Worst Neighbor Quotes

Jason felt all the blood drain out of his face. He stood there as the reality of Mitch’s words hit him hard. One day it would be another man Haley would talk to, watch games with, or just sit in absolute peaceful silence while they worked or ate, and worst of all it would be another man holding Haley in his arms at night. 'Fuck…,' he gasped. 'Oh great, you broke him! Are you happy now?' Brad demanded. 'Come on, buddy, we’ll get you fixed up with a cold beer and a plate of hot wings. How does that sound? Does that sound good?' Numbly, Jason nodded.

The generation that followed did not have the same concerns; none of its members attempted to follow the example of the past generation. There was no longer anyone with the noble determination to get to know the great men of the world, or if there were some individuals consumed with this curiosity, they were few in number. From then on, there remained only vulgar minds given over to hatred, envy and discord, who took an interest only in things which did not concern them, gossip, slander, calumny of one's neighbors, all those things which are the source of the worst of our troubles.

Leave me alone", is not a good news! "Let's be together" is not a bad news. We were made to be each others keepers. Let love lead

A mistake? The most passionate night of his life was a mistake? Her first time and that’s what she thought. That grated on him in the worst way. “Is that what you think, Beth?” “Don’t call me that.” “Why, Beth?” “You know I hate that name.” “Oh, so sorry, Beth. I do apologize, Beth.” He was being petty and he knew it, but he didn’t give a damn. She’d always brought out the very worst in him. She reached up and twisted his ear. “Ow!” “Out of my way, Robert Lemonade,” she said casually, pissing him off in the worst way.

With winter the feeling had deepened. I would see a neighbor running along the sidewalk in front of the house, training, I imagined, for a climb up Kilimanjaro. Or a friend at my book club giving a blow-by-blow of her bungee jump from a bridge in Australia. Or - and this was the worst of all - a TV show about some intrepid woman traveling alone in the blueness of Greece, and I'd be overcome by the little sparks that seemed to run beneath all that, the blood/sap/wine, aliveness, whatever it was. It had made me feel bereft over the immensity of the world, the extraordinary things people did with their lives - though, really, I didn't want to do any of those particular things. I didn't know then what I wanted, but the ache for it was palpable.

One of the worst incidents of that era caused no complaints at all: this was a sort of good-natured firepower demonstration, which occured one Sunday morning about three-thirty. For reasons that were never made clear, I blew out my back windows with five blasts of a 12 gauge shotgun, followed moments later by six rounds from a .44 Magnum. It was a prolonged outburst of heavy firing, drunken laughter, and crashing glass. Yet the neighbors reacted with total silence. For a while I assumed that some freakish wind pocket had absorbed all the noise and carried it out to sea, but after my eviction I learned otherwise. Every one of the shots had been duly recorded on the gossip log. Another tenant in the building told me the landlord was convinced, by all the tales he'd heard, that the interior of my apartment was reduced to rubble by orgies, brawls, fires, and wanton shooting. He had even heard stories about motorcycles being driven in and out the front door.

I believe we will become more compassionate. I believe we will fight smarter. I believe that in the deepest place of our souls, we are not cowardly or hateful or cruel to our neighbors. I believe we are kind and smart and brave. I believe that as long as we follow those instincts and do not give in to terror and blame, we can triumph over diseases and the stigmas attached to them. When we fight plagues, not each other, we will not only defeat diseases but preserve our humanity in the process.

Get Comfortable Not Knowing There once was a village that had among its people a very wise old man. The villagers trusted this man to provide them answers to their questions and concerns. One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, “Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn’t this the worst thing that could have possibly happened?” The wise old man replied, “Maybe so, maybe not.” The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn’t he see this? The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man’s farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox—and he did. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. “You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened.” The wise man replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now. But, once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer’s son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, “How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won’t be able to help with the crop. This time I’m sure that this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened. You must agree this time.” But, just as he had done before, the wise man calmly looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village. The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer’s son was the only young man in the village who didn’t have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die. The moral of this story provides a powerful lesson. The truth is, we don’t know what’s going to happen—we just think we do. Often we make a big deal out of something. We blow up scenarios in our minds about all the terrible things that are going to happen. Most of the time we are wrong. If we keep our cool and stay open to possibilities, we can be reasonably certain that, eventually, all will be well. Remember: maybe so, maybe not.

Those two Warsaws were gathered around the ring, speaking two languages, living in separate worlds, reading different newspapers, showing one another indifference at best, hatred at worst, but usually just remote disdain, as though they lived not on neighboring streets but an ocean apart.

What struck me, in reading the reports from Sri Lanka, was the mild disgrace of belonging to our imperfectly evolved species in the first place. People who had just seen their neighbors swept away would tell the reporters that they knew a judgment had been coming, because the Christians had used alcohol and meat at Christmas or because ... well, yet again you can fill in the blanks for yourself. It was interesting, though, to notice that the Buddhists were often the worst. Contentedly patting an image of the chubby lord on her fencepost, a woman told the New York Times that those who were not similarly protected had been erased, while her house was still standing. There were enough such comments, almost identically phrased, to make it seem certain that the Buddhist authorities had been promulgating this consoling and insane and nasty view. That would not surprise me.

One day about a month ago, I really hit bottom. You know, I just felt that in a Godless universe, I didn't want to go on living. Now I happen to own this rifle, which I loaded, believe it or not, and pressed it to my forehead. And I remember thinking, at the time, I'm gonna kill myself. Then I thought, what if I'm wrong? What if there is a God? I mean, after all, nobody really knows that. But then I thought, no, you know, maybe is not good enough. I want certainty or nothing. And I remember very clearly, the clock was ticking, and I was sitting there frozen with the gun to my head, debating whether to shoot. [The gun fires accidentally, shattering a mirror] All of a sudden, the gun went off. I had been so tense my finger had squeezed the trigger inadvertently. But I was perspiring so much the gun had slid off my forehead and missed me. And suddenly neighbors were, were pounding on the door, and, and I don't know, the whole scene was just pandemonium. And, uh, you know, I-I-I ran to the door, I-I didn't know what to say. You know, I was-I was embarrassed and confused and my-my-my mind was r-r-racing a mile a minute. And I-I just knew one thing. I-I-I had to get out of that house, I had to just get out in the fresh air and-and clear my head. And I remember very clearly, I walked the streets. I walked and I walked. I-I didn't know what was going through my mind. It all seemed so violent and un-unreal to me. And I wandered for a long time on the Upper West Side, you know, and-and it must have been hours. You know, my-my feet hurt, my head was-was pounding, and-and I had to sit down. I went into a movie house. I-I didn't know what was playing or anything. I just, I just needed a moment to gather my thoughts and, and be logical and put the world back into rational perspective. And I went upstairs to the balcony, and I sat down, and, you know, the movie was a-a-a film that I'd seen many times in my life since I was a kid, and-and I always, uh, loved it. And, you know, I'm-I'm watching these people up on the screen and I started getting hooked on the film, you know. And I started to feel, how can you even think of killing yourself. I mean isn't it so stupid? I mean, l-look at all the people up there on the screen. You know, they're real funny, and-and what if the worst is true. What if there's no God, and you only go around once and that's it. Well, you know, don't you want to be part of the experience? You know, what the hell, it's-it's not all a drag. And I'm thinkin' to myself, geez, I should stop ruining my life - searching for answers I'm never gonna get, and just enjoy it while it lasts. And, you know, after, who knows? I mean, you know, maybe there is something. Nobody really knows. I know, I know maybe is a very slim reed to hang your whole life on, but that's the best we have. And then, I started to sit back, and I actually began to enjoy myself.

