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object:1.062 - Friday
class:chapter
book class:Quran
author class:Muhammad
subject class:Islam
translator class:Talal Itani

In the name of God, the Gracious, the Merciful.

1. Everything in the heavens and the earth glorifies God the Sovereign, the Holy, the Almighty, the Wise.

2. It is He who sent among the unlettered a messenger from themselves; reciting His revelations to them, and purifying them, and teaching them the Scripture and wisdom; although they were in obvious error before that.

3. And others from them, who have not yet joined them. He is the Glorious, the Wise.

4. That is God’s grace, which He grants to whomever He wills. God is Possessor of limitless grace.

5. The example of those who were entrusted with the Torah, but then failed to uphold it, is like the donkey carrying works of literature. Miserable is the example of the people who denounce God’s revelations. God does not guide the wrongdoing people.

6. Say, “O you who follow Judaism; if you claim to be the chosen of God, to the exclusion of the rest of mankind, then wish for death if you are sincere.”

7. But they will not wish for it, ever, due to what their hands have advanced. God knows well the wrongdoers.

8. Say, “The death from which you flee will catch up with you; then you will be returned to the Knower of the Invisible and the Visible, and He will inform you of what you used to do.”

9. O you who believe! When the call is made for prayer on Congregation Day, hasten to the remembrance of God, and drop all business. That is better for you, if you only knew.

10. Then, when the prayer is concluded, disperse through the land, and seek God’s bounty, and remember God much, so that you may prosper.

11. Yet whenever they come across some business, or some entertainment, they scramble towards it, and leave you standing. Say, “What is with God is better than entertainment and business; and God is the Best of providers.”


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OBJECT INSTANCES [0] - TOPICS - AUTHORS - BOOKS - CHAPTERS - CLASSES - SEE ALSO - SIMILAR TITLES

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SEE ALSO


AUTH

BOOKS

IN CHAPTERS TITLE
1.062_-_Friday

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
1.062_-_Friday

PRIMARY CLASS

chapter
SIMILAR TITLES

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH


TERMS ANYWHERE



QUOTES [3 / 3 - 1256 / 1256]


KEYS (10k)

   1 Robert Heinlein
   1 Bill Hicks
   1 awful beyond all

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   98 Anonymous
   61 Tammy Falkner
   41 Gavin Friday
   26 Nancy Friday
   13 R A Spratt
   11 Sri Aurobindo
   11 Cassandra Clare
   9 Erik Larson
   8 Terry Pratchett
   7 Neil Gaiman
   7 J K Rowling
   6 Penny Reid
   6 Nadia Bolz Weber
   6 Ashlee Vance
   5 Stephen King
   5 Max Lucado
   5 Lisa Kleypas
   4 Tracey Edmonds
   4 Mohsin Hamid
   4 Mindy Kaling

