Wrapped In Elegance Quotes

She was temptation wrapped in casual elegance.

The look in his eyes turned a little wild. "That's the only reason I'm letting you go. If I had any choice--" "You do," she said "Wed can all sit here and let him die. Or you can let Eve go on her wild-ass rescue mission and get herself killed. Or you can let sweet, calm, reasonable Claire go do some talking." He shook his head. His long, elegant hands, which looked so at home wrapped around a guitar, closed into fists. "Guess that means there's no choice." "Not really," Claire agreed. "I was kind of lying about that choice thing.

Reclaimed by the small-time day-to-day, pretending life is Back To Normal, wrapping herself shivering against contingency's winter in some threadbare blanket of first-quarter expenses, school committees, cable-bill irregularities, a workday jittering with low-life fantasies for which "fraud" is often too elegant a term, upstairs neighbors to whom bathtub caulking is an alien concept, symptoms upper-respiratory and lower-intestinal, all in the quaint belief that change will always be gradual enough to manage, with insurance, with safety equipment, with healthy diets and regular exercise, and that evil never comes roaring out of the sky to explode into anybody's towering delusions about being exempt. . .

Breakfast! My favorite meal- and you can be so creative. I think of bowls of sparkling berries and fresh cream, baskets of Popovers and freshly squeezed orange juice, thick country bacon, hot maple syrup, panckes and French toast - even the nutty flavor of Irish oatmeal with brown sugar and cream. Breaksfast is the place I splurge with calories, then I spend the rest of the day getting them off! I love to use my prettiest table settings - crocheted placemats with lace-edged napkins and old hammered silver. And whether you are inside in front of a fire, candles burning brightly on a wintery day - or outside on a patio enjoying the morning sun - whether you are having a group of friends and family, a quiet little brunch for two, or an even quieter little brunch just for yourself, breakfast can set the mood and pace of the whole day. And Sunday is my day. Sometimes I think we get caught up in the hectic happenings of the weeks and months and we forget to take time out to relax. So one Sunday morning I decided to do things differently - now it's gotten to be a sort of ritual! This is what I do: at around 8:30 am I pull myself from my warm cocoon, fluff up the pillows and blankets and put some classical music on the stereo. Then I'm off to the kitchen, where I very calmly (so as not to wake myself up too much!) prepare my breakfast, seomthing extra nice - last week I had fresh pineapple slices wrapped in bacon and broiled, a warm croissant, hot chocolate with marshmallows and orange juice. I put it all on a tray with a cloth napkin, my book-of-the-moment and the "Travel" section of the Boston Globe and take it back to bed with me. There I spend the next two hours reading, eating and dreaming while the snowflakes swirl through the treetops outside my bedroom window. The inspiring music of Back or Vivaldi adds an exquisite elegance to the otherwise unruly scene, and I am in heaven. I found time to get in touch with myself and my life and i think this just might be a necessity! Please try it for yourself, and someone you love.

The right cover is like a beautiful coat, elegant and warm, wrapping my words as they travel through the world, on their way to keep an appointment with my readers. Books come to stand for various episodes in our lives, for certain idealisms, follies of belief, moments of love. Along the way they accumulate our marks, our stains, our innocent abuses, they come to wear our experience of them on their covers and bindings like wrinkles on our skin. Like every true love, that of the reader is blind.

Sensuality is about creating memorable and timeless experiences that are wrapped up in true elegance.

When Gabriel returned, he eagerly opened the wine, smiling to himself wickedly. He was in for a treat, and he knew it. He knew how Julianne looked when she tasted wine, and now he would have a repeat of her erotic performance from the other night. He felt himself twitch more than once in anticipation and wished that he had a video camera secretly placed in his condo somewhere. It would probably be too obvious to pull his camera out and take snapshots of her. He showed her the bottle first, noting with approval the impressed expression that passed across her face when she read the label. He’d brought this special vintage back from Tuscany, and it would have pained him to waste it on an undiscerning palate. He poured a little into her glass and stood back, watching, and trying very hard not to grin. Just as before, Julia swirled the wine slowly. She examined it in the halogen light. She closed her eyes and sniffed. Then she wrapped her kissable lips around the rim of the goblet and tasted it slowly, holding the wine in her mouth for a moment or two before swallowing. Gabriel sighed, watching her as the wine traveled down her long and elegant throat.

...the dress clings to my chest and waist, skirt flaring over my hips. The tattered edges give it a haunting elegance, as though I am wrapped in the shadows of dusk. I look the picture of mysterious courtier, rather than someone who sleeps in dirt.

I don’t think you should make so many off-colour jokes about him becoming a cuckold. You’re only getting away with it because he doesn’t know what it means.’ ‘That’s the beauty of the English language. One can wrap insults inside elegance, like popping anchovies into pastry.

Erect, isolated, having at her side her husband and myself, the Duchesse stood on the left of the staircase, already wrapped in her Tiepolo cloak, the collar fastened by the clasp of rubies, being devoured by the eyes of women and of men seeking to chance upon the secret of her elegance and her beauty.