Sometimes memory is like a dream. The worst nightmares are forgotten. Sometimes living is a nightmare. Just getting up, meeting your neighbors, and walking down the street.

Right now, within each of us there are two voices fighting to be heard: the voice of reason, good conscience, and the good of the greater whole; and the voice of fear, shame, and selfishness. The voice of our higher self versus the voice of our lower self. This is the dilemma, the inner struggle between the dark and the light aspects of our humanity. One voice is relaxed, trusting, and stable, while the other is fearful, nervous, and calculating. One holds the promise of serenity, peace of mind, and an innate knowledge that things are as they should be, while the other echoes the fragmented uncertainty of the unknown. One tells us to do the right thing, not to worry if our neighbors have more than us, and the other tells us to work harder, to find a way to get, collect, and win the prize for having the most toys. One tells us that we are in an abusive situation and should get out, while the other minimizes the destruction, saying, “You’ll never find better than this.” One says, “You are perfect as you are,” while the other insists, “You’re not pretty enough, smart enough, thin enough, or successful enough.” One urges, “Get help, it’s OK, we all have struggles to overcome,” and the other taunts, teases, and humiliates us, constantly warning us that if we speak up about our dark thoughts, insecurities, and fears, we will be shunned, punished, or abandoned.

That’s all they discussed, those neighbors of my mother’s: who had died; who was just about to drop dead; who was getting married to whom, so that they could have a miserable life together and then die.

What’s it like to live forever? Nicholas almost dropped the glass he had been holding. “What?” “What’s it like to know you will never die?” He should have known, he thought. She was a smart woman. “Lonely.” He said answering truthfully. He sighed. “It’s not romantic, or fun, or even exciting., It’s just lonely. I have watched everyone that I have ever loved, die. My family, my friends, my lovers and neighbors. It is not a fate I would ever wish on my worst enemy.

You lost beautiful things — years of your mother's good health, your shot at the dream career, your father way too soon — but you found them too: a coffee shop with the world's worst espresso; a bar with a line-dancing night; a messy, beautiful neighbor like Gus Everett.

It was one of the worst nights of my life. The house was filling with people and the hours passed in a dreadful streaky blur of relatives, neighbors, crying children, covered dishes, blocked driveways, ringing telephones, bright lights, strange faces, awkward conversations.

The Occupation, Lucien realized, hadn’t just bred hatred of Jews, it had brought out the very worst in human beings. Hardship had bred pure self-interest, setting group against group, neighbor against neighbor, and even friend against friend. People would screw over each other for a lump of butter.

Two years before, a rival claimant to the throne had assassinated the then reigning king and his sons, and since then, bloody war and tumult had raged. The new king was a powerful man, and had a great following of the worst and most self-seeking of the people. Neighboring countries had interfered for their own welfare's sake,

Together we are called to ask, What does it mean to be followers of Christ in our local community? In what ways do our values and beliefs shape how we live out the gospel and its implications in our cultural context? How can we best communicate the hope and truth in Jesus’ Kingdom to our friends, neighbors, coworkers, and family?

There is often an inverse relationship between levels of intragroup and intergroup aggression. In other words, groups with highly hostile interactions with neighbors tend to have minimal internal conflict. Or, to spin this another way, groups with high levels of internal conflict are too distracted to focus hostility on the Others.

Questions to Consider If you were told that a neighbor never worries about his kids, would you think that was a good thing or a bad thing? Would you like to be known as someone who doesn’t worry about your kids? If your significant other said to you, “I don’t think you ever worry about me,” would you take it as a complaint or a compliment?

Right after Matt died, I was afraid to do basically everything. I couldn’t even bite my nails or sniff my shirt to see if I needed deodorant without feeling like he was watching me. I willed and prayed and begged him to give me a sign that he was watching, that he was with me, so I would know. But he never did. Time moved on. And I stopped being afraid. Until right now, vulnerable and insecure and a little bit drunk. Lying in the sand and falling in crazy love with someone I just met. Matt is watching me. Observing. Possibly judging. And the worst part of it is, I don’t want to wake up under his landslide of sad rocks anymore. I don’t want to taste the marzipan frosting and the clove cigarettes. I don’t want to think about the blue glass necklace or the books he read to me on his bed or the piles of college stuff or some random boy in the grocery store wearing his donated clothes. I don’t want to be the dead boy’s best-friend-turned-something-else. Or the really supportive neighbor friend. Or the lifelong keeper of broken-hearted secrets.

I think that my first impulse arises from a hypersensitivity or allergy. It seems to me that language is always used in a random, approximate, careless manner, and this distresses me unbearably. Please don't think that my reaction is the result of intolerance towards my neighbor: the worst discomfort of all comes from hearing myself speak. That's why I try to talk as little as possible. If I prefer writing, it is because I can revise each sentence until I reach the point where - if not exactly satisfied with my words - I am able at least to eliminate those reasons for dissatisfaction that I can put a finger on. Literature - and I mean the literature that matches up to those requirements - is the promised land in which language becomes what it really ought to be.

Every Slaveholding State,” John junior wrote in May, “is furnishing men and money to fasten Slavery upon this glorious land, by means no matter how foul.” The worst threat came from “Border Ruffians” based in neighboring Missouri who moved in and out of Kansas, harassing anyone who showed free-soil leanings. The Border Ruffians were particularly adept at voter fraud and intimidation. A territorial census in early 1855 found 2,905 eligible voters in Kansas. Yet proslavery forces “won” an early election that March with 5,427 votes.

The day after the nation’s founding in May 1948, its Arab neighbors declared war and blockaded Israeli ports. Israel’s air and ground defense force repelled an invasion, but with access to the Mediterranean cut off, the nation was forced to rely upon aircraft to import the munitions necessary to wage war. Foreign airlines refused to fly into Israel during the hostilities, forcing the fledgling nation to rely completely on their own civil aviation as a means of survival. In this spirit, Israel founded its own airline, El Al, whose name means “to the skies” in Hebrew.

But this is the only account hand-copied and tacked to my bulletin board, the testimony of a Dutch pilot caught on shore near Anjer, a city now gone: 'The moment of greatest anguish was not the actual destruction of the wave. The worst part by far was afterwards, when I knew I was saved, and the receding flood carried back past me the bodies of friends and neighbors and family. And I remember clawing past other arms and legs as you might fight through a bramble. And I thought, 'The world is our relentless adversary, rarely outwitted, never tiring.' And I thought, 'I would give all these people's lives, once more, to see something so beautiful again.

