Wilton Quotes

Life is a fairy tale. Live it with wonder and amazement.

Don't let pain keep you out of the garden.

Tell me something. Why is everyone so determined to believe Wilton is innocent?" Surprised, Davies said, "He's a war hero isn't he? Admired by the King and a friend of the Prince of Wales. He's visited Sandringham, been received by Queen Mary herself! A man like that doesn’t go around killing people!" With a wry downturn of his lips, Rutledge silently asked, How did he win his medals, you fool, if not by being so very damned good at killing?

Grosse plodders they were all, that had some learning and reading, but no wit to make use of it.

We don't want your fucking tots and pears.

You were in business making meth? Do you have any idea what that drug does to people?" We weren't givin' it away," Concise snaps. "If someone was fool enough to mess himself up, that was his problem." I shake my head, disgusted. "If you build it, they will come." If you build it," Concise says, "you cover your rent. If you build it, you pay off the loan sharks. If you build it, you put shoes on your kid's feet and food in his belly and maybe even show up every now and then with a toy that every other goddamn kid in the school already has." He looks up at me. "If you build it, maybe your son don't have to, when he grow up." It is amazing -- the secrets you can keep, even when you are living in close quarters. "You didn't tell me." Concise gets up and braces his hands against the upper bunk. "His mama OD'd. He lives with her sister, who can't always be bothered to take care of him. I try to send money so that I know he's eatin' breakfast and gettin' school lunch tickets. I got a little bank account for him, too. Jus' in case he don't want to be part of a street gang, you know? Jus' in case he want to be an astronaut or a football player or somethin'." He digs out a small notebook from his bunk. "I'm writin' him. A diary, like. So he know who his daddy is, by the time he learn to read." It is always easier to judge someone than to figure out what might have pushed him to the point where he might do something illegal or morally reprehensible, because he honestly believes he'll be better off. The police will dismiss Wilton Reynolds as a drug dealer and celebrate one more criminal permanently removed from society. A middle-class father who meets Concise on the street, with his tough talk and his shaved head, will steer clear of him, never guessing that he, to, has a little boy waiting for him at home. The people who read about me in the paper, stealing my daughter during a custody visit, will assume I am the worst sort of nightmare.

I get diarrhea more often than the average Muslim.

Write for joy. It is the *only* reason to write. Whatever happens to your books afterward, just write for joy. Send your current one out when it's done and forget it, start another, and keep on writing for joy. Words I now live by. Welwyn Wilton Katz

We have the "spotless Lamb of God" bound up in a human body. This is the One who loved us so much that He was willing to reduce Himself to a human egg. The Immaculate Conception was not just about the epitome of love and grace, it was about the willingness of the Son to travel the journey of the human experience.

You give your way out of poverty but you sacrifice your way to wealth.

Stuey was in heaven, but he wished that he were in hell.

Justin reached past a pot of matzoh soup for some brisket. The brisket was drier than Rachel's pussy. At least there was pomegranate juice to wash it down. Fuck, he hated this food.

Justin vomited in his mouth a little as he gazed upon a sea of black outfits and sidelocks. They looked like they were ready for a heavy metal concert, a funeral, or the hell that is a Brit Milah. Fuck, they looked ridiculous.

Southerners. Such literate, civilized folk, such charm and cleverness and passion for living, such genuine interest in people, all people, high and low, white and black, and yet how often it had come to, came to, was still coming to vicious incomprehension, usually over race but other things too - religion, class, money. How often the lowest elements had burst out of the shadows and hollers, guns and torches blazing, galloping past the educated and tolerant as nightriders, how often the despicable had run riot over the better Christian ideals... how often cities had burned, people had been strung up in trees, atrocities had been permitted to occur and then, in the seeking of justice for those outrages, how slippery justice had proven, how delayed its triumph. Oh you expect such easily obtained violence in the Balkans or among Asian or African tribal peoples centuries-deep in blood feuds, but how was there such brutality and wickedness in this place of church and good intention, a place of immense friendliness and charity and fondness for the rituals of family and socializing, amid the nation's best cooking and best music... how could one place contain the other place?