She lifted the tails of his elegant silk evening shirt. “Some that don’t reach my knees?” He cleared his throat. He liked her wrapped in his shirt, surrounded by him. “Well, actually, as Joshua knows, that is one of your annoying habits. You like to run around in my shirts. You think they are much more comfortable than your own clothes.” Alexandria regarded him with wide blue eyes. “Oh, I do, do I? I take it you grumble about it.” “Often, to Josh. We laugh together about the idiosyncrasies of women. He thinks you look cute in my shirts.” “And what would give a little boy an idea like that?” He looked unrepentant. “I might have mentioned it a time or two.” His golden eyes slid over her body, making her aware of her bare skin beneath his shirt, of every curve of her body, of the fact that they were completely alone in some secret chamber of his home. “It is true, after all. You do look cute in my shirt.

Behind her, the two Sharpe sisters came out to cross the courtyard. He dragged in a heavy breath as the younger one caught his eye. Masters approached to look out the window, too. "And there she comes, the most beautiful woman in the world." "And the most maddening," Jackson muttered. "Watch it, Pinter," Masters said in a voice tinged with amusement. "That's my wife you're talking about." Jackson started. He hadn't been staring at Mrs. Masters. "I beg your pardon," he murmured, figuring he'd best not explain. Masters would never accept that Lady Celia was to her sister as a gazelle was to a brood mare. The newly wedded barrister was blinded by love. Jackson wasn't. Any fool could see that Lady Celia was the more arresting of the two. While Mrs. Masters had the lush charms of a dockside tart, Lady Celia was a Greek goddess-willowy and tall, small-breasted and long-limbed, with a fine lady's elegant brow, a doe's soft eyes... And a vixen's temper. The damned female could flay the flesh from a man's bones with her sharp tongue. She could also heat his blood with one unguarded smile. God save him, it was a good thing her smile had never been bestowed on him. Otherwise, he might act on the fantasy that had plagued him from the day he'd met her-to shove her into some private closet where he could plunder her mouth with impunity. Where she would wrap those slender arms about his neck and let him have his way with her.

I The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" II Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-Tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. III "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

A growth decorated in warmth of uniformity, wrapped as project. Your life's tomorrow thrust at your steps, crowning you architect. Moving steps upon steps, lines on lines without a defeat. Your mark you elegantly phase, all in niches so perfect. Societies you have preserved, great wills you have as elect. Hearts and minds of all human race, you have carved with your smile as your solemn affect.

How was your journey?" he asked. "You don't have to make small talk with me," she said. "I don't like it, and I'm not very good at it." They paused at the shade of portico, beside a sweet-scented bower of roses. Casually Lord St. Vincent leaned a shoulder against a cream-painted column. A lazy smile curved his lips as he looked down at her. "Didn't Lady Berwick teach you?" "She tried. But I hate trying to make conversation about weather. Who cares what the temperature is? I want to talk about things like... like..." "Yes?" he prompted as she hesitated. "Darwin. Women's suffrage. Workhouses, war, why we're alive, if you believe in séances or spirits, if music has ever made you cry, or what vegetable you hate most..." Pandora shrugged and glanced up at him, expecting the familiar frozen expression of a man who was about to run for his life. Instead she found herself caught by his arrested stare, while the silence seemed to wrap around them. After a moment, Lord St. Vincent said softly, "Carrots." Bemused, Pandora tried to gather her wits. "That's the vegetable you hate most? Do you mean cooked ones?" "Any kind of carrots." "Out of all vegetables?" At his nod, she persisted, "What about carrot cake?" "No." But it's cake." A smile flickered across his lips. "Still carrots." Pandora wanted to argue the superiority of carrots over some truly atrocious vegetable, such as Brussels sprouts, but heir conversation was interrupted by a silky masculine voice. "Ah, there you are. I've been sent out to fetch you." Pandora shrank back as she saw a tall msn approach in a graceful stride. She knew instantly that he must be Lord Sy. Vincent's father- the resemblance was striking. His complexion was tanned and lightly time-weathered, with laugh-lines at the outer corners of his blue eyes. He had a full head of tawny-golden hair, handsomely silvered at the sides and temples. Having heard of his reputation as a former libertine, Pandora had expected an aging roué with coarse features and a leer... not this rather gorgeous specimen who wore his formidable presence like an elegant suit of clothes. "My son, what can you be thinking, keeping this enchanting creature out in the heat of midday?

She smiled, and as she hugged me, the scent of lavender intensified. It was intoxicating; it wrapped its long, soft arms around my head, and whispered tales in my ear. Tales of elegant women living in houses with large gardens where peacocks could wander. Tales of women who lived exactly as they wanted. Tales of women who did as they pleased. Tales of women who loved how and whom they wanted. Tales that could become reality. Yes, the lavender smelled of freedom. At that moment I understood: this was what I wanted. To live as I pleased, not as I was supposed to.

Drake stood speechless. Admiration- and something else Serena could not quite identify, pride perhaps- showing from his eyes. "Turn around," his deep voice commanded softly. "I would see all of you." She turned slowly, holding back a delighted laugh. Her gown was gold, the color of the amber flecks in her eyes, with a green-and-gold-striped underskirt and matching puffed sleeves. Emeralds hung from her ears, swaying provocatively and catching the candlelight from the wall scones. A choker wrapped around her neck and tiny tear-shaped jewels sparkled from her hair. It had taken the combined urgings of her personal maid and the housekeeper to convince her it was acceptable to wear such a low-cut gown in public. Elegant gloves covered her arms to the elbows with an emerald and gold bracelet on one wrist and a Chinese fan dangling from the other. "I knew you would be beautiful dressed as my duchess, but Serena, I am speechless. The men will adore you and the women will envy you." He spoke the last in an underbreath, as though to himself.