So many of his proposals looked crazy at first glance, but once you peeled back the first layer, you realized that underneath there existed a core of irrefutable logic. Take the new punishment laws, those really set me off. Putting people in stocks? Whipping them in town squares!?! What was this, Old Salem, the Taliban’s Afghanistan? It sounded barbaric, un-American, until you really thought about the options. What were you going to do with thieves and looters, put them in prison? Who would that help? Who could afford to divert able-bodied citizens to feed, clothe, and guard other able-bodied citizens? More importantly, why remove the punished from society when they could serve as such a valuable deterrent? Yes, there was the fear of pain—the lash, the cane—but all of that paled when compared to public humiliation. People were terrified of having their crimes exposed. At a time when everyone was pulling together, helping each other out, working to protect and take care of one another, the worst thing you could do to someone was to march them up into the public square with a giant poster reading “I Stole My Neighbor’s Firewood.” Shame’s a powerful weapon, but it depended on everyone else doing the right thing. No one is above the law, and seeing a senator given fifteen lashes for his involvement in war profiteering did more to curb crime than a cop on every street corner.

I need to tell about my people in their grief. I don’t think grief is something they get over or get away from. In a little community like this it is around us and in us all the time, and we know it. We know that every night, war or no war, there are people lying awake grieving, and every morning there are people waking up to absences that never will be filled. But we shut our mouths and go ahead. How we are is “Fine.” There are always a few who will recite their complaints, but the proper answer to “How are you?” is “Fine.” The thing you have most dreaded has happened at last. The worst thing you might have expected has happened, and you didn’t expect it. You have grown old and ill, and most of those you have loved are dead or gone away. Even so: “How’re you?” “Fine. How’re you?” “Fine.” There is always some shame and fear in this, I think, shame for the terrible selfishness and loneliness of grief, and fear of the difference between your grief and anybody else’s. But this is a kind of courtesy too and a kind of honesty, an unwillingness to act as if loss and grief and suffering are extraordinary. And there is something else: an honoring of the solitude in which the grief you have to bear will have to be borne. Should you fall on your neighbor’s shoulder and weep in the midst of work? Should you go to the store with tears on your face? No. You are fine. And yet the comfort somehow gets passed around: a few words that are never forgotten, a note in the mail, a look, a touch, a pat, a hug, a kind of waiting with, a kind of standing by, to the end. Once in a while we hear it sung out in a hymn, when every throat seems suddenly widened with love and a common longing: In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore. We all know what that beautiful shore is. It is Port William with all its loved ones come home alive. My life

For love that flows “from a pure heart” thinks this way: “God has commanded me to direct my love to my neighbor. My heavenly Father wants me to be favorable to everyone, whether friends or enemies, just as he is. He lets the sun rise and shine on both good and evil people.” God shows goodness to those who continually dishonor him and misuse what he has provided through their disobedience, blasphemy, sin, and shameful behavior. In the same way, he lets rain fall on both the thankful and the unthankful. He gives money, property, and all types of things from the earth to the very worst scoundrels. Why does he do this? He does it out of genuine, pure love. His heart is full and overflowing with love. He pours his love over everyone, leaving no one out, whether good or bad, worthy or unworthy. This love is righteous, godly, whole, and complete. It doesn’t single out certain people or separate people into groups. He freely gives his love to all.

One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, “Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn’t this the worst thing that could have possibly happened?” The wise old man replied, “Maybe so, maybe not.” The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn’t he see this? The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man’s farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox—and he did. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. “You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened.” The wise man replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now. But, once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer’s son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, “How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won’t be able to help with the crop. This time I’m sure that this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened. You must agree this time.” But, just as he had done before, the wise man calmly looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, “Maybe so, maybe not.” Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village. The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer’s son was the only young man in the village who didn’t have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die. The moral of this story provides a powerful lesson.

The irony was that it was other women—other mothers—she was worried about. The ones who so easily passed judgment on their own sex, as if sharing certain biological characteristics made them experts on the subject. Abigail knew this mind-set because she had shared it back when she had the luxury of her safe and perfect life. She had read the stories about Madeleine McCann and JonBenet Ramsey, following every detail of the cases, judging the mothers just as harshly as everyone else had. She had seen Susan Smith pleading to the media and read about Diane Downs’s despicable violence against her own children. It had been so easy to pass judgment on these women—these mothers—to sit back on the couch, sip her coffee, and pronounce them too cold or too hard or too guilty, simply because she had caught five seconds of their faces on the news or in People magazine. And now, in the ultimate karmic payback of all time, Abigail would be the one on the cameras. She would be the one in the magazines. Her friends and neighbors, worst of all, complete strangers, would be sitting on their own couches making snap judgments about Abigail’s actions.

Cages of women. Women and girls of all ages. Lining downtown streets behind The Great Barrier Walls. Passersby prodding at them with canes, sticks, and whatever they could find. Spitting on them through the bars, as law and culture required. “Cages of women who had disobeyed their husbands, or sons, their preachers, or some other males in their lives. One or two of them had been foolish and self-destructive enough to have reported a rapist. “A couple of them had befriended someone higher or lower than their stations, or maybe entertained a foreigner from outside the community, or allowed someone of a lesser race into their homes. A few may have done absolutely nothing wrong but for being reported by a neighbor with a grudge. “For the most part they had disobeyed or disrespected males. “Watching from behind tinted and bullet-proof windows at the rear of his immaculate stretch limo, the Lord High Chancellor of PolitiChurch, grinned the sadistic grin of unholy conquest. A dark satisfaction only a deeply tarred soul could enjoy.” … … “Caged women and young girls at major street corners in even the worst weather. Every one of them his to do with, or dispose of, as he would. “In this world – in His world – He was God.” - From “The Soul Hides in Shadows” “It is the year 2037. What is now referred to as ‘The Great Electoral Madness of ’16’ had freed the darkest ignorance, isolationism, misogyny, and racial hatreds in the weakest among us, setting loose the cultural, economic, and moral destruction of America. In the once powerful United States, paranoia, distrust, and hatred now rage at epidemic levels.

Hey,” Chase said as he approached. “The rain sucks.” “Agreed.” His younger brother settled on a log. “I checked on the cattle. They’re fine. The clouds don’t look like there’s going to be any lightning or thunder, but they look plenty wet.” Zane nodded. “Storm’s supposed to last two days. I was hoping it would hold off until Saturday.” Chase sipped his coffee. “Everybody okay?” There was something about the question. Zane stared at him. “What do you mean?” “Nothing. Just checking.” Had Chase heard something in the night? Zane shook his head. Not possible. His tent had been some distance from the others, and the rain had blocked out a lot of noise. Nothing about his brother’s expression told what he was thinking. “We’re heading back today, right?” Chase said. “That’s the plan. I wish it wasn’t a two-day ride.” “There’s--” Chase stopped speaking and stared at his coffee. Zane knew what he’d been about to say. Reilly’s place. It was only about an hour’s ride. The old man would give them shelter until the worst of the storm passed, and even send out a few of his men to watch over the cattle until then. But Zane wasn’t about to impose on his neighbor. Not now and not ever. He glanced at the sky and wondered how long he could take a stand in weather like this. Whatever his issues with Reilly, his guests’ safety came first. “I better see how everyone’s doing,” he said as he tossed the rest of his coffee into the fire. “Before you go,” Chase said and held out something in his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you had enough with you.” Zane stared at the three condoms resting on his brother’s palm. Then he glanced at Chase, who was grinning. “Way to go, big brother.” Not knowing what to say, Zane rose and stalked off. But not before he took the condoms. He might be stubborn, but he wasn’t a fool.