We’re in the car park at Wilton Lake. We used to come here sometimes, to go swimming on really hot days. Today we’re just sitting side by side in Tom’s car, windows down, letting the warm breeze in. I want to lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes and smell the pine and listen to the birds. I want to hold his hand and stay here all day.

Be the judge of what is fair and justified to you, and don't take less than what you deserve.

I love the smell of lip balm in the morning

Money takes the shape of its holder- Apostle Tavonga Vutabwashe

Every cell

He got a call from a journalist, who was in another room on the same floor. Come and join us for a drink, the journalist said. O’Leary walked across. There, he found a celebration of the broader Abbott family, select journalists, including conservative writers Piers Akerman, Miranda Devine, Greg Sheridan and Dennis Shanahan, and dignitaries such as Max Moore-Wilton, a former head of the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet under Howard.

Jack: “We were in danger. We shall probably get pneumonia.” Mary: “Isch!” “There! You’re sneezing already.” “I am not sneezing. That was an exclamation of disgust.” “It sounded like a sneeze. It must have been, for you’ve every reason to sneeze; but why you should utter exclamations of disgust I cannot imagine.” “I’m disgusted with you—with your meanness. You deliberately tricked me into saying——” “Saying——?” She was silent. “What you said was that you loved me with all your heart and soul. You can’t get away from that, and it’s good enough for me.” “Well, it’s not true any longer.” “Yes, it is,” said Wilton, comfortably, “bless it.” “It is not. I’m going right away now, and I shall never speak to you again.” She moved away from him, and prepared to sit down. “There’s a jelly-fish just where you’re going to sit,” said Wilton. “I don’t care.” “It will. I speak from experience, as one on whom you have sat so often.” “I’m not amused.” “Have patience. I can be funnier than that.” - Wilton's Holiday

A table made in April 1918 by Robert Wilton for the G-2 Section (Military Intelligence of the U. S. Army), shows that at the time of the Russian Revolution: there were 384 commissars (running Russia), including 2 Negroes, 13 Russians, 15 Chinese, 22 Armenians and more than 300 Jews. Of the latter number 264 had come to Russia from the United States since the downfall of the Imperial Government." (War Records Division of the National Archives. Record Group 120: Records of the American Expeditionary Forces.) Not even Russian Jews, but New York Jews!

A flat screen television lowered into view. It showed an animated Islamic documentary that focused mostly on the importance of wearing the proper attire. The final prophet was quoted often, yet absent from the feature. “If this Mohammed guy is so great, why wouldn’t they put him in the cartoon?” Kira wondered.

Used to be when a bird flew into a window, Milly and Twiss got a visit. Milly would put a kettle on and set out whatever culinary adventure she'd gone on that day. For morning arrivals, she offered her famous vanilla drop biscuits and raspberry jam. Twiss would get the medicine bag from the hall closet and sterilize the tools she needed, depending on the seriousness of the injury. A wounded limb was one thing. A wounded crop was another. People used to come from as far away as Reedsburg and Wilton. Milly would sit with them while Twiss patched up the 'poor old robin' or the 'sweet little meadowlark.' Over the years, the number of visitors had dwindled. Now that the grocery store sold ready-bake biscuits and jelly in all the colors of the rainbow, people didn't bother as much about birds.

That's how it goes these days, huh? Moving forward at the sounds of horns on highways, at the cue of traffic signals, turnstiles, tollbooths, ushered and rushed to the next stop on the itinerary, and there are days on the commuter train in the winter when it's got dark early and you can't see out because of the reflection and you might put down your paper or put aside your book and really look at yourself, because amid the noise and the smoke and the strangers and what's become of your life: there you are.