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" II Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-Tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. III "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

Our supposed leader was Miss Joyce, who had been working as a civil servant in the department since its foundation forty-five years earlier in 1921. She was sixty-three years old and, like my late adoptive mother Maude, was a compulsive smoker, favouring Chesterfield Regulars (Red), which she imported from the United States in boxes of one hundred at a time and stored in an elegantly carved wooden box on her desk with an illustration of the King of Siam on the lid. Although our office was not much given to personal memorabilia, she kept two posters pinned to the wall beside her in defence of her addiction. The first showed Rita Hayworth in a pinstriped blazer and white blouse, her voluminous red hair tumbling down around her shoulders, professing that ‘ALL MY FRIENDS KNOW THAT CHESTERFIELD IS MY BRAND’ while holding an unlit cigarette in her left hand and staring off into the distance, where Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin were presumably pleasuring themselves in anticipation of erotic adventures to come. The second, slightly peeling at the edges and with a noticeable lipstick stain on the subject’s face, portrayed Ronald Reagan seated behind a desk that was covered in cigarette boxes, a Chesterfield hanging jauntily from the Gipper’s mouth. ‘I’M SENDING CHESTERFIELDS TO ALL MY FRIENDS. THAT’S THE MERRIEST CHRISTMAS ANY SMOKER CAN HAVE – CHESTERFIELD MILDNESS PLUS NO UNPLEASANT AFTER-TASTE’ it said, and sure enough he appeared to be wrapping boxes in festive paper for the likes of Barry Goldwater and Richard Nixon, who, I’m sure, were only thrilled to receive them

But the one piece of this dish that plays the biggest role of all... is this wrapping around the chicken breast... the Croûte!" Croûte! A base of bread or pie dough seasoned with savory spices, croûte can refer either to the dough itself or a dish wrapped in it. It's a handy addition that can boost the aroma, textures and presentation of a dish without overpowering its distinctive flavors! "You are correct. Therein lies the greatest secret of my dish. Given the sudden measurements to the original plan and my need to create an entirely different dish... ... the Croûte I had intended to use to wrap the chicken breast required two very specific additions. Those two ingredients were... FINELY MINCED SQUID LEGS... ... AND PEANUT BUTTER." "NO WAY! SQUID LEGS AND PEANUT BUTTER?!" "Yes! Squid legs and peanut butter! Appetizer and main dish! There is no greater tie that could bind our two dishes together!" Peanut butter's mild richness adds subtle depth to the natural body of the chicken, making it an excellent secret seasoning. And the moderately salty bitterness of the squid legs is extremely effective in tying the Croûte's flavor together with the meaty juiciness of the chicken! "Even an abominable mash-up that Yukihira has tinkered with for ages... ... can be transformed into elegant gourmet beauty when put in my capable hands. The Jidori chicken breasts and the squid and peanut butter Croûte... those are the two pillars of my dish! To support them, I revised all the seasonings for the sauces and garnishes... ... so that after you tasted Soma Yukihira's dish... ... the deliciousness of my own dish would ring across your tongues as powerfully as possible!

We need to leave as soon as possible." "Okay," Luce said. "I have to go home, then, pack, get my passport..." Her mind whirled in a hundred directions as she started making a mental to-do list. Her parents would be at the mall for at least another couple of hours, enough time for her to dash in and get her things together... "Oh, cute." Annabelle laughed, flitting over to them, her feet inches off the ground. Her wings were muscular and dark silver like a thundercloud, protruding through the invisible slits in her hot-pink T-shirt. "Sorry to butt in but...you've never traveled with an angel before, have you?" Sure she had. The feeling of Daniel's wings soaring her body through the air was as natural as anything. Maybe her flights had been brief, but they'd been unforgettable. They were when Luce felt closest to him: his arms threaded around her waist, his heart beating close to hers, his white wings protecting them, making Luce feel unconditionally and impossibly loved. She had flown with Daniel dozens of times in dreams, but only three times in her waking hours: once over the hidden lake behind Sword & Cross, another time along the coast at Shoreline, and down from the clouds to the cabin just the previous night. "I guess we've never flown that far together," she said at last. "Just getting to first base seems to be a problem for you two," Cam couldn't resist saying. Daniel ignored him. "Under normal circumstances, I think you'd enjoy the trip." His expression turned stormy. "But we don't have room for normal for the next nine days." Luce felt his hands on the backs of her shoulders, gathering her hair and lifting it off her neck. He kissed her along the neckline of her sweater as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Luce closed her eyes. She knew what was coming next. The most beautiful sound there was-that elegant whoosh of the love of her life letting out his driven-snow-white wings. The world on the other side of Luce's eyelids darkened slightly under the shadow of his wings, and warmth welled in her heart. When she opened her eyes, there they were, as magnificent as ever. She leaned back a little, cozying into the wall of Daniel's chest as he pivoted toward the window. "This is only a temporary separation," Daniel announced to the others. "Good luck and wingspeed.