1:A religion is sometime a source of happiness, and I would not deprive anyone of happiness. But it is a comfort appropriate for the weak, not for the strong. The great trouble with religion - any religion - is that a religionist, having accepted certain propositions by faith, cannot thereafter judge those propositions by evidence. One may bask at the warm fire of faith or choose to live in the bleak certainty of reason- but one cannot have both.
   ~ Robert Heinlein, from Friday.,
2:If you want to understand a society, take a good look at the drugs it uses. And what can this tell you about American culture? Well, look at the drugs we use. Except for pharmaceutical poison, there are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in. ~ Bill Hicks,
3:I've never been lonely. I've been in a room ~ I've felt suicidal. I've been depressed. I've felt awful ~ awful beyond all ~ but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me...or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I've never been bothered with because I've always had this terrible itch for solitude. It's being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I'll quote Ibsen, The strongest men are the most alone. I've never thought, Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I'll feel good. No, that won't help. You know the typical crowd, Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there? Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I've never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn't want to hide in factories. That's all. Sorry for all the millions, but I've never been lonely. I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have. Let's drink more wine! ~ Charles Bukowski,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:At Sussen, the Devil carried off, last Good Friday, three grooms who had devoted themselves to him. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove
2:Black Friday is a media trap, an orchestrated mass hallucination based on herd dynamics and the media cycle. ~ seth-godin, @wisdomtrove
3:The Christians gave Him Sunday, the Jews gave Him Saturday, and the Muslims gave Him Friday. God has a three-day weekend. ~ george-carlin, @wisdomtrove
4:Your hair may be brushed, but your mind's untidy. You've had about seven hours of sleep since Friday. No wonder you feel that lost sensation. You're sunk from a riot of relaxation. ~ ogden-nash, @wisdomtrove
5:At home we ate fish every Friday, as Catholics were then supposed to do. Being Jewish, I compromised. I wore a hat when I ate fish, out of respect for my own religion and the fish's family. ~ george-burns, @wisdomtrove
6:Think of everything you've ever experienced that was painful; that's the meaning of Good Friday. Think of all the ways that love ultimately healed your heart; that's the meaning of Easter. ~ marianne-williamson, @wisdomtrove
7:The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good. ~ t-s-eliot, @wisdomtrove
8:No matter how dark it looks, no matter how long it's been, no matter how many people are trying to push you down; if you will stay in faith, God will always take you from Friday to Sunday. He will always complete what He started in you! ~ joel-osteen, @wisdomtrove
9:Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. ~ dr-seuss, @wisdomtrove
10:The problem with writing a book in verse is, to be successful, it has to sound like you knocked it off on a rainy Friday afternoon. It has to sound easy. When you can do it, it helps tremendously because it's a thing that forces kids to read on. You have this unconsummated feeling if you stop. ~ dr-seuss, @wisdomtrove
11:Morning or night, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, everything was the same: the gnawing, excruciating, incessant pain; that awareness of life irrevocably passing but not yet gone; that dreadful, loathsome death, the only reality, relentlessly closing in on him; and that same endless lie. What did days, weeks, or hours matter? ~ leo-tolstoy, @wisdomtrove
12:I've been saying for a couple of years now that people need to let God out of the Sunday morning box, that He doesn't want to just be with you for an hour or two on Sunday morning and then put back in His box to sit there until you have an emergency, but He wants to invade your Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. ~ joyce-meyer, @wisdomtrove
13:When you hire a person to plan your wedding, this does not include securing the groom. Plan to get married on Friday the 13th. In years to come this will make it much easier to explain why things turned out badly. To look beautiful at your wedding, take time to plan it. It took me a long time to find two ugly bridesmaids and a frumpy little flower girl. ~ phyllis-diller, @wisdomtrove
14:Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove
15:You know the typical crowd, Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there? Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. ~ charles-bukowski, @wisdomtrove
16:No matter what the storm clouds bring, you can face your pain with courage and hope. For two thousand years ago-six hours, one Friday-Christ firmly planted in bedrock three solid anchor points that we can all cling to. For the heart scarred with futility, that Friday holds purpose. For the life blackened with failure, that Friday holds forgiveness. And for the soul looking into the tunnel of death, that Friday holds deliverance. ~ max-lucado, @wisdomtrove
17:When, as a child, I first opened my eyes on a Sunday-morning, a feeling of dismal anicipation, which began at least on the Friday,culminated. I knew what was before me, and my wish, if not my word, was "Would God it were evening!" It was no day of rest, but a day of texts, of catechisms (Watts'), of tracts about converted swearers, godly charwomen, and edifying deaths of sinners saved... . There was but one rosy spot, in the distance, all that day: and that was "bed-time," which never could come too early! ~ lewis-carroll, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:bratwurst, Friday ~ Karen McQuestion,
2:on noon at Friday, ~ Jennifer Weiner,
3:Friday Afternoon sun 78/63 ~ Anonymous,
4:It opens Wednesday or Friday. ~ Chris Pine,
5:had changed last Friday night? ~ Deborah Crombie,
6:Friday's a free day. A woman's day. ~ Neil Gaiman,
7:I havent partied since...last Friday! ~ Kate Moss,
8:Music always sounds better on Friday. ~ Lou Brutus,
9:The multiverse was his TGI Friday’s. ~ Lev Grossman,
10:Friday the 13th...I'mma play Jason! ~ Big Daddy Kane,
11:Fantasy isn't something you run out of. ~ Nancy Friday,
12:Friday. Proposed to Cicely. Refused. ~ Georgette Heyer,
13:May was like the Friday night of summer: ~ Lisa Jewell,
14:He who laughs on Friday will weep on Sunday. ~ Jean Racine,
15:930-930 | Added on Friday, March 14, 2014 9:18:17 ~ Anonymous,
16:Isn't it a little racist to call it Black Friday? ~ Joy Behar,
17:My mum always used to buy a record every Friday. ~ Elton John,
18:Only Robinson Crusoe had everything done by Friday. ~ Unknown,
19:Inside every adult male is a denied little boy. ~ Nancy Friday,
20:He that sings on friday, will weepe on Sunday. ~ George Herbert,
21:It was raining in Richmond on Friday, June 6. ~ Patricia Cornwell,
22:We're Easter people, living in a Good Friday world. ~ Anne Lamott,
23:Separation is not the end of love; it creates love. ~ Nancy Friday,
24:You only have till Friday,” Yoko pointed out. That ~ Jane O Connor,
25:We have to make sure the Good Friday Agreement works. ~ Gerry Adams,