It’s 56.43 N, 2.87 W, I think,” the awful voice continued. “Osman is dead, and Baines and Boswell and Rudd are dead, and I think Wilton may be gone as well. There are just too many—” Phillip had written down all coordinates but underlined the last set. He hated the voice’s gasping quality. The way every breath seemed to pain it. The phlegmy gurgle at the back of its throat. “What’s your situation? What happened?” “They’re in the walls.” The voice gasped, a choked laugh that curdled and quickly died. It seemed to say something else, but a hissing burst of static cut through the channel. Phillip frowned, straining to hear. “Repeat, please.” “In the walls…” The voice from the radio groaned, and the sound seemed to travel not only through Phillip’s headset but into his bones as well, causing them to ache. “The walls.” “Please repeat—” The bridge’s lights shimmered, flickering. Phillip pressed himself back against the desk as he stared up at the bulbs that sparked and threatened to blow. Then the voice rose, flooding his ears, filling his head, raw and battered with terror: “There are bodies in the walls.

Some raised a more practical concern, arguing that if Rome really wanted to empty seminaries of gay men—a proposal under consideration at the Vatican—it would face more empty rectories and more barren altars. Some Church experts estimate that from 30 percent to fully one half of the forty-five thousand U.S. priests are gay. “If they were to eliminate all those who were homosexually oriented, the number would be so staggering that it would be like an atomic bomb. It would do the same damage to the Church’s operation,” Sipe said. “And it’s very much against the tradition of the Church. Many saints had a gay orientation. And many popes had gay orientations. Discriminating against orientation is not going to solve the problem.” But the issue was now on the table. At the Vatican meeting, Bishop Wilton D. Gregory of Belleville, Illinois, president of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, told reporters that he was concerned about the increasing number of gays in the priesthood. “One of the difficulties we do face in seminary life or recruitment is when there does exist a homosexual atmosphere or dynamic that makes heterosexual men think twice” about joining the priesthood for fear that they’ll be harassed. “It is an ongoing struggle. It is most importantly a struggle to make sure that the Catholic priesthood is not dominated by homosexual men [and] that the candidates that we receive are healthy in every possible way—psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually.” And Cardinal Adam J. Maida of Detroit argued that clergy sexual abuse is “not truly a pedophilia-type problem but a homosexual-type problem.… We have to look at this homosexual element as it exists, to what extent it is operative in our seminaries and our priesthood and how to address it.” Bishops need to “cope with and address” the extent of a homosexual presence in Catholic seminaries, he said. Cardinal Anthony J. Bevilacqua of Philadelphia said he wouldn’t let gay men become priests. “We feel that a person who is homosexually oriented is not a suitable candidate for the priesthood even if he has never committed any homosexual act,” he said.

was sure he’d never hurt me, and perhaps that was why I chose to spend my nights with him. But I learned the hard way; nothing is ever perfect. The damn thing malfunctioned, went into overdrive and I could barely sit down for a week. Cheap Asian product–I bought it through eBay too.

More importantly, I was sure he’d never hurt me, and perhaps that was why I chose to spend my nights with him. But I learned the hard way; nothing is ever perfect. The damn thing malfunctioned, went into overdrive and I could barely sit down for a week. Cheap Asian product–I bought it through eBay too.

God speaks when you put on your hiking boots, take a walking stick, and abandon yourself to the beauty of God's creation. God speaks when you enter the chapel and find yourself standing in the presence of a mighty God who loves you. God speaks when you just listen. It's as though you can hear God praying!

Lucy nodded. It wasn’t as if she had any choice. Jane’s parents had graciously offered to sponsor her, and her father had accepted Lord and Lady Rosemoor’s invitation on her behalf. There’d been no room for arguments; even tears hadn’t swayed Papa’s firm resolve to send her away. He’d accused her of spending far too much time with Mr. Wilton, reminding her that she could never study at the Veterinary College as he was. She was a female, he’d repeated, and females her age read novels, painted landscapes…found suitable husbands.

One man can make a difference, Michael

Your children are all that will remain of you when you are gone. Make sure you leave them with a memory of you that will live on after you are gone.

Every word spoken by our Savior is intensely emotional because it reminds us about the vast extent of His love, the deep dimensions of His grace, the spiritual significance of His sacrifice on the cross, the practical demand of Christian discipleship, and the imperative call to share the good news with all the nations of the world.