She knew the effort it took to keep one’s exterior self together, upright, when everything inside was in pieces, broken beyond repair. One touch, one warm, compassionate hand, could shatter that hard-won perfect exterior. And then it would take years and years to restore it. This tiny, effeminate creature dressed in velvet suits, red socks, an absurdly long scarf usually wrapped around his throat, trailing after him like a coronation robe. He who pronounced, after dinner, “I’m going to go sit over here with the rest of the girls and gossip!” This pixie who might suddenly leap into the air, kicking one foot out behind him, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun, fun, fun it is to be me! I’m beside myself!” “Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. Hemingway - He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. How to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it! He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair. Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy. And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes. Is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald? The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself. The loss of her true heart. An amusing, brief little time. A time before it was fashionable to tell the truth, and the world grew sordid from too much honesty. In the end as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves. Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glance of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes. The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted. What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

Catherine drew out an object wrapped in soft cloth. Gently she unwrapped a new pair of spectacles made of silver... gleaming and perfect, the oval lenses sparkling. Marveling at the workmanship, she drew a finger along one of the intricate filigreed earpieces, all the way to the curved tip. "They're so beautiful," she said in wonder. "If they please you, we'll have another pair made in gold. Here, let me help you..." Leo gently drew the old spectacles off her face, seeming to savor the gesture. She put the new ones on. They felt light and secure on the bridge of her nose. As she looked around the room, everything was wonderfully detailed and in focus. In her excitement, she jumped up and hurried to the looking glass that hung over the entryway table. She inspected her own glowing reflection. "How pretty you are," Leo's tall, elegant form appeared behind hers. "I do love spectacles on a woman." Catherine's smiling gaze met his in the silvered glass. "Do you? What an odd preference." "Not at all." His hands came to her shoulders, lightly fondling up to her throat and back again. "They emphasize your beautiful eyes. And they make you look capable of secrets and surprises- which, as much as we know, you are." His voice lowered. "Most of all I love the act of removing them- getting you ready for a tumble in bed." She shivered at his bluntness, her eyes half closing as she felt him pull her back against him. His mouth went to the side of her neck. "You like them?" Leo murmured, kissing her soft skin. "Yes." Her head listed to the side as his tongue traced a subtle path along her throat. "I... I don't know why you went to such trouble. It was very kind." Leo's dark head lifted, and he met her drowsy gaze in the looking glass. His fingers went to the side of her throat, stroking as if to rub the feel of his mouth into her skin. "I wasn't being kind," he murmured, a smile touching his lips. "I merely wanted you to see clearly." I'm beginning to, she was tempted to tell him, but Poppy returned to the apartment before she was able.

Their gift-wrapped packages continued to pile up when they finally reached the floor he’d been waiting impatiently for. The music was quieter on the fifth floor, the displays even more elegant, the colors softer to complement the very expensive lingerie on display. Valentina’s flush said it all, even before she spoke. “I can’t think of anyone who needs something from this section of the store.” He let his gaze move over her flushed cheeks, her full lips, her too-bright eyes. “I can.” He moved close enough to slide the tips of his fingers over her hand in the barest of touches. “The next time I see you in silk and lace, Valentina, I want to know that I’m the only man who will ever take it off you.

I don’t dare to move. I don’t want him to stop touching me. But I can’t just sit here like an idiot. What I really want to do is kiss his hand, but I’m not brave enough for that. I wish I were. And then Luca’s hand moves, just a little, to touch my hair again. He winds his finger through one of my curls. “Che boccoli,” he says, sinking again to sit down next to me on the window seat. Our knees touch. “I don’t know the word in English, but my cousins have these too. Bigger, curly, like African hair. And my father. Maybe you are some kind of relative, Violetta-who-looks-like-Zia-Monica. A cousin. My pretty Italian cousin. You know, when I first meet you I say you look Italian.” He’s leaning close to me now, and I’ve completely forgotten how to breathe. I glance sideways at his finger, long, elegant, very pale by contrast with my dark brown curl wrapped around it. “Boccoli,” he said. I must remember to look that up. “I hope I’m not your cousin,” I say simply. “And see how dark you are.” He lets my curl fall and takes my hand, holding it up next to his, my skin much sallower. “I am white from the north,” he says. “My mother’s Austrian blood. But you, the color of your skin is from the south, or at least Centro Italia, my pretty Italian cousin.” “I don’t want to be your cousin,” I say again, nearly in a whisper. “Why? Because we have kissed?” Luca’s still holding my hand, but his eyes go darker, almost cynical. Almost bitter. “A kiss means nothing. Don’t you know that yet, Violetta? Kissing,” he says, so close now I can feel his breath on my face, so close I can almost feel his lips against mine, “is nothing at all…” I know I should pull away. Even before anything happens, he’s told me it means nothing to him. I should push back, get up, go and find the group. But if he doesn’t kiss me now, I will go insane. Our hands twine together. Our heads move in unison, tilting fractionally. Our mouths touch, our eyes close, our breaths merge. Our bodies edge even closer on the seat, wrapping around each other. I’m completely and utterly lost in him.

In the beginning, stores sold food smuggled into the ghetto, where one could buy anything—even eggs and milk. And outside lurk the snatchers, girls and boys in rags with feverish eyes, lying in wait for people leaving the store, grabbing their food and at once plunging their teeth into it, right through the wrapping paper. People crowd around, kicking and shouting, but the child does not care as long as there is food, no matter what it is. The coffee houses are full of smartly dressed women, wearing elegant pre-war hats. There are also rich smugglers, the new ghetto aristocracy, and all kinds of people getting rich at others’ expense; in front of the houses on the sidewalks lay human skeletons covered by newspapers. Winter,

Although the making of a religion of one’s own can be satisfying, it can progress further and faster with the aid of the spiritual traditions. Your own spiritual path risks being too personal and limited. What resources do you have compared to the traditions that have thought of things you will never consider? They have refined ideas and images and teachings and moral guidelines expressed in elegant and inspiring ways. They have produced spiritual beauty of a kind no single person could ever create. Read Emerson’s journals and you find that he was reading Hafiz for months, and Thoreau’s homespun spiritual insights come wrapped in references from the Western and Eastern traditions.