26:It is the resurrection that makes Good Friday good. ~ Ravi Zacharias,
27:We are Easter people living in a Good Friday world. ~ Barbara Johnson,
28:would employ a Freaky Friday management technique. The ~ Ben Horowitz,
29:Washington County began issuing them again Friday morning. ~ Anonymous,
30:The older I get...the more of my mother I see in myself. ~ Nancy Friday,
31:Friday of the first week. Everyone knows the music. They ~ Bella Forrest,
32:Location 660 | Added on Friday, February 7, 2014 12:51:36 PM ~ Anonymous,
33:No man can be really free in bed with a woman who is not. ~ Nancy Friday,
34:Friday’s mail (the only day the post office still operated), ~ Dave Eggers,
35:Excited about Black Friday. Also excited about Jew Tuesday. ~ Albert Brooks,
36:GOOD FRIDAY Poor Jesus, it must have been dead awful for him. ~ Sue Townsend,
37:If you must have motivation, think of your paycheck on Friday. ~ Noel Coward,
38:There will be a rain dance Friday night, weather permitting! ~ George Carlin,
39:Blaming mother is just a negative way of clinging to her still. ~ Nancy Friday,
40:Creativity Is a fancy word for the work we have to do by Friday. ~ David Ogilvy,
41:Your motivation is your pay packet on Friday. Now get on with it. ~ Noel Coward,
42:Your motivation is your pay packet on Friday. Now get on with it. ~ No l Coward,
43:Dreams are the expression of the unconscious while we are asleep. ~ Nancy Friday,
44:It's 4:58 on Friday afternoon. Do you know where your margarita is? ~ Amy Neftzger,
45:Sexuality is the great field of battle between biology and society. ~ Nancy Friday,
46:Lawdy Mama, those Friday nights when Suzy wore her dresses down tight. ~ Elton John,
47:Location 1162 | Added on Friday, November 7, 2014 5:44:11 AM ========== ~ Anonymous,
48:All my writing has been an effort to sort out the paradoxes of my life. ~ Nancy Friday,
49:dinner party at the Pascoes’ estate the following Friday evening, ~ Laurie Alice Eakes,
50:I bet they love those games on Friday night more than they do segregation. ~ Pat Conroy,
51:The Passion of the Christ opened up on Ash Wednesday, had a Good Friday. ~ Billy Crystal,
52:If you see me on Friday, you'll see different material on Saturday night. ~ Kathy Griffin,
53:I love 'Last Friday Night' by Katy Perry almost as much as 'Karma Police', ~ Chris Martin,
54:It was a Friday night, two in the morning, and my two best friends were shrieking ~ Tijan,
55:Robinson had a servant even better than Friday: His name was Crusoe. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
56:When Friday Night Lights finished, I cried for a day. I have a problem. ~ Bojana Novakovic,
57:Unless there is a Good Friday in your life, there can be no Easter Sunday. ~ Fulton J Sheen,
58:Yes, it is, isn't it? " said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. ~ A A Milne,
59:God took the crucifixion of Friday and turned it into the celebration of Sunday. ~ Max Lucado,
60:They call me Friday. It has been foretold that on a Saturday I will drown... ~ Vikki Wakefield,
61:We carry inside us the wonders we seek outside us. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi Happy friday kind hearts!,
62:No year is without one Friday the 13th, and no year has more than three. ~ Old Farmer s Almanac,
63:Our culture raises us to seek success but we are not taught how to live with it. ~ Nancy Friday,
64:Brandon’s birthday party is on Friday, January 31, and I can hardly wait! ~ Rachel Ren e Russell,
65:It sounds like a terrible idea,” said Friday. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t work. ~ R A Spratt,
66:note: people weigh their highest on Sunday;14 their lowest, on Friday morning.) ~ Gretchen Rubin,
67:As I'm getting older, I'm getting funkier. So that's what I'm wearing. Funky shoes. ~ Gavin Friday,
68:Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated. ~ ConfuciusHave a Joyfilled Friday!,
69:what doesn’t get done in 40 hours by Friday at 5 picks up again Monday morning at 9. ~ Jason Fried,
70:And then he's gone again.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday.
Where is he? ~ Stephanie Perkins,
71:I don't like this young crudeness now which is supposed to be comedy on Friday nights. ~ Alan Sugar,
72:You should know by now, you're more than my Friday night. You're... You're everything. ~ Cassie Mae,
73:I, myself, don't like to see a film on Friday night and then forget it by the next day. ~ Julia Leigh,
74:Be here at six o'clock tomorrow morning," Wymack said. "We've got a game to win Friday. ~ Nora Sakavic,
75:I'm glad that my films have been consistently faring well rather than one stray Friday! ~ Akshay Kumar,
76:Nothing like walking face first into a spider web in the morning. Happy Friday the 13th. — ~ Anonymous,
77:You know you're doing what you love when Sunday nights feel the same as Friday nights. ~ Donny Deutsch,
78:My wife and I have a tradition of popcorn and videos with our kids on Friday evenings. ~ Ozwald Boateng,
79:Some kind of a mechanism to burn off the panic she was feeling. On Friday she’d been a rich ~ Lee Child,
80:it?” “Friday, April fourth, ma’am.” She coughs. Then she doubles over and coughs ~ Christina Baker Kline,
81:Love's greatest gift is it's ability to make everything it touches sacred. ~ Jalaluddin RumiHappy friday 💙,
82:No shoots, says Friday, no yet, me shoot now, me no kill; me stay, give you one more laugh. ~ Daniel Defoe,
83:I do like escapism. I like going to the movies on a Friday night and seeing something fun. ~ Charlie Kaufman,
84:Incidentally, that thing you are dreading — it will happen on Friday the sixteenth of October. ~ J K Rowling,
85:I enjoy the old-fashioned idea of, like, His Girl Friday and Bringing Up Baby, those old movies. ~ Judy Greer,
86:I'm not black on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and a woman on Thursday, Friday and Saturday ~ Gloria Steinem,
87:I've never been on a movie where they play five-dollar Friday. I must not be very observant. ~ Clint Eastwood,
88:Spontaneous love admits errors, hesitations and human failings. It can be tested and repaired. ~ Nancy Friday,
89:Cyrus Shawn O’Leary got that letter on the Friday morning at his home in Ann Arbor near Detroit. ~ Nevil Shute,
90:I have my kids every Friday through Monday, and I don't leave them the whole time I have them. ~ Travis Barker,
91:Friday and Saturday nights have a funny way of revealing what we really believe on Sunday mornings. ~ Mark Hart,
92:If you've got some news that you don't want to get noticed, put it out Friday afternoon 4:00 pm. ~ David Gergen,
93:I thought Black Friday was when everyone puts on blackface and steals children from Wal-Mart. ~ Stephen Colbert,
94:President Clinton celebrates the first casual Friday at the white house by wearing leather chaps. ~ Greg Proops,
95:To say something nice about themselves, this is the hardest thing in the world for people to do. ~ Nancy Friday,
96:IT'S NOT THE HONEY WHISKEY IN A FRIDAY NIGHT - IT'S THE MANIC SHOW OF POETRY TWEETS THAT TURNS ME ON. ~ Amy King,
97:It's Friday," I reminded her. "We prefer our homework to age over the weekend, making it tender. ~ Sheila Turnage,
98:It was so much easier lusting after Friday when I thought she liked to eat pussy as much as I do. ~ Tammy Falkner,
99:Everyone knows about Black Friday and Cyber Monday. Now help me spread the word about Giving Tuesday! ~ Bill Gates,
100:I felt like a still live fish on ice in a butcher’s counter on Friday morning.