(Agricola and Germania. Pgs 38-39)

Every time someone from a non-pagan faith goes out of their way to oppose the rise of the Heathen faith, it shows they take our faith seriously, and they can't allow it to be stronger than theirs.

Wilton Mace lived in a redbrick split-level on a gravel road two miles from the casino. On the phone he’d been reluctant to talk and said he would have to check with his brother. He called Hugo back the following day and agreed to a meeting. He was waiting in a lawn chair under a tree by the carport, swatting flies and drinking iced tea. The day was cloudy and not as hot. He offered Lacy and Hugo sweet tea to drink and they declined. He pointed to two other folding chairs and they sat down. A toddler in a diaper was playing in a plastic wading pool in the backyard, under the watchful eye of its grandmother.

On the downside, there are pretty serious motivational problems, especially among the young. Why go to college and pursue a career when your income is guaranteed for life? Why try and find a job? The casino employs about half of the adults in the tribe, and that’s a constant source of friction. Who gets an easy job and who doesn’t? There’s a lot of infighting and politics involved. But on the whole, the tribe realizes that it has a good thing going. Why rock the boat? Why should anyone worry about me? Why should Wilton help you bring down a crooked judge when everyone might get hurt in the process?

Also, if you allow the other person to win then you might create an ally rather than an opponent.  This might be better in the long run allowing you to pave the way for future negotiations that you have with them.  If they can see that you have conceded on one occasion they might be more inclined to concede next time.

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to the McDover case. She agreed but doubted seriously if she would comply, even though her appetite for risk had been severely diminished. As agreed, Wilton met her near the front entrance and they found a quiet table in a coffee bar at the

If you already realize that, you can become a leader one day. You can’t be a leader if you are unable to take orders yourself, lieutenant commander,” Lieutenant General Wilton said.

Abstraction, like poetry, does not dictate a clear narrative but rather, quietly offers a fragment, a piece of a mysteriously familiar narrative. In my paintings, there has continued to be a paring down of recognizable natural forms, which now have given way to a personal abstract vocabulary of shapes, colors and forms. The prominent use of abstraction has allowed me to distill and better communicate my emotions and ideas about life, nature and our respective place within it

The Letha Store was built in 1929 by J.G.F. Fischer. There were two general stores, a lumberyard, an elementary school, a Baptist church, which was built in 1912, and a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which was housed in a hall bought from Colonel Barnard. W.W. Wilton named the town after his daughter. He and Colonel Barnard had hoped that Letha would become a major rail center. They had the town platted and were ready to sell lots, but their dreams never materialized.

Married people NEVER did right by their friends (make that: DO right, I’ve still never seen evidence to the contrary; the only couples a single can deal with are couples you met already encoupled).

Wilton Shopping Village had been running a roller disco in the school holidays for the last few years, and it had become something of a Jones family tradition to visit it. The rink was built on the lawn within the inner courtyard that had once been used to stretch out the carpets that were woven here, with wooden sheds erected around the perimeter where local traders could sell their goods. There was a bar and Mack had already enjoyed a glass of wine. It had been a little stronger than she had expected, and had gone to her head. That was the reason—and not any innate lack of balance or ability—that had led to her unsteadiness. That was what she told herself, in any event

I have always supposed that as God has given us but one life to live, we must live it with integrity and searching always for joy or else we squander His gift.

On June 30, 1913, Bruce Ismay retired as Chairman of the White Star Line and began an ever-widening withdrawal from public life. He remained on a number of boards, but they were mostly honorific, and he spent much of his time at a secluded estate in a remote corner of Northern Ireland. Many writers have called him a “recluse.” His affectionate and devoted biographer, Wilton J. Oldham, takes exception to the term, but it is really a matter of semantics.