Tradition as a Resource Although the making of a religion of one’s own can be satisfying, it can progress further and faster with the aid of the spiritual traditions. Your own spiritual path risks being too personal and limited. What resources do you have compared to the traditions that have thought of things you will never consider? They have refined ideas and images and teachings and moral guidelines expressed in elegant and inspiring ways. They have produced spiritual beauty of a kind no single person could ever create. Read Emerson’s journals and you find that he was reading Hafiz for months, and Thoreau’s homespun spiritual insights come wrapped in references from the Western and Eastern traditions.

The Hen Going through the entire collection, I finally saw an egg that was simple in design and style, possessing clean lines that were modern and contemporary. I pointed out the "Hen" to mu'allmi, not expecting that he would ask the saleslady to release it from under the locked display case. As soon as the "Hen" was out of its display case I could see that it was even more beautiful and elegant than it first appeared. Ramiz held it in his hands, looking closely at this costly luxury item. “How much is it?" The signora looked at the price tag. "It is US $3,800.00." That was a lot of money in 1966. My professor held up the egg, examining its simple contents before replying, "Please wrap this for me. It is a gift for someone very dear to me.

Why do you want to marry me, Benjamin? The real reason.” “Honor is a real reason.” It was not the real reason. He wasn’t quite sure he could admit the real reason, even to himself, even in the darkness, but if he said he wanted to keep her safe and make her troubles go away, she’d likely be on a packet to France by morning. “Why don’t you want to marry me?” “I don’t want to marry anybody.” “We’re back to your glorious independence?” She remained silent, which was a good tactic. It made him feel petty and a trifle bullying, though no less determined. “Is it so hard to believe a man could esteem you greatly enough to want to share his fortune, his title, and his life with you?” She withdrew her hand and rose, shifting to stand at the railing so she looked out over the garden—and could keep her expression from Ben’s gaze, no doubt. “I believe a man could want to share his body with me.” Oh-ho. Except her words were anything but an invitation. “You are cranky, my love. Let me tuck you in. Finding a ring worthy of gracing your elegant hand might take us all day tomorrow, and that would be fatiguing indeed.” “We’re not going to take an entire day wasting coin…” He came up behind her and wrapped both arms around her middle. “Guns down, Maggie. Even the Corsican didn’t expect to make war all winter—and see what his march to Moscow cost him when he made the attempt.” She sighed softly, her shoulders dropping. “You should not be here.” “Now there you are wrong. There is no place I would rather be. You, however, should not be alone, night after night, year after year, when any man with eyes and a brain can see what a treasure you are.” “Flattery ill becomes you, Benjamin. You should be blushing to speak such arrant flummery aloud. I hired you to find my reticule, and you end up with a scandal on your hands.

Who are they from?" "I don't know, open yours and see," replied my lover. Andy undid the silver wrapping on his parcel and I carefully opened the gold package. A beautifully crafted box lay beneath the tissue papers. Elegantly scripted in platinum, on top of each box was the FABERGE label. To our amazement we discovered two limited editions of Faberge eggs. One was platinum and the other was pure gold; within each egg was "The Hen". My jaw dropped, knowing full well that these presents came from Ramiz. I looked at Andy in astonishment, lost for words, before he read out loud the two gift cards tucked inside the boxes: “You are amazing!  Thank You. Ramiz. P.S. Let’s get together for twice weekly sessions at the Kosk.

He sat with his arm still around her, watching her face and smiling as she fumbled with the elegant gold wrapping, her agile fingers suddenly clumsy. She lifted the lid off and stared speechlessly at the simple pendant that lay on satin lining like a cobweb of gold. A dark red heart, chiseled and planed, was attached to the chain. “That’s a ruby,” she stammered. “No,” he corrected gently, lifting it from the box and placing it around her neck. “That’s my heart.” The chain was long, and the ruby heart slid down her chest to nestle between her breasts, gleaming with dark fire as it lay against her honeyed skin. “Wear that forever,” he murmured his eyes on the lush curves that his gift used as a pillow. “And my heart will always be touching yours.

SENSUALITY   Her hands push upward gathering the material from my shirt until it reaches over my head. Brushing her hair with my hand I stare deep into the lambent ecru of her eyes as hints of russet and jade glimmer across them both. She gives into me reaching for me while moving her lips down my torso. Carefully removing each layer that is slowly loosened we now find each other completely unguarded as our arms do wrap tightly around one another. Her arms and hands glide and slide naturally in such a graceful performance that her movement does seduce every part of me. Here and now we have become bare as we embrace this method of nearness that unfolds one another’s secrets. Holding her inside of my gentle embrace I marvel every elegant strand from her karakul-like ringlets that fall down beside her face and shoulders. The splendor of her darling features give charm to that undulating delirium that she induces. The edges of my fingertips find their way down the muscles of her back in the way that a drop of rain finds itself traveling across the wet colocasia leaf. Looking into her eyes they do manifest to me again that she is the one whom I’ve been searching for all this time. She is the one I have waited for to whom I do give the great pleasure of showing me how. I’ve wanted every part of me to belong to her and no one else, knowing here and now that all of me will truly become her very own.