- On Cats ~ Charles Bukowski,
101:When is enough enough? In envy's eyes, enough never is. Somebody else always has something we want. ~ Nancy Friday,
102:At Sussen, the Devil carried off, last Good Friday, three grooms who had devoted themselves to him. ~ Martin Luther,
103:Because society would rather we always wore a pretty face, women have been trained to cut off anger. ~ Nancy Friday,
104:Hers was a beauty so pure that it was nearly painful to behold--Athena heading out on a Friday night. ~ Jim Butcher,
105:Let’s go get a hot dog.” “I got a hot dog for you,” Paul says. “Promises, promises,” Friday chirps. ~ Tammy Falkner,
106:A 57-year-old man was charged with arson Friday in one of at least 10 wildfires that erupted in Southern ~ Anonymous,
107:I'm like an eclipse on a Friday the 13th, With black cats and Haley's Comet, Blazin' blunts in my driveway. ~ Redman,
108:Why study or try to change the world on a Friday afternoon when you could be out enjoying the sun? ~ Nicholas Sparks,
109:Andy Paley got us a show opening for his band at an outdoor show at Simmon's College, on a Friday. ~ Jonathan Richman,
110:Donald Trump announces this morning that he will run for president. His hair will announce on Friday. ~ Albert Brooks,
111:It’s not who you want to spend Friday night with. It’s who you want to spend all day Saturday with. ~ Woody Harrelson,
112:OF WASHING They that wash on Friday, wash in need; And they that wash on Saturday, oh! they're sluts indeed. ~ Various,
113:Last Friday night; Yeah we danced on tabletops. And we took too many shots. Think we kissed, but I forgot? ~ Katy Perry,
114:On some level, although we can’t handle the pain of acknowledging it, Good Friday happens every day. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
115:He always has it on the Friday of spring break because you need Saturday to recover and Sunday to repent. ~ Angie Thomas,
116:I monitor the food my players eat on a Friday night. It's no good if they've had two vindaloos and a kebab. ~ Iain Dowie,
117:On Friday nights, when the children did not come, I would ache for a friend to call, but there was no one. ~ Shulem Deen,
118:Black Friday is a media trap, an orchestrated mass hallucination based on herd dynamics and the media cycle. ~ Seth Godin,
119:In a baby's first months, the earliest patterns of intimacy or distrust are forever grooved into his soul. ~ Nancy Friday,
120:I never date anyone my cat doesn’t like,” Magnus said easily, and stood up. “So let’s say Friday night? ~ Cassandra Clare,
121:I remember being a student and I would go every Friday to the Louvre and stay for ages, just walking around. ~ Jemima West,
122:Why do they call it Good Friday?” “It’s from the Latin,” said Joey. “Goodus, goodilius, goodum, meaning lousy. ~ Anonymous,
123:If the inauguration on Friday was the worst of times, Saturday turned out to be the best of times. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,
124:I'm not that girl from Freaky Friday any more! I'm a real adult. In fact, I hate children! I hate them all! ~ Lindsay Lohan,
125:I play drums and guitar, I snowboard, I do martial arts and acrobatics. I go to the movies every Friday. ~ Cameron Monaghan,
126:When I stopped seeing my mother with the eyes of a child, I saw the woman who helped me give birth to myself. ~ Nancy Friday,
127:When old Bobby does Elvis, you swear it's the real mccoy. Another Friday night in the life of a country boy. ~ Kenny Chesney,
128:Youth is like a long weekend on Friday night. Middle age is like a long weekend on Monday afternoon. ~ Richard Nelson Bolles,
129:Sir, if you don't pay this bill by the close of business on Friday; we will be forced to disconnect your service. ~ Jon Jones,
130:I'm sure it's why I'm such an odd duck in my feminist generation, because I've always been equally fair to men. ~ Nancy Friday,
131:We look like bandits in a cowboy movie,’ said Ian. ‘When all this is over, we can rob a stage coach,’ said Friday. ~ R A Spratt,
132:Maybe the Good Friday story is about how God would rather die than be in our sin-accounting business anymore. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
133:My husband and I go to Il Fico every Friday, and I get the whole-wheat pizza. I won't eat pizza anywhere else! ~ Kelly Wearstler,
134:She'd come home with me to act as my barrier for Family Friday-or as i liked to refer it, Dinner for the Damned. ~ Katie McGarry,
135:We are skipping Friday this week, but we’ll make up for it by having Double Friday next week. Mark your schedules. ~ Joseph Fink,
136:Well, maybe that would have happened if the world hadn't ended.
It did. The world ended.
On a friday. ~ Jonathan Maberry,
137:When Good Friday comes, these are the moments in life when we feel there's no hope. But then, Easter comes. ~ Coretta Scott King,
138:You should never have a job that you hate so much you think "Thank God it's Friday" every week of your life. ~ Kim Gruenenfelder,
139:Friday has always been the blessed child of Time. It’s admired, looked forward to, and savored with each occurrence. ~ Drew Hayes,
140:If you are ever invited to a late Friday afternoon meeting with your boss, that’s not a meeting, that’s a booby trap. ~ Jon Acuff,
141:The Muslim Era of Hegira, which marks the flight of the Prophet from Mecca, corresponds to Friday, 16 July AD 622. ~ Norman Davies,
142:This is a test ebook title! (McTesterson, Test) - Your Note on Location 8 | Added on Friday, May 16, 2014 12:18:58 PM ~ Anonymous,
143:Unlocking the Bible (Pawson, David) - Your Bookmark on page 44 | location 785 | Added on Friday, 19 June 2015 21:17:37 ~ Anonymous,
144:I like a fine wine. Who can beat that? I don't think it helps writing; I think it's a hinderance. It helps numb you. ~ Gavin Friday,
