such as Carl Sandburg and Max Eastman. In the autumn of 1913, hearing of his work, Margrethe Mather, a photographer from Los Angeles, came to his studio, where Weston asked her to be his studio assistant. It didn’t take long before the two developed a passionate, intimate relationship. Both Weston and Mather became active in the growing bohemian cultural scene in Los Angeles. She was extremely outgoing and artistic in a most flamboyant way. Her bohemian sexual values were new to Weston’s conventional thinking, but Mather excited him and presented him with a new outlook that he found enticing. Mather was beautiful, and being bisexual and having been a high-class prostitute, was delightfully worldly. Mather's uninhibited lifestyle became irresistible to Weston and her photography took him into a new and exciting art form. As Mather worked and overtly played with him, she presented a lifestyle that was in stark contrast to Weston’s conventional home life, and he soon came to see his wife Flora as a person with whom he had little in common. Weston expanded his horizons but tried to keep his affairs with other women a secret. As he immersed himself further into nude photography, it became more difficult to hide his new lifestyle from his wife. Flora became suspicious about this secret life, but apparently suffered in silence. One of the first of many women who agreed to model nude for Weston was Tina Modotti. Although Mather remained with Weston, Tina soon became his primary model and remained so for the next several years. There was an instant attraction between Tina Modotti, Mather and Edward Weston, and although he remained married, Tina became his student, model and lover. Richey soon became aware of the affair, but it didn’t seem to bother him, as they all continued to remain good friends. The relationship Tina had with Weston could definitely be considered “cheating,” since knowledge of the affair was withheld as much as possible from his wife Flora May. Perhaps his wife knew and condoned this new promiscuous relationship, since she had also endured the intense liaison with Margrethe Mather. Tina, Mather and Weston continued working together until Tina and Weston suddenly left for Mexico in 1923. As a group, they were all a part of the cozy, artsy, bohemian society of Los Angeles, which was where they were introduced to the then-fashionable, communistic philosophy.