SEEING HER   Time stands still in a swelling moment where my curiosity draws me to be still in thought as the breaking speed of sound causes my heart to ascend to where I now know. An almost desperate attempt is made to catch my breath. In all I recognize that she is the first to seduce me with an absolute fascination. I make note of the incredible lines that veer beyond the vantage of what beauty I can absorb. It’s as if to say I’ve come upon an undiscovered passage at the center of nature’s secret that has led me to wonder. She is a woman, if whose flaws were to unveil would only make her even more distinctly unique with beauty. Her ivory-colored complexion bears the brilliance of champagne balanced by a hint of ochre. Ringlets of black thread and pearl lay gracefully alongside her charming features. Her lips look as if they speak of love often but only to herself. Her style, grace, elegance, and posture display the pure determination that she has made clear in her mind. The slight indent on the bridge of her adorable nose complements her slender face and endearing qualities. Her elegance alone surpasses any expression I’ve ever encountered. There she sits in long black dress pants with the perfect crease down the front. Her small feet show through her black sandal heels that wrap around her thin ankles. Her pants waistline reaches up passed her hips secured by a leather belt and designer buckle. She wears her grey-collared dress shirt tucked in, allowing only me to make note of those lines that press firmly and loosely against her body.

With a deep breath, I extend my arms, beginning with an adagio, syncing with the melody of the flowers. When I find comfort in the rhythm, I dip into a cambré, sweeping my body into a whirlpool as I rise. I hesitate as plumes of color emerge from the ground, encompassing me in a veil of fuchsia, amber, and gold. The colors gather me, and I move with them like the language of fire--- hot, quick steps, languid and elegant. The forest begins to change, and my eyes widen. When I began my bourrée steps, foxgloves sprout like lace-crafted trumpets, marrying the sound of blooming hibiscuses, rattling like tambourines. With every step I take, more flowers grow, kissing the earth with their velvet lips. I almost swear I hear the ground sing back, harmonizing with the forest's song. I guess the angel was right. With a glimmer of confidence, I burst into a grand jeté, and golden hummingbirds mimic me, tracing my every move as I dive into a piqué manège. Damien's eyes glisten, and it fills my spirit.With every chassé, the forest unravels in color. Fireflies come to life and kiss my cheeks, circling my body in a lattice as I pirouette. New colors rise from the ground--- topaz, lazuli, and chartreuse--- dancing with me like my own ensemble, I transition into my fouettés, leaning into an arabesque, as if to touch the rising moon. I lose all sense of self, leaping into the air. My body transcends into a wind-like creature, moving wildly with mild grace. New life sprouts, as if this world belongs to me and not the angels. Tiny stars emerge in a trail behind my feet, and I climb them like stairs. Damien smiles. I reach for his hand and lift him onto the steps. His hands wrap around my waist, and together we spin higher into the sky. My grip around his shoulders tenses as we rise closer and closer to the Heavens. I can feel Luna radiating over me. I'm in command. Here, I'm free. I wish I could hold on to this moment forever.

You value your good looks and hold on to them. Well, let me tell you, sister, one day you are goin’ to wake up and find out you’re not the prettiest girl on campus. Or at your workplace. Or—know what? Even in your household. Your beauty is just one brief chapter in your history book. Nothin’ but a sweet, elusive lie. Elegant wrapping paper, wrapped around a mysterious gift. And while it is true beautifully wrapped gifts are more appealing to the eye” —I cocked my head sideways, giving her body a quick, cold scan—“I’m sure whatever I have to offer under my wrapping paper’s worth more than your ugly words tonight.

The beggar has wrapped his legs and feet in brown paper tape, and the effect is startlingly medieval, as though someone has partially sculpted a knight from office materials. The trim calves, the tapered toes, an elegance calling out for ribbons. Above the tape, the man is a blur, a spastic scribble, his being abraded by concrete and misfortune. He has become the color of pavement, his very race in question.

The voice was assured and calm and familiar. Breathing in the scent of autumn leaves and smoke, I was wrapped in the essence of the Lady of Autumn even before I turned around and found her standing nearby. Her words were so oddly phrased, but Devin had told me she was the oldest of the court leaders, so it made some sense. On her they seemed to fit. "Lady Artemis." I awkwardly bowed my head as I had seen others do for Devin. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, a deep red peacoat falling nearly to her knees over a long white dress. She commanded every ounce of elegance she'd had on the solstice as she walked toward me in the parking lot.

I know what you think when you look at me, Tess, and it’s not that I take good care of my grandmomma. You’re thinkin’, thank God it didn’t happen to me. You value your good looks and hold on to them. Well, let me tell you, sister, one day you are goin’ to wake up and find out you’re not the prettiest girl on campus. Or at your workplace. Or—know what? Even in your household. Your beauty is just one brief chapter in your history book. Nothin’ but a sweet, elusive lie. Elegant wrapping paper, wrapped around a mysterious gift. And while it is true beautifully wrapped gifts are more appealing to the eye” —I cocked my head sideways, giving her body a quick, cold scan—“I’m sure whatever I have to offer under my wrapping paper’s worth more than your ugly words tonight.