Even at this point, say Ressler and others, these potential hosts of monsters can be turned around through the (often unintentional) intervention of people who show kindness, support, or even just interest. I can say from experience that it doesn’t take much. Ressler’s theories on the childhoods of the worst killers in America have an unlikely ideological supporter, psychiatrist and child-advocate Alice Miller. Her emotionally evocative books (including The Drama Of The Gifted Child and The Untouched Key) make clear that if a child has some effective human contact at particularly significant periods, some recognition of his worth and value, some “witness” to his experience, this can make an extraordinary difference. I have learned that the kindness of a teacher, a coach, a policeman, a neighbor, the parent of a friend, is never wasted. These moments are likely to pass with neither the child nor the adult fully knowing the significance of the contribution. No ceremony attaches to the moment that a child sees his own worth reflected in the eyes of an encouraging adult. Though nothing apparent marks the occasion, inside that child a new view of self might take hold. He is not just a person deserving of neglect or violence, not just a person who is a burden to the sad adults in his life, not just a child who fails to solve his family’s problems, who fails to rescue them from pain or madness or addiction or poverty or unhappiness. No, this child might be someone else, someone whose appearance before this one adult revealed specialness or lovability, or value. This value might be revealed through appreciation of a child’s artistic talent, physical ability, humor, courage, patience, curiosity, scholarly skills, creativity, resourcefulness, responsibility, energy, or any of the many attributes that children bring us in such abundance.

The other problem with empathy is that it is too parochial to serve as a force for a universal consideration of people’s interests. Mirror neurons notwithstanding, empathy is not a reflex that makes us sympathetic to everyone we lay eyes upon. It can be switched on and off, or thrown into reverse, by our construal of the relationship we have with a person. Its head is turned by cuteness, good looks, kinship, friendship, similarity, and communal solidarity. Though empathy can be spread outward by taking other people’s perspectives, the increments are small, Batson warns, and they may be ephemeral.71 To hope that the human empathy gradient can be flattened so much that strangers would mean as much to us as family and friends is utopian in the worst 20th-century sense, requiring an unattainable and dubiously desirable quashing of human nature.72 Nor is it necessary. The ideal of the expanding circle does not mean that we must feel the pain of everyone else on earth. No one has the time or energy, and trying to spread our empathy that thinly would be an invitation to emotional burnout and compassion fatigue.73 The Old Testament tells us to love our neighbors, the New Testament to love our enemies. The moral rationale seems to be: Love your neighbors and enemies; that way you won’t kill them. But frankly, I don’t love my neighbors, to say nothing of my enemies. Better, then, is the following ideal: Don’t kill your neighbors or enemies, even if you don’t love them. What really has expanded is not so much a circle of empathy as a circle of rights—a commitment that other living things, no matter how distant or dissimilar, be safe from harm and exploitation. Empathy has surely been historically important in setting off epiphanies of concern for members of overlooked groups. But the epiphanies are not enough. For empathy to matter, it must goad changes in policies and norms that determine how the people in those groups are treated. At these critical moments, a newfound sensitivity to the human costs of a practice may tip the decisions of elites and the conventional wisdom of the masses. But as we shall see in the section on reason, abstract moral argumentation is also necessary to overcome the built-in strictures on empathy. The ultimate goal should be policies and norms that become second nature and render empathy unnecessary. Empathy, like love, is in fact not all you need. SELF-CONTROL

The word “pioneer” betrays a disturbing willingness to repeat the worst mistake of the pioneers of the American West—the mistake of considering an inhabited place uninhabited. To imagine oneself as a pioneer in a place as densely populated as Chicago is either to deny the existence of your neighbors or to cast them as natives who must be displaced. Either way, it is a hostile fantasy.

Chapter 51 In Atlanta, the day had gone mostly as Elliott had expected. The stock market crash had rattled everyone. It was a cloud that hung over the euphoria of Black Friday. The most difficult part of his plan had been convincing the other five families to pool their money with his for the purchases, which together added up to hundreds of thousands of dollars. They had begun by renting two twenty-six-foot U-Haul trucks. They drove them to Costco and filled them with survival necessities. It was mostly food; Elliott planned to be near a freshwater source if worst came to worst. Next, they purchased two high-end RVs. The price was exorbitant, but they carried a thirty-day money-back guarantee, and they only had to make a down payment—the remainder was financed. Elliott had assured his neighbors that within thirty days, they would either be incredibly glad to have the two homes on wheels—or they’d have their money back. Now he sat in his study, watching the news, waiting for the event he believed would come. He hoped he was wrong. DAY 7 900,000,000 Infected 180,000 Dead

highest mortality rate of any in the hospital. And why not? Clay thought morosely. We’re the worst off. The ones with the gravest of injuries. With Ruth deciding who she wanted to kill. When Clay awoke on a Sunday morning, he had a new neighbor on E Ward. The man was old. Older than any man Clay could remember seeing. For several minutes, Clay stared at him. The man had a beard, snow white for the most part, although it looked as though chewing tobacco had stained the edges of his mustachios. His hair was equally as white, and nearly as long. The pale locks framed a face seemingly crafted from thin paper-mache. Each cheekbone was highlighted, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets. Thick, wiry eyebrows, accentuated the valleys and grooves

A woman had died in the room next to mine, she had died on the other side of the wall I was leaning against, and I had known nothing of it. I had known nothing in the weeks when her husband mourned, nothing when I had nodded to him in greeting with headphones in my ears, or when I had folded clothes in the laundry room while he used the washer. I hadn't known him well enough to routinely ask how Carla was, and I had not noticed not seeing her around. that was the worst of it. I had noticed neither her absence nor the change - there must have been a change - in his spirit. It was not possible, even then, to go knock on his door and embrace him, nor speak with him at length. It would have been false intimacy.

Even at this point, say Ressler and others, these potential hosts of monsters can be turned around through the (often unintentional) intervention of people who show kindness, support, or even just interest. I can say from experience that it doesn’t take much. Ressler’s theories on the childhoods of the worst killers in America have an unlikely ideological supporter, psychiatrist and child-advocate Alice Miller. Her emotionally evocative books (including The Drama Of The Gifted Child and The Untouched Key) make clear that if a child has some effective human contact at particularly significant periods, some recognition of his worth and value, some “witness” to his experience, this can make an extraordinary difference. I have learned that the kindness of a teacher, a coach, a policeman, a neighbor, the parent of a friend, is never wasted. These moments are likely to pass with neither the child nor the adult fully knowing the significance of the contribution. No ceremony attaches to the moment that a child sees his own worth reflected in the eyes of an encouraging adult. Though nothing apparent marks the occasion, inside that child a new view of self might take hold. He is not just a person deserving of neglect or violence, not just a person who is a burden to the sad adults in his life, not just a child who fails to solve his family’s problems, who fails to rescue them from pain or madness or addiction or poverty or unhappiness. No, this child might be someone else, someone whose appearance before this one adult revealed specialness or lovability, or value. This value might be revealed through appreciation of a child’s artistic talent, physical ability, humor, courage, patience, curiosity, scholarly skills, creativity, resourcefulness, responsibility, energy, or any of the many attributes that children bring us in such abundance. I had a fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Conway, who fought monsters in me. He showed kindness and recognized some talent in me at just the period when violence was consuming my family. He gave me some alternative designs for self-image, not just the one children logically deduce from mistreatment (“If this is how I am treated, then this is the treatment I am worthy of”). It might literally be a matter of a few hours with a person whose kindness reconnects the child to an earlier experience of self, a self that was loved and valued and encouraged.