145:A fellowship of secret scholars spent five hundred years on this task. Now we're penciling it in for a Friday morning. ~ Robin Sloan,
146:Friday, August 04, 2006 MONUMENT posted 8:31 AM Silver nitrous girls pointed into occult winds of porn and destiny. ~ William Gibson,
147:Maybe the Good Friday story is about how God would rather die than be in our sin-accounting business anymore. The ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
148:On Friday night, I was reading my new book, but my brain got tired, so I decided to watch some television instead. ~ Stephen Chbosky,
149:The frustrating thing about Friday Night Lights is I know a lot more people would respond to the show if they saw it. ~ Jason Katims,
150:You’ve always been stone solid until now, like Joe Friday with no Y chromosome. Now you’re Nancy Drew on a sugar rush. ~ Dean Koontz,
151:I had my life Monday through Friday in school, and then I had my 'real life,' which was my acting class on Saturday. ~ Gillian Jacobs,
152:I think biologically we are attracted to more than one person, but given society and our needs, monogamy works better. ~ Nancy Friday,
153:of school. This allowed us to “bank” three hours of school to apply toward Thursday and Friday, which were our ~ Candace Cameron Bure,
154:I started my car and put Chase out of my mind as I nosed out into the merry brutality of Friday-night traffic in Miami. ~ Jeff Lindsay,
155:I told him Friday was a different religious occasion: Doctor Who. Hey, it's not my fault they don't have TiVo yet. ~ Libba Bray,
156:October 20, 1916, when a freshwater hurricane brought down four ships on Lake Erie, became known as Black Friday. ~ Michael Schumacher,
157:there was something about a Friday night in the city with no plans that made you feel like … well, like a bit of a loser. ~ Jojo Moyes,
158:To some its Hump Day. To us, it's Wednesday's getting its ass kicked and Thursday just asked Friday to switch places. ~ Dwayne Johnson,
159:I'm going to go out Monday through Friday and work hard and try to help this team win, because God knows we need a win. ~ Anquan Boldin,
160:It's casual Friday, which means that at the White House, they're casually going through everybody's phone calls and records. ~ Jay Leno,
161:May was like the Friday night of summer: all the good times lying ahead of you, bright and shiny and waiting to be lived. ~ Lisa Jewell,
162:I'm a very ritualistic, routine-oriented person, and I discovered over the years that I love working Monday through Friday. ~ Edie Falco,
163:I was a weekend drinker...I'd start on Saturday, end on Friday...thought I was controlling it...but I don't drink any more. ~ Bill Hicks,
164:The Three Musketeers (Dumas, Alexandre) - Your Bookmark on page 5 | location 62 | Added on Friday, 27 February 2015 12:46:51 ~ Anonymous,
165:That was the last time she was allowed back at the Bennigan's. From then on, she started drinking at the T.G.I. Friday's. ~ Joshua Ferris,
166:The Christians gave Him Sunday, the Jews gave Him Saturday, and the Muslims gave Him Friday. God has a three-day weekend. ~ George Carlin,
167:Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That's our official slogan. ~ Ray Bradbury,
168:Not reassuring when weathermen say 'Today will be terrible but don't worry it won't be as terrible as tomorrow or Friday. ~ Jonah Goldberg,
169:Friday was added to my nickname because I have a talent of getting on with most people. So it's a bit of a man Friday thing. ~ Gavin Friday,
170:It's sad that we live in a society that has the refrain 'thank God it's Friday, that means you despise 5/7ths of your life. ~ Wendell Berry,
171:You’re still taking care of me.” “You let me live in your fortress, Friday. I’ll protect it until the day I die. I promise. ~ Tammy Falkner,
172:by Starlight (Osborne, Mary Pope) - Your Highlight on Location 173-173 | Added on Friday, January 30, 2015 7:17:32 PM ========== ~ Anonymous,
173:I want to be the Letterman of metal. I want five nights a week, Monday to Friday, 11 to 12, live. I always shoot for the moon. ~ Eddie Trunk,
174:She'd met Colin on a Monday.
She'd kissed him on a Friday.
Twelve years later.
She sighed. It seemed fairly pathetic. ~ Julia Quinn,
175:I'd literally rather hang out at the T.G.I. Friday's in New Jersey than tool around at a place that sells $40 cheeseburgers. ~ Patrick Carney,
176:The atheists traditionally hold their conventions from Good Friday to Easter Sunday during the hours Christ spent in the grave. ~ Bill Murray,
177:I approximated the Black Friday experience at home by hurling myself into a wall a number of times and then ordering online. ~ Kumail Nanjiani,
178:I used a Luma crane, a wounderful device; it makes the camera able to go anywhere. It was also used on Friday the 13th Part 3. ~ Dario Argento,
179:Korey and I have spent almost every Friday night for the past two years either going to see a movie or watching one at my place. ~ Mandy M Roth,
180:The Friday before winter break, my mom packed me an overnight bag and a few deadly weapons and took me to a new boarding school. ~ Rick Riordan,
181:6 of 14 years have one Friday the 13th. 6 of 14 years have two Friday the 13th. 2 of 14 years have three Friday the 13th. ~ Old Farmer s Almanac,
182:I don’t do magic. I turn your attention back to Friday night and the big-ass sword I was carrying. My job is to run and swing. ~ Danielle Monsch,
183:I'll send you a friend request."
"You do that, sonny. I'm on the Internet every last Friday in the month, from eleven to three. ~ Nina George,
184:Old anchormen, you see, don't fade away. They just keep coming back for more. And that's the way it is, Friday, March 6, 1981. ~ Walter Cronkite,
185:the pre-friday world of school, cell phones, and refrigerators dissolved into this post-friday world of ash, darkness, and hunger. ~ Mike Mullin,
186:Friday, August 04, 2006
MONUMENT
posted 8:31 AM