Long wooden farm tables with turned legs that looked like they'd been collected over a hundred years were placed end to end and ran the entire length of the space. Tapered candles in glass sleeves were mixed among birch-wrapped vases overflowing with colorful wildflowers and maidenhair ferns. Vintage china and silverware adorned every place setting, and our place cards were perched perfectly in their own little beds of green moss. It felt like we'd stepped into the Shire from a Tolkien novel. It was the perfect creation of rustic elegance.

All because I was too stupid to learn from past mistakes. Just like all the other dreaming fools throughout history, wrapped up with seductive, clean equations, their simplistic, isolated elegance, giving no thought to the messy, bloody, physical application that was their ultimate reality. As if we didn’t have enough weapons already. But that’s human nature, we’ve always got to go one better, to increase the terror another notch. And for what?

We will have to get you to the bed, Jacques.” Gregori’s voice dispelled the thick tension in the room, pushed it aside to replace it with clean, fragrant air. “Mikhail, I will need herbs. You know which ones. Tell Byron to bring me plenty of rich soil from the steam chamber in the caves.” Gregori glided closer to the couple, his graceful elegance failing to conceal the rippling strength of his muscles and the power emanating from his body. He looked totally confident, relaxed, completely fearless. The soft rumbling in Jacques’ throat increased; his fingers tightened possessively, crushing bones and tendon in Shea’s upper arm. Gregori stopped moving immediately. “I am sorry, woman, I know you are weak, but you will have to move to the other side of him or he will not allow me to help,” Gregori instructed calmly. What we need, Mikhail, is Raven’s calming influence. You look about as reassuring as a Bengal tiger. Oh, and you look like a bunny rabbit, Mikhail scoffed. “You could have brought Raven along,” Gregori chided softly, aloud. “You bring her along on every other dangerous thing she should not be involved in.” That was a clear reprimand. “You might have brought her where she could actually do some good.” Through the open doorway suddenly stepped a small woman, long ebony hair braided intricately, huge blue eyes flashing at Mikhail. As Byron shouldered his way inside behind her, she gave him a friendly smile and stood on her toes to brush his chin with a kiss. Mikhail stiffened, then immediately wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. “Carpathian women do not do that kind of thing,” he reprimanded her. She tilted her chin at him, in no way intimidated. “That’s because Carpathian males have such a territorial mentality--you know, a beat-their-chest, swing-from-the-trees sort of thing.” She turned her head to look at the couple lying on the floor. Her indrawn breath was audible. “Jacques.” She whispered his name, tears in her voice and in her blue eyes. “It really is you.” Eluding Mikhail’s outstretched, detaining hand, she ran to him.

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

Let me take you back in time a little,” says Anumita Roychowdhury, an elegant woman in a beige and pale blue wrap. She’s the director of the Center for Science and Environment, a group that’s played a leading role in the years of battles over air quality. In the 1990s, she tells me, Delhi’s air was so bad “you couldn’t go out in the city without your eyes watering.” India had no regulations on vehicles or fuel, so despite advances elsewhere in the world, engines here hadn’t improved for 40 years, and fuel quality was abysmal. It was the activist Supreme Court that changed that. Its judges started issuing orders, and from 1998 to about 2003, a series of important new rules came into force. Polluting industries were pushed out of the city, auto-rickshaws and buses were converted to CNG, and emission limits for vehicles were introduced, then tightened. “These were pretty big steps,” Roychowdhury says, and they brought results. “If you plot the graph of particulate matter in Delhi, you will see after 2002 the levels actually coming down.” The public noticed. “I still remember the 2004 Assembly elections in Delhi, where the political parties were actually fighting with each other to take credit for the cleaner air. It had become an electoral issue.” So how did things go so wrong? The burst of activity petered out, and rapid growth in car ownership erased the improvements that had been won. “If you look at the pollution levels again from 2008 and ’09 onwards, you now see a steady increase,” Roychowdhury says. “We could not keep the momentum going.” Indeed, particulate levels jumped 75 percent in just a few years.14 Even the action that was taken, she believes, “was too little. We had to do a lot more, more aggressively.” Part of the reason government stopped pushing, Roychowdhury believes, is that the moves needed next would have had to address Delhiites’ growing fondness for cars, so would surely have prompted public anger. “There is a hidden subsidy for all of us who use cars today,” she says. “We barely pay anything in terms of parking charges, we barely pay anything in terms of road taxes. It is so easy to buy a car because of easy loans. So there is absolutely no disincentive.” About 80 percent of transportation spending is focused on drivers, even though they’re only about 15 percent of Delhiites. “The entire infrastructure of the city is getting redesigned to facilitate car movement, but not people’s movement.