The constant ability to see into the lives of our neighbors, to compare ourselves to strangers, to be in constant contact with the entire planet day and night, is unnatural and pushes the human mind far beyond its capacity for reason and reflection.

In every moment of loss there’s a moment of appreciation. When we mourn the dead, we appreciate life. When we lament the state of the world, we take a moment to appreciate our neighbors. When the worst happens, we cling to the good still around. The good becomes that much more important. You need this moment of crisis to slow you down and make you appreciate all you do have in this moment of loss.

The horrible mismanagement of the AIDS crisis makes me want to grab [disease minimizers] by the shoulders and shake them and say, “Why haven’t you read about what worked or did not work every time a plague cropped up before this one? Why aren’t you paying attention? Do not do the same stupid stuff people did before! We know what works and what doesn’t! Be smarter, please, please, be smarter, be kinder, be kinder and smarter, I am begging you.” I find the forgetfulness of people, especially in true matters of life and death, so frustrating. Sometimes I look at these histories and think, People are just going to keep making the same dumb mistakes every single time. And one day those mistakes will doom us all. And I feel sad and furious and frightened for what will happen next. But then I think about how polio is almost eradicated. Or that penicillin exists. And I remember that we are progressing, always, even if that progress is sometimes slower and more uneven than we might wish. I remind myself, too, of all the ways people have persevered and survived in conditions that are surely as bad as anything that is to come. Whenever I am most disillusioned, I look to one of my favorite quotes from The World of Yesterday (1942) by Stefan Zweig. When Zweig was fleeing from the Nazis and living in exile he wrote: “Even from the abyss of horror in which we try to find our way today, half-blind, our hearts distraught and shattered, I look up again to the ancient constellations of my childhood, comforting myself that, some day, this relapse will appear only an interval in the eternal rhythm of progress onward and upward.” I have to believe that the missteps are only intermittent relapses as we grow stronger and smarter and better. We do get better. At everything. Combatting diseases fits somewhere among “everything.” I believe there will be a day when we will see diseases as what they are—an enemy of all of humanity. Not of perceived sinners, not of people who are poor or have a different sexual orientation, not of those who we somehow decided “have it coming” because they’re “not like us.” Diseases are at war with all of us. Diseases don’t care about any of the labels, so it makes no sense for us to. I believe we will become more compassionate. I believe we will fight smarter. I believe that in the deepest place of our souls, we are not cowardly or hateful or cruel to our neighbors. I believe we are kind and smart and brave. I believe that as long as we follow those instincts and do not give in to terror and blame, we can triumph over diseases and the stigmas attached to them. When we fight plagues, not each other, we will not only defeat diseases but preserve our humanity in the process. Onward and upward.

They used to say, Greeks and Turks are flesh and fingernail. You can't separate your fingernail from your flesh. It seems they were wrong. It could be done. War is a terrible thing. All kinds of wars. But civil wars are the worst perhaps, when old neighbors become new enemies.

All but two of the eleven districts with the lowest Polsby-Popper scores, none of which filled as much as 3 percent of the circle, faced legal challenges. Of the legal challenges only those to Illinois’s “Earmuff District” and North Carolina-1 did not succeed, although the state redrew the latter to make it more compact. The other two districts among those with the worst perimeter scores, Texas-6 and -25, both abutted districts invalidated in Bush v. Vera and derived their strange shapes in large part because of the shapes given their majority-minority neighbors.

As expected, violence is mostly committed by men. Most common is killing related to women—two men fighting over a particular woman, or attempts to kidnap a woman from a neighboring group. Naturally, there are men killing their wives, usually over accusations of adultery

That there is no consequence to massacring foreigners, our criminal rulers have long known, but they also know that when Pentagon guns are turned on Americans, a good portion of the world will break out in cheers, just as we've whooped and hollered as our tax-paid munitions splattered their loved ones. When blood darkens our streets, our victims will dance in theirs, no doubt, so why are our transfat asses still parked at this sad cul-de-sac as that day of reckoning looms? When you're broke, though, it's hard to move a mile, much less out of the country, so many of us will simply escape into our private universe, inside our various screens, and ignore, as best we can, an increasingly ugly reality. Moreover, some still believe there is no serious decline, while others that a unified fight is possible. For the most hopeless, there is always suicide. This month, a thirty-year-old Bensalem man and his fifty-nine-year-old mother attempted, it appears, a suicide pact by breathing toxic fumes from a borrowed generator. Only she died, however, so now he's charged with her murder. Neighbors said they had fallen on hard times and "had nothing left". Not that long ago, it was highly unusual to have young adults living with their parents, but not anymore. As this trend continues, many Americans will know exactly one house their whole lives, but at least they'll still have a home. Should you be homeless in greater Philadelphia, there is one place you can have a private bed and bathroom for a few hours, at minimal cost. Keep this information in mind, for you might need it. At Bensalem's Neshaminy Inn, you'll only have to cough up $34, including tax, if you check in after 7 a.m. and leave by 4 p.m. This will give you plenty of time to refresh yourself or even have sex, with or without a (paid) partner, many of whom routinely patrol the hallways. Dozing before dark will also spare you from the worst of the bedbugs, and don't even think of complaining about heroin addicts' bloodstains on the walls, no sheet on your bed or used condoms beneath it. You didn't pay much, OK?

The first hands he heard banging at the outside walls felt like nails pushing into his temples. Then there were more hands. Pounding. Punching. Scratching. Then kicks and shrieking that even drowned out the sound of the rain. The worst was when Ham could make out individual voices. He could hear their neighbor Zebeleh and her little daughter Ariel

The worst beatings were from Musa, whose temper was terrifying. He and Suleyman both had their own houses now because they were married, but sometimes they would turn up at our home on Sundays, as they knew that was the day we would try to go to church. If we were not at home when they arrived, they waited until we returned and would demand to know where we had been. Whatever we said made them angry, but we never retaliated or fought back. By now my sisters and I were completely rejected by our Muslim neighbors, friends and relatives. They all knew we had converted from Islam to Christianity because we had not been afraid to share our new faith with them.