Rayne observed, his gaze scouring hers. “I cannot believe the duel and this foolhardy race are the extent of his indiscretions.” She thought about it. There was the time he had brought an actress to live at Hamilton House until Mama had nearly boxed his ears and chased Mrs. Wilton from the duchess’s apartments. There had also been the evening he had gotten so inebriated, he had been attempting to hold a conversation with a potted palm at Lord and Lady Oxley’s ball. Later, he claimed he had mistaken the palm for a spinster. He had fallen down the staircase once and tripped into the statuary in the entry hall, shattering a marble bust of the first Duke of Montrose. She still recalled Monty kicking the poor duke’s nose across the polished floor and declaring the bust had been his least favorite anyhow. Catriona frowned. And then, there had been the time he had fallen into the lap of one of Mama’s friends at a dinner party. The time he had engaged in a heated shouting match with their father’s portrait. He had also once decided, in the midst of the night, to paint the second-floor hall. The time she had found him lying prone on the Aubusson in the library in a drying puddle of his own vomit… “Your face is expressive, my lady,” Rayne said grimly. “You need not speak a word, for I already have my answer.

not have heard him, because he stepped right on the acorns and slid off the porch. As his dad turned to

team of 20 squirrels and at least that many prairie dogs

In 1834 William IV, England’s “sailor king,” had obtained the portrait, understood to be Shakespeare, from the descendants of the Sidney clan at Penshurst Place. Could there be a better provenance for Shakespeare than Penshurst? The Sidney family was, after all, the only family ever rumored to have had “the man Shakespeare” pay them a social visit. Mary Sidney even stood accused of having written, or coauthored, the plays of Shakespeare due in part to the elite literary salon she fostered known as the Wilton Circle. Mary’s husband had founded Pembroke’s Men, the first acting troupe to perform Shakespeare’s plays. The hallowed 1623 First Folio was dedicated to their two sons.

cheek

Jacob;

As she passed Nick’s Bar & Bistro, she felt a moment’s longing, wishing she could stop for a reassuring hug that she knew would be fast in coming. But even more than his comfort, a few hours sleep was in order. She parked outside the Inn, dragged her large suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it into the lobby. When she stepped up to the check-in counter, a young woman smiled. “Ms. Braxton. Geoff let us know you were on your way. We’ve given you a room on the second floor. Room 204. Just need your signature and a credit card.” “Thanks so much. Everyone in this town is so welcoming.” She forced a smile. “Never seen anything like it.” “My name is Helen Watson,” the young girl replied. “I’m from Nebraska, and I’ve been here for two years. The friendliness is genuine, and it doesn’t get old.” As Jennie’s mother had said, the Inn was small, but charming—English Tudor in style both inside and out. The lobby had a tartan carpet, four plaid high back chairs next to a hearth and fireplace. The walls were decorated with hunting scenes and floral gardens. A small bar was tucked away in the far corner of the

Give it time, I thought. I grow on people; I'm like an industrial solvent, I'll wear you down...

Denny leaned back in her chair. She put her hands together and rested her chin on them. Then she glanced at Spence out of the corner of her eye and smiled. “What’s that look for?” he asked. “Nothing,” she said, giggling a little. “Now, come on,” said Spence. “You’re laughing at me, and I want to know why.” Denny grinned slyly. “No reason, Wilton.” Spence slugged her playfully in the arm. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Well, how about if I call you Denise?” “There’s nothing wrong with Denise.” “There’s nothing wrong with Wilton either.” “Oh, no? Is that why you write W. James Spencer on all your school papers?” “How do you know what I write on my school papers?” Denny shrugged. “Just noticed.” “Oh, yeah?” said Spence, puffing out his chest. “What else have you noticed about me?” Denny rolled her eyes. “That you’re in love with yourself,” she answered. Spence leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Sounds like maybe I’m not the only one.” Denny blushed and turned her shoulder to Spence. “You’re impossible,” she whispered. Spence leaned back and chuckled.

Wilton Spencer," she said softly, "why do you have to be so damned smart?" Spence smiled. "Darned smart," he said; then he wiped her tears away and kissed her on the tip of her nose.