Silver nitrous girls pointed into occult winds of porn and destiny. ~ William Gibson,
187:On Friday noon, July twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travellers into the gulf below. ~ Thornton Wilder,
188:On Good Friday, April 14, 1865, Abraham Lincoln rose with great and unaccustomed cheer to greet the final day of his life. ~ Doris Kearns Goodwin,
189:While President Bush was out of town Hillary Clinton stopped by the White House on Friday for an important meeting with her decorator. ~ Jay Leno,
190:Do me a favour and go out and perform one of the activities I hear the youth enjoy this Friday, like defacing public property. ~ Sarah Rees Brennan,
191:I'm actually quite modest. All I want is a nice car. All I want is a drink at midnight on Sunday night and I'll be a very happy man. ~ Gavin Friday,
192:Oh, I know all about my mother and me,' you may say. 'All that business with my mother was over years ago.' You don't and it wasn't. ~ Nancy Friday,
193:So you get the house to yourself and you sprend Friday night baking? Typical teenager.
"What can I say?" I shrug. "I'm a rebel. ~ Colleen Hoover,
194:You are judged by what you produce, not what you said, intended or wanted to produce. It's Friday, add up the numbers. How'd you do? ~ Darren Hardy,
195:You can always tell when it's Friday. There's an excitement specific to Fridays, coupled with relief that another week has passed ~ Robyn Schneider,
196:Fiona and Jarl had gotten engaged a few weeks before, on Black Friday. Jarl thought they could get a better deal on rings that way. ~ J Ryan Stradal,
197:My proudest moment? Every Friday morning when I look at the board at Celtic Park and see my name on the team sheet for tomorrow's game. ~ Jock Stein,
198:the sounds of early Friday morning traffic rose in volume, the blood of several cities being pumped through constricted arteries. ~ Richard Phillips,
199:Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally managed to find their way down to the Great Hall without getting lost once. ~ J K Rowling,
200:she is not a porn category or the type you look for on a friday night she is not needy or easy or weak - daddy issues is not a punch line ~ Rupi Kaur,
201:Happy Friday! Happiness begins with a loving heart! Open your heart and share time with those who warm your heart and make you smile! ~ Tracey Edmonds,
202:It's Friday. That's one reason to celebrate. Also, it's the first day in a long time when no one declared they're running for president. ~ Jimmy Fallon,
203:So you’re saying that on Friday night I have an equal chance of getting vomited on as I do of getting kissed?” “Welcome to high school, ~ Julie Buxbaum,
204:I am a late discoverer of 'Friday Night Lights.' I cry every episode at least once. I love to cry - happy, emotional tears. I just love it. ~ Andy Cohen,
205:If everyone in Christendom ate nothing but fish on Friday, then the fishermen and their children would eat well the rest of the week. ~ Philippa Gregory,
206:My wife and I take what we call our Friday comedy day off. We watch standup comics on TV. The raunchier the better. We love Eddie Izzard. ~ Gene Hackman,
207:There are risks and costs to action. But they are far less than the long range risks of comfortable inaction.” John F. Kennedy FRIDAY ~ Craig A Falconer,
208:Your Highlight on page 95 | location 1445-1445 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:48:36 Is your product the best at anything worth measuring? ~ Anonymous,
209:Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it. ~ James Joyce,
210:Death will be shattered. Hope will be restored. But first, we must live through the darkness and seeming hopelessness of Friday. ~ Hillary Rodham Clinton,
211:People get nervous when things move to Friday. Friday has become a landscape where shows just don't do very well as business for the network. ~ J H Wyman,
212:The miracle of Good Friday is that there was no miracle. Legions of angels stood - with swords sheathed - watching as the Son took our place. ~ Mark Hart,
213:Friday morning classes dragged. I moped around school hating everyone—because everyone was happy and excited about the stupid dance. Blah. ~ Melanie Marks,
214:He began rubbing my foot again. "We'll fly out at four on Friday. Don't bother packing, I want you naked as much as possible next weekend. ~ Adriane Leigh,
215:It was late on a Friday afternoon, when the air is fertile, about to split and reveal its warm fruit—that gold nucleus of time, the weekend. ~ Rebecca Lee,
216:Come Friday, the world will see what the Protestant people really think of this so-called peace process, which is really a surrender process. ~ Ian Paisley,
217:Your Highlight on page 91 | location 1390-1390 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:39:59 Having something personalized can make one feel special. ~ Anonymous,
218:Don't even FRONT like you love your family, America, or God, if you don't have a DETAILED & REHEARSED Black Friday tactical shopping plan. ~ Rob Delaney,
219:If it wasn't for O'Flanagan's Pub on Manhattan's Upper East Side, I don't know where I would have spent my Friday nights as a young man. ~ Michael Bloomberg,
220:If you believe in the maternal instinct and fail at mother love, you fail as a woman. It is a controlling idea that holds us in an iron grip. ~ Nancy Friday,
221:You have to be 100% sure [about brexit] because there's no going back on Friday morning and your decision could cost someone else their job. ~ Ruth Davidson,
222:People are surprised at how down-to-earth I am. I like to stay home on Friday nights and listen to 'The Art of Happiness' by the Dalai Lama. ~ Carmen Electra,
223:Quantum physics was put together on a Friday afternoon. That's why humanity will never figure it out. Some of the bits are the wrong way round. ~ Dave Turner,
224:The news that Richard had been identified as the Night Stalker hit El Paso like an atomic bomb. At 11:15 Friday evening, Joseph and Sofia were ~ Philip Carlo,
225:The RSS’s Awadh Prant Sanghchalak Prabhu Narayan Srivastava on Friday said Christians and Muslims were not to blame for the conversion of Hindus. ~ Anonymous,
226:You practice Monday through Friday in college, or Monday through Saturday in the pro's - and then you just go out and knock somebody's head off. ~ Bo Jackson,
227:106 & Park, Freestyle Friday, that was real pivotal. I feel like he has the right to do that, he comes from that era so he has the right to do that. ~ Ab Soul,
228:I’m awesome, Sam. Have you not gotten the memo recently? It’s supposed to go out every Friday morning with Twitter alerts. #Logansawesomenooneforgetit. ~ Tijan,
229:On a Friday night, I like to go out because my friends, who have been working normal hours, just want to let go after a stressful week at work. ~ Douglas Booth,
230:Waking up in full daylight, he dials 0 and asks if this is Saturday. A reproachful second goes by before the operator says, “This is Friday, sir. ~ David Gates,
231:You ask my advice about acting? Speak clearly, don't bump into the furniture and if you must have motivation, think of your pay packet on Friday. ~ Noel Coward,
232:His ship, the Bahía de Darwin, was scheduled to sail at high noon on the very next day, which was Friday, November 28, 1986—a million years ago. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,
233:If you believed in Christianity or Islam it was called 'faith', but if you believed in astrology or friday the thirteenth it was Superstition! ~ Jostein Gaarder,
234:like I was back to being the girl folks gossiped about on Friday afternoon while tossing back a cold one, then prayed for over the Sunday potluck. ~ Jodi Linton,
235:Anyone could see it all coming and no one could possibly stop it and that was the beautiful thing. Friday night was open wide and writ in stone ~ Jonathan Lethem,
236:Happy Friday! You're responsible for the energy of your day. Remember, when you give off positive energy, you attract it ! Decide to be Happy:)! ~ Tracey Edmonds,
237:My brothers and I always did improv stuff in our basement with our friends; we're super nerds, and that was our way of spending a Friday night. ~ Tatiana Maslany,
238:she is not a porn category
or the type you look for
on a friday night
she is not needy or easy or weak
-daddy issues is not a punch line ~ Rupi Kaur,
239:The moon bled, stars fell from the sky, and Death laughed from the shadows: my typical Friday night.”                                      —Caine ~ Morgan Blayde,
240:Friday was back to normal, if the actions of suspicious would-be heirs competing for a two-hundred-million-dollar prize could be considered normal. ~ Ellen Raskin,