The Bears waited nervously while the judges studied, measured, and weighed, and then studied, measured, and weighed some more. Finally, they made their announcement: “THE FIRST-PRIZE WINNER--AND STILL CHAMPION…” Of course, that meant Farmer Ben had won. It was close--it turned out that Ben’s Monster was just a little bigger, rounder, and oranger than Papa’s Giant. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The Giant didn’t even come in second. A beautiful pumpkin grown by Miz McGrizz won second prize. The Giant came in third. Papa and the cubs were crushed…crushed and very quiet as they pushed their third-prize winner home. It wasn’t until they reached the crest of a hill that overlooked Bear Country that Mama decided to have her say. “I know you’re disappointed. But third prize is nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, Thanksgiving isn’t about contests and prizes. It’s about giving thanks. And it seems to me that we have a lot of be thankful for.” Perhaps it was Mama’s lecture, or maybe it was how beautiful Bear Country looked in the sunset’s rosy glow. But whatever the reason, Papa and the cubs began to understand what Mama was talking about. Even more so on Thanksgiving Day. After the Bears gave thanks for the wonderful meal they were about to enjoy, Sister Bear gave her own special thanks. “I’m thankful,” she said, “that we didn’twin first prize: if we had, The Giant would be on display in front of City Hall instead of being part of the yummy pies we’re going to have for dessert!” As the laughter faded and the Bears thought about the blessings of family, home, friends, and neighbors, they knew deep down in their hearts that there was no question about it--indeed they did have a great deal to be thankful for.

February 19 Coping with Loneliness A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.—Proverbs 18:24 “I am so lonely. I’m around people all of the time, but I feel that I don’t belong.” These were the words of a lady with whom I was having coffee. She added, “I feel cut off from others. I feel isolated in a crowd of people.” My heart ached for this lady. In a large world it is easy to feel that we are nothing more than a speck in the midst of a multitude. Loneliness is painful. It means that we lack meaningful and close relationships with others. Our busy and impersonal world contributes to loneliness. Loneliness can also be self-inflicted. Some find it difficult to communicate with others. They may suffer from a poor self-image. Others demand privacy. This inhibits the development of meaningful relationships. I believe that the worst kind of loneliness comes from being alienated from God. A life steeped in sin is a lonely life. “How can I cope with this loneliness?” this lady asked as we began to talk. If you are not walking with God you must restore your fellowship with Him. You can find forgiveness through Christ. Being separated from God will cause you to feel that life has little meaning. Your first step out of the lonely pit is to realize how much Jesus loves you. He knows you better than anyone else does. He knows your past. He knows your future. As our Scripture tells us, He is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. If you want a friend, you must be a friend. It is God’s plan that we reach outside ourselves. God wants us to be the kind of friend who can strengthen others. Being a friend can help you cope with your loneliness. Why don’t you seek out someone to help and establish a friendship? Telephone someone. Visit your new co-worker or new neighbor. They may be lonely also.

It hits me. I love that woman. So fucking much. And I’m the biggest idiot on the planet for not begging for her forgiveness the other night. Yes, I’ve been freaked out about football and what’s going to happen with my career. Yes, I’ve been sleep-deprived and worried sick, but above all that noise, the truth levels me: if I get the game back, but she walks out of my life, it’ll wreck me. I swallow. Hard. How the hell am I gonna make it right between us again? I’ve been a mess all week. When my dad called to bitch me out yesterday, I lost it. At first, I hoped he’d called to support me, to say something fucking fatherly for once. To offer some advice. But no, he just wanted to rub my face in the scandal and call me a dumbass for getting serious with Gabby. I snapped, yelled shit I knew he wanted to hear just to get him off the phone, but it rattled me. How could someone who supposedly loved me believe the worst about me? Of course, if Gabby really thinks you’re fucking someone else behind her back, maybe you are the dumbass your father claims you are for falling for her when you should have your eyes on the prize and your heart on the game. Not on your neighbor who may want to rip your balls from your body.

It is impossible even to begin the act of loving one's enemies without the prior acceptance of the necessity, over and over again, of forgiving those who inflict evil and injury upon us. Second, we must recognize that the evil deed of the enemy-neighbor, the thing that hurts, never quite expresses all that he is. An element of goodness may be found even in our worst enemy. Each of us is something of a schizophrenic personality, tragically divided against ourselves. ... This simply means that there is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction. ... The chain reaction of evil--hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars--must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.

P-22 just may be the Neil Armstrong of his kind. A quick glance at his route on a map shows he had to be a bit mad to even attempt his journey. To get to his new territory of Griffith Park, he must cross two of the busiest freeways in the United States. Imagine soft, padded paws fitted for bounding over snow and boulders touching the asphalt of the first eight-lane highway, known as one of the worst roads in the country. Even in the middle of the night, the 405 never slows, and the highway thrums with mechanical noise and explodes with the mad dance of headlights. When faced with the living, breathing monster of the 405, most cats do an abrupt about-face, or get mangled by a few tons of moving steel. But P-22, with his tenacity, or luck, or both, somehow manages to cross. There is no way of knowing how he navigates the formidable obstacle of the road, whether he uses an under- or overpass or bolts straight across. All have been attempted by other cats, and many haven’t lived to tell the tale.

Adults often ask me why children in groups are so cruel. I am always astonished by the question. What about groups of adults? What about the Holocaust? What about the Serbs and Croats? How could neighbors who had lived together for hundreds of years suddenly turn on one another and begin to see each other as enemies? Why have Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland been willing to plant bombs in each other’s neighborhoods and kill people only blocks away? What about the Hutus and the Tutsis? During the genocide in Rwanda, a Hutu man beheaded his Tutsi wife and three sons in front of a crowd when the Hutu chief in his town told him that he had to kill all Tutsis. What force could make a person do something like that? Peer pressure. Peer pressure in a horrible group cause.

And, oh yeah, to reiterate an idea aired previously, “cooperation” is a value-free term. Sometimes it takes a village to ransack a neighboring village.

The Welsh are swine,” said the one-legged man in reply to a question from his son. “Absolute swine. The English are swine, too, but not as bad as the Welsh. Though really they’re the same, but they make an effort not to seem it, and since they know how to pretend, they succeed. The Scots are bigger swine than the English and only a little better than the Welsh. The French are as bad as the Scots. The Italians are little swine. Little swine ready and willing to gobble up their own swine mother. The same can be said of the Austrians: swine, swine, swine. Never trust a Hungarian. Never trust a Bohemian. They’ll lick your hand while they devour your little finger. Never trust a Jew: he’ll eat your thumb and leave your hand covered in slobber. The Bavarians are also swine. When you talk to a Bavarian, son, make sure you keep your belt fastened tight. Better not to talk to Rhinelanders at all: before the cock crows they’ll try to saw off your leg. The Poles look like chickens, but pluck four feathers and you’ll see they’ve got the skin of swine. Same with the Russians. They look like starving dogs but they’re really starving swine, swine that’ll eat anyone, without a second thought, without the slightest remorse. The Serbs are the same as the Russians, but miniature. They’re like swine disguised as Chihuahuas. Chihuahuas are tiny dogs, the size of a sparrow, that live in the north of Mexico and are seen in some American movies. Americans are swine, of course. And Canadians are big ruthless swine, although the worst swine from Canada are the French-Canadians, just as the worst swine from America are the Irish-American swine. The Turks are no better. They’re sodomite swine, like the Saxons and the Westphalians. All I can say about the Greeks is that they’re the same as the Turks: bald, sodomitic swine. The only people who aren’t swine are the Prussians. But Prussia no longer exists. Where is Prussia? Do you see it? I don’t. Sometimes I imagine that while I was in the hospital, that filthy swine hospital, there was a mass migration of Prussians to some faraway place. Sometimes I go out to the rocks and gaze at the Baltic and try to guess where the Prussian ships sailed. Sweden? Norway? Finland? Not on your life: those are swine lands. Where, then? Iceland, Greenland? I try but I can’t make it out. Where are the Prussians, then? I climb up on the rocks and search for them on the gray horizon. A churning gray like pus. And I don’t mean once a year. Once a month! Every two weeks! But I never see them, I can never guess what point on the horizon they set sail to. All I see is you, your head in the waves as they wash back and forth, and then I have a seat on a rock and for a long time I don’t move, watching you, as if I’ve become another rock, and even though sometimes I lose sight of you, or your head comes up far away from where you went under, I’m never afraid, because I know you’ll come up again, there’s no danger in the water for you. Sometimes I actually fall asleep, sitting on a rock, and when I wake up I’m so cold I don’t so much as look up to make sure you’re still there. What do I do then? Why, I get up and come back to town, teeth chattering. And as I turn down the first streets I start to sing so that the neighbors tell themselves I’ve been out drinking down at Krebs’s.