The Cheskin company demonstrated a particularly elegant example of sensation transference a few years ago, when they studied two competing brands of inexpensive brandy, Christian Brothers and E & J (the latter of which, to give some idea of the market segment to which the two belong, is known to its clientele as Easy Jesus). Their client, Christian Brothers, wanted to know why, after years of being the dominant brand in the category, it was losing market share to E & J. Their brandy wasn’t more expensive. It wasn’t harder to find in the store. And they weren’t being out-advertised (since there is very little advertising at this end of the brandy segment). So, why were they losing ground? Cheskin set up a blind taste test with two hundred brandy drinkers. The two brandies came out roughly the same. Cheskin then decided to go a few steps further. “We went out and did another test with two hundred different people,” explains Darrel Rhea, another principal in the firm. “This time we told people which glass was Christian Brothers and which glass was E & J. Now you are having sensation transference from the name, and this time Christian Brothers’ numbers are up.” Clearly people had more positive associations with the name Christian Brothers than with E & J. That only deepened the mystery, because if Christian Brothers had a stronger brand, why were they losing market share? “So, now we do another two hundred people. This time the actual bottles of each brand are in the background. We don’t ask about the packages, but they are there. And what happens? Now we get a statistical preference for E & J. So we’ve been able to isolate what Christian Brothers’ problem is. The problem is not the product and it’s not the branding. It’s the package.” Rhea pulled out a picture of the two brandy bottles as they appeared in those days. Christian Brothers looked like a bottle of wine: it had a long, slender spout and a simple off-white label. E & J, by contrast, had a far more ornate bottle: more squat, like a decanter, with smoked glass, foil wrapping around the spout, and a dark, richly textured label. To prove their point, Rhea and his colleagues did one more test. They served two hundred people Christian Brothers Brandy out of an E & J bottle, and E & J Brandy out of a Christian Brothers bottle. Which brandy won? Christian Brothers, hands-down, by the biggest margin of all. Now they had the right taste, the right brand, and the right bottle. The company redesigned their bottle to be a lot more like E & J’s, and, sure enough, their problem was solved.

Upon reaching her, he stilled, bewildered by her beauty. She wore a light blue gown with short cap sleeves and a plunging bodice; a band of lace stretched across the top was meant to disguise her bosom, but only served to tease him. Another narrow band of lace was wrapped around her delicate throat, and her golden locks had been swept up neatly. Tiny pearls had been tucked here and there within the curls piled atop her head. She looked elegant and refined and... and all he wanted to do was strip her naked and lick her from top to bottom.

Kusunoki left both ingredients as is, wrapping the salmon in the bacon and delicately heating both to elegant perfection. Using the same concept behind the ramen staple seafood-pork broth, melding the umami of both fish and meat together created a powerfully savory flavor. The olive oil bath he used to prevent even a drop of the fish's juices from escaping was also an excellent touch. In the end, his dish was the picture of a salmon's savory deliciousness, perfectly recreated on the plate.

Jeremy George Lake Charles Corvette interiors Interior colors, from the instrument panel to the synthetic suede interior trim, give a new meaning to car elegance. Jeremy George Lake Charles Available in the same Corvette Stingray trim as the 2017 1LT, 2LT and 3LT standard models, the powerful Z51 takes performance and aerodynamics to new heights. In combination with a limited slip differential electronic, dual performance exhaust and sportier suspension set-up it is clear that the Z51 is a sport car. The trim levels are available with the three suspension settings FE1, FE3 and FE4, which correspond to the two Z51 performance packages. Jeremy George Lake Charles It brings the GT2 seats into the upper interior trim and envelops the lower interior trim wrapped in microleather.

The horror the Japanese have of the unexpected and the decisions is requires. The Japanese will become the most aesthetic people in the world. Six Buddhist sects have sprung from the interpretation of the scriptures and on ceremonial days, their priests wear tunics of raspberry, saffron, pistachio or violet, which create a lovely effect on the gray-brown-green of the Japanese landscape. The cemeteries are the fish ponds for the temples. These foreign visitors demand that before they leave Japan, someone should wrap up the "soul of Japan" for them. What do they want? Suddenly, through a simple mental process, their ignorance should be transformed into knowledge, clear-cut and precise, please, so that they can discuss it when they get home. I judge them, but I too, would sometimes like to find my meal set in front of me and fast. We come to this thin and frugal country with our greedy metabolisms: the whole West is that way. The golden dishes, the maharajahs, the rubies as big as the duck eggs, that is what struck our first explorers, not the frugality that is truly one of the marks of Asia. Have you ever drunk a good bottle of wine with a connaisseur? It is a form of torture. Because of the rhythm of Noh, travel is so slow that winter always overtakes travelers en route. They travel in tiny steps across a sort of mental Tibet. Japan: a self-sustaining island, rich in gold and in solver, excellent products, a disciplined and frugal population that carries cleanliness to the point of fanaticism, an always-appropriate alternation between honesty and hypocrisy, in short, the best governed state in the world. Walking does help to support the insupportable. When things turn bad, rather than expecting too much from people, one must sharpen one's relations with things. The tao ( the philosophy of Lao-tzu, sixth century B.C ) taught that our mind is a troublemaker that interferes between life and us, that we are victims of our categories. What exactly is Zen? For some it is a religion, for others a form of therapy, a means of liberation, a guide to character, a reaction of the Chinese spirit against the Indian spirit. True saints are not always on hand for writers who are passing through, people who don't need what one knows. In the Orient, knowledge is given spoonful by spoonful to the people who are truly hungry and the word "secret" means nothing here. In old Chinese Zen it was traditional to choose the gardener who knew nothing to succeed the master rather than one who knew too much. In this style of decor, as in the food, there is an immateriality repeated again and again: make yourself small, don't hurt the air, don't would our eyes with your terrible colored shirts, don't be so restless and don't offend this slightly bloodless perfection that we have been tending for eight hundred years. A crane preening his feathers, this elegant bird, so inexpressibly white, posed in the middle of the reeds, like a Ming vase.