The author charted the importance of human examples on his spiritual journey, confessing that when harsh and domineering people based their bullying on Christ's authority, he rebelled. But when his wife represented the gracefulness of Christ's character, he was drawn back to know Christ more fully.

Prosperity is not a promise, it’s a covenant. You don’t pray to get prosperity, you give to get it. Prosperity is not measured by how much you get but how much you give.

Why do kids torture each other like this? Why don’t they accept that people are different and embrace that? Not everyone can be the same, and how boring it would be if they were.

Visitors to Mason’s Yard in St. James’s will search in vain for Isherwood Fine Arts. They will, however, find the extraordinary Old Master gallery owned by my dear friend Patrick Matthiesen. A brilliant art historian blessed with an infallible eye, Patrick never would have allowed a misattributed work by Artemisia Gentileschi to languish in his storerooms for nearly a half century. The painting depicted in The Cellist does not exist. If it did, it would look a great deal like the one produced by Artemisia’s father, Orazio, that hangs in the National Gallery of Art in Washington. Like Julian Isherwood and his new managing partner, Sarah Bancroft, the inhabitants of my version of London’s art world are wholly fictitious, as are their sometimes-questionable antics. Their midsummer drinking session at Wiltons Restaurant would have been entirely permissible, as the landmark London eatery briefly reopened its doors before a rise in coronavirus infection rates compelled Prime Minister Boris Johnson to shut down all non-essential businesses. Wherever possible, I tried to adhere to prevailing conditions and government-mandated restrictions. But when necessary, I granted myself the license to tell my story without the crushing weight of the pandemic. I chose Switzerland as the primary setting for The Cellist because life there proceeded largely as normal until November 2020. That said, a private concert and reception at the Kunsthaus Zürich, even for a cause as worthy as democracy, likely could not have taken place in mid-October. I offer my profound apologies to the renowned Janine Jansen for the unflattering comparison to Anna Rolfe. Ms. Jansen is rightly regarded as one of her generation’s finest violinists, and Anna, of course, exists only in my imagination. She was introduced in the second Gabriel Allon novel, The English Assassin, along with Christopher Keller. Martin Landesmann, my committed if deeply flawed Swiss financier, made his debut in The Rembrandt Affair. The story of Gabriel’s blood-soaked duel with the Russian arms dealer Ivan Kharkov is told in Moscow Rules and its sequel, The Defector. Devotees of F. Scott Fitzgerald undoubtedly spotted the luminous line from The Great Gatsby that appears in chapter 32 of The Cellist. For the record, I am well aware that the headquarters of Israel’s secret intelligence service is no longer located on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv. There is no safe house in the historic moshav of Nahalal—at least not one that I am aware of—and Gabriel and his family do not live on Narkiss Street in West Jerusalem. Occasionally, however, they can be spotted at Focaccia on Rabbi Akiva Street, one of my favorite restaurants in Jerusalem.

Errors in code are what programmers call bugs, though when our programs go wrong, we prefer to call them “unexpected additional features.” Very

Emma, you and your poetry, me and my acting--what are we trying to do? We can't top this city. We poor would-be artists can't compete with or improve on the rich density of human experience on any random, average, slow summer night in New York--who are we trying to kid? In the overheard conversation in the elevator, in the five minutes of talk the panhandler gives you before hitting you for the handout, in the brief give-and-take when you are going out and the cleaning lady is coming in--there are the real stories, incredible, heartbreaking and ridiculous, there are the command performances, the Great American Novels but forever unwritten, untoppable, and so beautifully unaware.

You really think love messes everything up? "Sure do. That's what's so compelling about it.

What has marriage to do with happiness?

Whatever women do, they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.” CHARLOTTE WILTON Mayor of Ottawa, 1963

The Greatest Casualty Is Being Forgotten

They lived so close to each other they could hear each other's nightmares. But no one seemed to know anyone else. It was a community of strangers, too noisy, too bright, too suspicious.

And I'm leaving you that plant," he lamented. "You are good with plants, aren't you?" Great, I lied. (I could make the Congo wither and die...)