There was the doctor, looking through one of the windows beside the front door. He could see into the garden, but it was a vision that was cloudy and green. What was he seeing? Elinor’s last breath, broken into a thousand molecules? Was that what he was breathing? Her essence, her self, the person he would miss every day, his worst patient, his nastiest neighbor, his most treasured friend.

While this atrocity “set off a tide of anguish nationwide” (as the Times put it), it struck a particularly painful chord in one midwestern town, reawakening memories of a tragedy that had left a deep and lasting scar on the community. The town was Bath, Michigan, site of the worst school massacre in US history. Perpetrated by a respected citizen, admired by his neighbors and active in local affairs, it claimed more than forty victims, thirty-eight of them children. That carnage was committed not with firearms but with explosives, which also made it the deadliest act of domestic terrorism before Timothy McVeigh’s 1995 attack on the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City. It climaxed, moreover, with a horrific suicide bombing.

there is so little of our own maturity and growth that we actually superintend. “I cannot transform myself, or anyone else for that matter. What I can do is create the conditions in which spiritual transformation can take place, by developing and maintaining a rhythm of spiritual practices that keep me open and available to God.”1 We give grace accessibility to our hearts when we engage in intentional spiritual practices. One important spiritual practice is the practice of confession. As Andy Crouch writes, As for Christians, well, we really have just one thing going for us. We have publicly declared . . . that we are desperately in need of Another to give us his righteousness, to complete us, to live in us. We have publicly and flagrantly abandoned the project of self-justification that is at the heart of every person’s compulsion to manage perceptions. . . . This means telling the world—before the world does its own investigative journalism—that we’re not as bad as they think sometimes. We’re worse. . . . If we’re being honest about our own beauty and brokenness, the beautiful broken One will make himself known to our neighbors.2 Confession allows us to be the worst of sinners and yet remain confident that God is committed to us still. Holy desire is best

meet me in the backyard with a kiddie pool i just want to splash around like i’m seven call up the neighbors let’s make new friends run through sprinklers throw water balloons (i’ll miss) let’s laugh real loud scream for fun eat watermelon and orange slices remind each other to reapply sunscreen forget what we were supposed to do today forget what we were supposed to do this week call in sick for work no—quit our jobs break our leases move to the forest bathe in the river fall asleep on the grass let’s quit adulthood

In turn, the Hadza have become so used to visiting scientists that hosting the researchers who observe them has become a way to supplement their income. Sadly, visiting scientists who want to emphasize how much they are studying bona fide hunter-gatherers sometimes turn a blind eye to the degree to which the Hadza’s way of life is changing as a result of contact with the outside world. These papers rarely mention how many Hadza children now go to government schools, and how the Hadza’s territory is almost entirely shared with neighboring tribes of farmers and pastoralists, with whom they trade and whose cows tramp all over the region. As I write this, the Hadza don’t yet have cell phones, but they are not isolated as they once were. Despite these limitations, there is still much to learn from the Hadza, and I am fortunate to have visited them on a couple of occasions. But to get to the Hadza is not easy. They live in a ring of inhospitable hills surrounding a seasonal, salty lake in northwestern Tanzania—a hot, arid, sunbaked region that is almost impossible to farm.13 The area has some of the worst roads on the planet. Of the roughly twelve hundred Hadza, only about four hundred still predominantly hunt and gather, and to find these few, more traditional Hadza, you need sturdy jeeps, an experienced guide, and a lot of skill to travel over treacherous terrain. After a rainstorm, driving twenty miles can take most of the day. Many things surprised me when I first walked into a Hadza camp mid-morning on a torrid, sunny day in 2013, but I remember being especially struck by how everyone was apparently doing nothing. Hadza camps consist of a few temporary grass huts that blend in with the surrounding bushes. I didn’t realize I had walked into a camp until I found myself amid about fifteen Hadza men, women, and children who were sitting on the ground as shown in figure 2. The women and children were relaxing on one side, and the men on another. One fellow was straightening some arrows, and a few children were toddling about, but no one was engaged in any hard work. To be sure, the Hadza weren’t lounging on sofas, watching TV, munching potato chips, and sipping soda, but they were doing what so many health experts warn us to avoid: sitting.

You will learn strategies to navigate other difficult people in your life, including coworkers, neighbors, friends, relatives, and yes, even significant others. But the most important thing you will learn is what kind of leader you want to be when it is your turn. Nearly everyone interviewed for this book said their best leadership teacher was their worst boss. The experience may

Cousin Bette is an inimitable character, a villainess of the worst kind: mean-spirited, vengeful, small-minded. And yet what a joy she is. Bette’s desire for revenge stems from her obsession with her cousin. Adeline is more beautiful and charismatic than Bette. And she has “stolen” the man Bette should have married. Bette seems to conveniently ignore the fact that the man Adeline has married—Baron Hulot—is not someone anyone would want to be married to. The seed of resentment is sown early on, then, and Bette schemes to bring down Baron Hulot, his wife, and their entire family. Because if she can’t be happy, then no one can. She enlists Valérie Marneffe, her neighbor, to seduce Baron Hulot and wheedle as much money as possible out of him, all the while knowing that he is all but ruined by his previous mistress, Josépha. Meanwhile Bette develops a maternal/romantic attachment to her upstairs neighbor, Wenceslas Steinbock, a Polish artist, whom she prevented from committing suicide

And the worst sort of anarchy will prevail—everyone stepping on someone else, neighbors fighting neighbors, youths revolting against authority, criminals sneering at honorable men.

Time is different in Rome. Maybe it’s the light, which is languid and delicate. The blue afternoon bleeds into twilight like a watercolor, and I realize we’ve been up on Silvia’s terrace drinking aperitifs for nearly five hours. Donato’s friends in crisp suit jackets, hair slicked back, plumes of smoke climbing into the now golden sky. Hannah and her girlfriends, their boisterous chatter mixing with the city noises below: a car horn, a motorcycle, a police siren, sandals clack-clacking on the narrow cobblestone streets. My niece had been the one to open the door. She tried her best to be nonchalant. Auntie, she cried. But I knew that look. Emily had the same expression when I caught her smoking a joint with the neighbor. Guilty.