241:Gluteus maximus,’ said Friday. She didn’t normally like to swear, but when circumstances made it impossible to avoid she preferred to do it in Latin. ~ R A Spratt,
242:Happy Friday Night Fam! Time to free yourself from worries and stresses and focus on all of your blessings!! Spread LOVE & BE HAPPY this weekend! ~ Tracey Edmonds,
243:Life is like Friday on a soap opera. It gives you the illusion that everything is going to wrap up, and then the same old shit starts up on Monday. ~ Stephen King,
244:The debt of gratitude we owe our mother and father goes forward, not backward. What we owe our parents is the bill presented to us by our children. ~ Nancy Friday,
245:Not for nothing is their motto TGIF - 'Thank God It's Friday.' They live for the weekends, when they can go do what they really want to do. ~ Richard Nelson Bolles,
246:Friday is my night for letting my hair down, and once a month a group of my old male friends will come down and stay at our house in Hampshire. ~ Rupert Penry Jones,
247:Happy Friday! Lift your spirits by living in the vibration of LOVE & APPRECIATION then check out all the positive things and people you'll attract! ~ Tracey Edmonds,
248:I want a guy who wants to curl up on a Friday night and watch Netflix. He can even pick the show. I mean, ideally, it’s serialized and female-driven, ~ Mindy Kaling,
249:life is like Friday on a soap opera. It gives you the illusion that everything is going to wrap up, and then the same old shit starts up on Monday. I ~ Stephen King,
250:My plan, when I walked out on to the field on Friday morning, was to just enjoy myself because when I'm smiling and having fun I generally bowl my best. ~ Brett Lee,
251:I never have written every day. When I'm writing a book, I write Monday through Friday. I always try to take Saturday and pretend to have some sanity. ~ Maya Angelou,
252:It was Friday 17th December, a week before Christmas. New York City was a majestic place during the summer but it was equally captivating in the winter. ~ Tom Barber,
253:On Friday the thirteenth of February 1970, Black Sabbath went on sale.
I felt like I’d just been born.
But the critics f**king hated it. ~ Ozzy Osbourne,
254:But, Jill, if a thing is sinful on Sunday, it is sinful on Friday—at least it groks that way to an outsider, myself—or perhaps to a man from Mars. ~ Robert A Heinlein,
255:My music is like the perfect haircut-a Friday-night cut! It makes you feel like wanting to put on some nice clothes to go out and have a good time. ~ Anthony Hamilton,
256:John McCain turned 72 years old last Friday, but the Chinese are making him a birth certificate that says he's only 33 and then he'll be ready to go. ~ David Letterman,
257:Nocturna (JUAN) - Your Highlight on Location 1409-1410 | Added on Friday, November 28, 2014 11:19:11 AM Para mí, el primer nombre de todos aquí es Doctor. ~ Anonymous,
258:I don’t like being permanently mutilated on Thursdays. I may add that Friday is my day for raping; and I like it quieter than this, and they enjoy it. ~ Dorothy Dunnett,
259:I used to hate to go to school, because when it was Friday afternoon and everybody was finished school, I knew I was going to work Saturday and Sunday. ~ Riccardo Tisci,
260:Others were behavioral. For instance: a potential terrorist was unlikely to withdraw money from an ATM on a Friday afternoon, during Muslim prayer services. ~ Anonymous,
261:We go on dating from Cold Fridays and Great Snows; but a little colder Friday, or greater snow would put a period to man's existence on the globe. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
262:If women really want equality, we have to wipe the slate clean. It no longer matters in the largest sense what men did to us for the last 200 or 300 years. ~ Nancy Friday,
263:Friday means popcorn and multiplexes, speaking of movies, and it is the multi that is the problem. So many movie screens. The struggle of what to put on them. ~ Mike Pesca,
264:Turkey, which already hosts more than 800,000 Syrian refugees, at first kept the border closed Friday, before finally allow the flood of new refugees to enter. ~ Anonymous,
265:Stole my heart just to throw it away,
No explanation for the games you play.
Am I just a Friday night to you,
Or are we going to see this through? ~ Sarah Robinson,
266:When I'm in Italy on a Friday night, my first supper there is a big bowl of fresh pasta and a glass of local wine, sitting outside. There's nothing better. ~ Alan Titchmarsh,
267:If Holy Thursday, moreover, is what transforms Good Friday from an execution to a sacrifice, then Easter Sunday is what transforms the sacrifice into a sacrament: ~ Anonymous,
268:On Friday, the thirteenth of July, I gave a reading in memory of Jim Morrison on the roof of underground filmmaker Jack Smith’s loft at Greene Street and Canal. ~ Patti Smith,
269:This is how I became rich: I was at home at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon.
Rich? Rich for many. Comfortable for some. Comfortable well-off I would say. ~ Tibor Fischer,
270:Well, you’re always together,” said the Headmaster, “If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck -”
"It’s a duck, not a boyfriend,” interrupted Friday. ~ R A Spratt,
271:I understand what's it like to work all week and on Friday night just want to go and leave your brain at the door, buy some popcorn and be thrilled by something. ~ Don Cheadle,
272:Luka had been the Adam to her Eve, the Friday to her Robinson Crusoe, the Master to her Margarita. None of them were stories that left room for anyone else. ~ Kevin Brockmeier,
273:Merkel's day-trip to Moscow last Friday, with lightweight Hollande in tow, was no bold bid for peace. It was an act of desperation -- and Putin undoubtedly knew it. ~ Anonymous,
274:Some had the custom of receiving the Eucharist daily, some twice a week, some on the Lord's day, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, some only on the Lord's Day. ~ Martin Chemnitz,
275:All of us, Terkel concluded, are looking for “daily meaning as well as daily bread . . . for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying. ~ Angela Duckworth,
276:God runs electromagnetics by wave theory on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and the Devil runs them by quantum theory on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. ~ William Lawrence Bragg,
277:I love going to synagogue on Friday night and being swept in the melodies. Everyone seems more friendly and unburdened by the week and ready to be taken elsewhere. ~ Erica Brown,
278:I don't think Bono decided to be ambitious, he just is. But if this country ever ran out of electricity, just shove a plug up his hole and it would run for a week. ~ Gavin Friday,
279:Your Highlight on page 98 | location 1488-1489 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:54:35 You have to go where the competition is not. The farther the better. ========== ~ Anonymous,
280:Composers today get a TV script on Friday and have to record on Tuesday. It's just dreadful to impose on gifted talent and expect decent music under these conditions. ~ Alex North,
281:Good Friday is a stark and unapologetic display of remorse. Remorse for the way in which humanity kills ourselves and the creation and love and God him/herself. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
282:Real-World Example = Don’t schedule meetings that demand high creativity on Friday afternoon at 4:00 P.M. People are creatively empty then and their ideas will be too. ~ Jon Acuff,
283:The Good Friday Agreement and the basic rights and entitlements of citizens that are enshrined within it must be defended and actively promoted by London and Dublin. ~ Gerry Adams,
284:I didn't have any real art training, but when I was about twelve nad thirteen, another boy and I went to a sign painter's house every Friday night and took lessons. ~ Rube Goldberg,
285:My impending nomination was leaked to the press at 3 p.m. on Friday, November 21, and the stock market promptly jumped 6.5 percent in the last hour of trading. ~ Timothy F Geithner,
286:I did 15 shows a week when I lived in New York. I did five shows on a Friday and seven shows on a Saturday. It was everything I did and it was my sole source of income. ~ Ray Romano,
287:It is rare in a working environment that someone says, ‘Johnson, I need a market analysis by Friday, but before that, I need a compelling account of your childhood.' ~ David Coleman,
288:Linda had been at Spahn Ranch a little over a month when, on the afternoon of Friday, August 8, 1969, Manson told the Family: “Now is the time for Helter Skelter. ~ Vincent Bugliosi,
289:You’re saying that on Friday night I have an equal chance of getting vomited on as I do of getting kissed?”