I think I hear Donato’s voice, and then the front door to the apartment opens and shuts. I can make out every one of his footsteps on the stairs. I wait at the bedroom window, which is actually quite large. I could climb right out of it if I wanted. Perch out there on the roof tiles, taking in that lush golden sky. A figure wrapped in a robe moves from room to room in a neighboring building. Below in the courtyard a black cat dozes beneath the lemon tree.

Children who had inherited money, or a warehouse full of cloth or corn, were sometimes adopted by unscrupulous neighbors greedy to get their hands on the legacy. The prospect of something for nothing brought out the worst in people..

Beep, Beep, Buzz, Buzz My day begins with Jenny aka (Jenna) Talya- laying on the horn in her black 2003 ford focus with the paint peeling on the hood. And reading a text from my bestie Jenny saying- ‘Don’t forget b*tches, it's love-o-grams day!’ My mom yells out the door every day not to do that, yet it goes in one ear and out the other with Jenny. Jenny does what Jenny wants to do. Yet that horn has a way of like going through you… you know. Especially at five- fifty-five every single morning. ‘Hurry the hell up, I am not getting any younger over here!’ She yells out the window of the SUV. And my mom yells about that too, ‘stop cursing!’ Then I say something like ‘Keep your pants on… I am coming! I am ‘Cumming!’’ As the nosey neighbor lady peps- out one of the slats of their window blind at us. It always seems to be I am running to get where I am going, even from house door to car door. Most of the time passing up that one book up on the floor, which you need for class on the way out without thinking, in such a rush. I didn't even put on Ray's letterman jacket he gave me to wear, I balled it up in my arms. Just like my purse and backpack zippers were somewhat open, that was just a horn in my one right shoulder. Right before that my darling pain in the ass little sister Kellie, who is ten years old. She grabs one of my bookable handles and tugs me back off my footing. WHAT- is it! I spun around looking like a demon child just snarling at her. She said crying. I just wanted to hug you, Karly. And I said- forget it… I am late now, and can’t you see I am texting my ‘BF! -Boyfriend’ So stop wasting my time little girl. (No- I know I am not a very nice person. I know that now! Yet I did think! I thought I was going to see her letter that night. I would give anything to have going back and hugged her that last time… that day.) It seemed that I was always too busy to spend any time with her. As a teen girl, like I said. My time was mostly spent on boys- well mostly Ray, talking and getting together, and partying to be popular. I thought that was what living a good life was all about. It’s just as if she always picked the worst times to try to bother me. Um- I’m not perfect, and there is only some much time in the day to play, and she wanted to play all the time. Though, I can see her turning into a little me. I was the one she looked up to. Mom was certainly trying to get her some help for her impulsiveness; we all think she has ADHD or something for how clinging she is. She is mom and dad’s favorite though I feel that girl is not what I would call under-loved that’s for sure. Yet mom and dad don’t see anything wrong with her having all that energy, and to be like running around, sucking down the soda, and cramming down the junk food. She is picked on to like me; I was before I fell into Jenny's hand of friends. I hope she can do the same. All at the same time I hope she doesn’t, I don’t want to see her fall into the wrong as I did.

For most of my life, I thought that if only I could gain the expressed approval of my parents, my sister, my husband, my friends, my coworkers, my neighbors, etc., I would finally be able to feel good about myself. Eventually, I realized that expressed approval from others didn’t actually do any good; in fact, it kept me in the position of having my worth defined by others. If my worth was defined by others, then the state of my worth—good or bad—was in the hands of others, and as a result, was subjective at best and infinitely precarious at worst.

There was no way to get around the fact that Jesus makes a very unnatural demand on His followers. He asks us to remain forever turned toward the Other, to seeing my worst enemy as my neighbor.

am certain of only two things. The first is that when Jesus told me to love my neighbor, I’m pretty sure he meant, like, my actual neighbor—the person or people nearest to me at any given moment. At home. At work. On the subway. In the supermarket. On a street corner. Y’know, neighbors. And the second thing is this: The only way to know how to truly love your neighbor is to truly know your neighbor.

I’ll tell you why I’m dubious. These will be young people in this garden commune, I assume. That means they’ll be stoned half the time–one of the things you can grow in gardens is Cannabis. That won’t go down well with the neighbors. Neither will free-form marriage or the natural-credit Communist economy. They’ll be visited by the cops every week. They’ll be lucky if the American Legion doesn’t burn them out, or sic the dog catcher on their wild life children.” “None of that has anything to do with them. It only has to do with people outside.” “Sure,” I said, “but those people aren’t going to go away. If they won’t leave the colony alone I’ll give it six months. If it isn’t molested it might last a year or two. By that time half the people will have drifted away in search of bigger kicks, and the rest will be quarreling about some communal woman, or who got the worst corner of the garden patch, or who ate up all the sweet corn. Satisfying natural desires is fine, but natural desires have a way of being both competitive and consequential. And women may be equal to men, but they aren’t equal in attractiveness any more than men are. Affections have a way of fixing on individuals, which breeds jealousy, which breeds possessiveness, which breeds bad feeling. Q.E.D.

Virtually nothing is known about the early life of Andrew Philip Kehoe, the man his neighbors would later dub “the world’s worst demon.”1 Philip Kehoe had already sired six daughters before Andrew came into the world on February 1, 1872. As the first son, Andrew occupied a special place in the family: the “long sought” male heir who was both “enthroned” by his parents and burdened with the highest expectations of a proud, stern, and demanding father.2

I asked about the apartment and stated that I was surprised to see so many cleaning agents. “Yeah, that was a constant problem for me. The smell was awful. I tried to keep the bodies with me for as long as I could after I killed them, but after a day or so, they started to rot, depending on the temperature of my room. Summers were really the worst because I didn’t have air conditioning. When you fillet the flesh from the body, it gives off a horrendous odor. Several times the neighbors complained of the smell, so I constantly had air fresheners around. I even kept a fan going, using it as an exhaust for the fumes, pointing it out the bedroom window.” I interrupted, “I suppose all the cleansers I saw were used to clean up the blood?” Dahmer shook his head no and said that cutting up the bodies was a dirty job, but after a while, he had it down to a science. “I cut the body open in the bathtub and let gravity work to draw the blood down the drain.

Although at times I might fail, still, I shall try to wish well and not Hell on even my worst enemy: this is so because no person deserves Hell for sinning against a sinner, but all persons deserve Hell for sinning against a perfectly holy God.

He rarely experiences having neighbors as a problem, but being someone’s neighbor can be utterly challenging, as they might in a worst-case scenario want to talk to you. Therefore, to avoid your neighbors, you have to make yourself uninteresting, but not too uninteresting, because that makes you interesting. You have to position yourself somewhere right between “What a great guy!” and “He seems . . . weird.” That’s your sweet spot, because everyone wants a neighbor who minds his own business, but if you mind your own business too much the neighbors may be reminded that this is exactly what everyone always says about serial killers: “Him? I remember him as a bit of a loner. Kept to himself.