“Welcome to high school.”

What to say next ~ Julie Buxbaum,
290:At the request of the Catholic Church, a three-day sex orgy to be held near Rio de Janeiro was cancelled last Friday. So instead I spent the weekend cleaning my apartment. ~ Tina Fey,
291:I moved into a nice houseboat in Little Venice when I was 15 years old. I found a girlfriend called Monday and a houseboat called Friday, so I had the week sewn up. ~ Richard Branson,
292:I used to keep a box of tissues in my office in case of tears. Then a person I worked with made a habit of coming into my office and crying every Friday afternoon. ~ Kim Malone Scott,
293:Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all. —Folk rhyme ~ Cassandra Clare,
294:Purple Cow (SETH GODIN) - Your Highlight on page 67 | location 1019-1020 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 09:51:55 Instead, pick the right maverick and get out of the way. ~ Anonymous,
295:This is the centre of the gospel - this is what the Garden of Gethsemane and Good Friday are all about - that God has done astonishing and costly things to draw us near. ~ John Piper,
296:And if you ask again whether there is any justice in the world, you'll have to be satisfied with the reply: Not for the time being; at any rate, not up to this Friday. ~ Alfred Doblin,
297:I ordered, Dad paid, just like old times when life was simple, and Daddy was always there to be my Friday night date whenever my latest boyfriend had been a jerk. ~ Karen Marie Moning,
298:Jesus, she was turned-on by his spanking. He should have realized. After everything they'd done Friday night, he knew her taste for sexual adventure more than matched his. ~ Mari Carr,
299:Will you go on a date with me Friday night? A real date, not a pretend one? I'll probably be so clumsy that you won't go out with me a second time, but please say yes. ~ Carolyn Brown,
300:So friday? Do you have plans for Friday?" And then I laughed because the Colonel and I didn't have plans for this Friday or for any other Friday for the rest of our lives. ~ John Green,
301:Under English law the penalty for eating meat on Friday was hanging. The law remained on the books until the sixteenth century, when Henry VIII broke with the Vatican. ~ Mark Kurlansky,
302:I’ll see you next Friday at five in the practice rooms. Oh, and unless you need it to feel comfortable, you can leave your ego in your room; you won’t be needing it. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
303:Lydia shook her head. "This is my life. Getting yelled at in a Walmart parking lot on a Friday night by somebody doing a bad impression of PG-13 fart-joke-movie comedian. ~ Jeff Zentner,
304:The great thing about 'Friday Night Lights,' unlike so many other shows and movies, is that it doesn't take the obvious beats to pull your heartstrings or manipulate you. ~ Scott Porter,
305:If, quite against all of Adele’s naturally held beliefs, it turned out that there was an afterlife, she strongly suspected that in heaven it would always be a Friday night. ~ Lisa Jewell,
306:So Friday? Do you have plans for Friday?" And then I laughed, because the Colonel and I didn't have plans for this Friday, or for any other Friday for the rest of our lives. ~ John Green,
307:Then, on Friday, September 11, 1789, thirty-four-year-old Alexander Hamilton was officially nominated for the job. The appointment was confirmed by the Senate the same day. ~ Ron Chernow,
308:10 days before the death of St. John Paul II, in that Via Crucis of Holy Friday, Joseph Ratzinger said to the whole Church that it needed to clean up the dirt of the Church. ~ Pope Francis,
309:I've always as a performer on stage tend to sort of throw myself into the character, whatever I've written about, so it depends on how I'm writing or what I'm writing about. ~ Gavin Friday,
310:On Friday night, it was fun [to know] that if you bombed, or whatever was going on, that you'd be on TV at 11. It was a cool feeling, and you'd get a couple hundred dollars. ~ John Mulaney,
311:The Muslims observe their Sabbath on Friday, the Jews observe on Saturday, and the Christians on Sunday. By the time Monday rolls around God is completely f***in' worn out. ~ George Carlin,
312:World War Z is out today. The big zombie movie. The trailer looks scary. You see hordes of bodies climbing and rolling over each other. It's like Black Friday at the mall. ~ Craig Ferguson,
313:Describe your typical Friday night: Stay in, watch a movie, have debates with myself. · Describe your perfect weekend morning: Wake up, time stops, resolve debates with myself. ~ Weike Wang,
314:The Cap and Trade Bill HR 2454 was voted on last Friday. Proponents claim this bill will help the environment, but what it really does is put another nail in the economy’s coffin. ~ Ron Paul,
315:Gentle fingers slip into the collar of my T-shirt and start to tickle the back of my neck. I lay my head on Friday’s knee and close my eyes. It feels good having her touch me. ~ Tammy Falkner,
316:Pakistan now is like a horror film franchise. You know, it's 'Friday the 13th, Episode 63: The Terrorist from Pakistan.' And each time we hear of Pakistan it's in that context. ~ Mohsin Hamid,
317:On Friday I was in Washington for a meeting with Administration officials. In the course of that meeting, they requested that I "step aside" as CEO of GM, and so I have. ~ G Richard Wagoner Jr,
318:True Blood' is amazing. I have to give a shout out to 'Melrose Place' because I do watch. I love 'Entourage.' One of my favorite shows back in the day was 'Friday Night Lights. ~ Tristan Wilds,
319:I'm from Jersey, so I have a love of T.G.I. Friday's and chain restaurants in general. When you go to a Friday's, it seems like everyone's on ecstasy and way too happy anyway. ~ Lorene Scafaria,
320:Now on Friday nights, if I want to go hang out with friends, I go hang out with friends. If I want to stay in and be in the hot tub and have people over to watch movies, I do that. ~ Demi Lovato,
321:The country does not wait to do its wild things just because you have not pulled into the driveway yet; it doesn’t wait for Friday evenings, or cease on Sundays at five o’clock. ~ Margaret Roach,
322:Cupcakes (Cupcake And Frosting Recipes) (Winlet, Sara) - Your Highlight on Location 81-89 | Added on Friday, October 24, 2014 5:00:19 PM Chocolate Pumpkin Cupcakes Ingredients: 2 cups ~ Anonymous,
323:...for the first time in my life, writing was hard. The problem was the teaching...by most Friday afternoons I felt as if I'd spent the week with jumper cables clamped to my brain. ~ Stephen King,
324:*So, you're the small troublemaker who foiled Saturday's Cocigrue," said Lady Friday. Leaf, a friend of the so-called Rightful Heir , this Arthur Penhaligon. How kind of you to visit. ~ Garth Nix,
325:There is a path one takes when moving toward destruction. Like someone who has
one drink on a Friday night, and two the next, only to gradually and completely lose
control ~ Nicholas Sparks,
326:Now a movie goes out to two, three thousand theaters and by Friday night at 10 o'clock they know if you are in or out. That desperate competition is, I think, horrendous. It's awful. ~ Mark Rydell,
327:that palpable sense of Friday joy, everyone colluding with the lie that somehow the weekend would be amazing and that, next week, work would be different, better. They never learn. ~ Gail Honeyman,
328:Stop waiting for Friday, for summer, for someone to find love with you, for life. Happiness is achieved when you stop waiting for it and make the most of the moment you are in now, ~ M Weidenbenner,
329:You always feel like your 18-year-old self in some sense. And that's what walking through New York on a June evening feels like - you feel like it's Friday and you're 17 years old. ~ John Darnielle,
330:Life is found in all three days—pain and death on Friday, doubt on Saturday, and resurrection on Sunday. To follow Jesus as we’re created to is to simultaneously enter the whole weekend. ~ Anonymous,
331:Bring your whole self to work. I don't believe we have a professional self Monday through Friday and a real self the rest of the time. It is all professional and it is all personal. ~ Sheryl Sandberg,
332:Friday Soup of the day – Terrapin Pan-fried otter steaks Or Owl quiche (kosher) Or Boiled poodle (not suitable for vegetarians) All served with a slice of gravy Dessert – Mouse mousse ~ David Walliams,
333:I don't worry anymore about where's the big hangout Tuesday night, Friday. Couldn't tell you and no one comes to me for advice anymore in those areas anymore, so real boring I would say. ~ Brett Favre,
334:I frequently say we should let God out of the Sunday-morning box we try to keep Him in and allow Him to invade our Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday too. ~ Joyce Meyer,
335:You never compete with the people in your crew; you have your own team. Competition is only with those people whose film is releasing alongside on Friday and never with one's own team. ~ Emraan Hashmi,
336:My parents didn’t let me do social things on weeknights because weeknights were for homework, and maybe an episode of The X-Files if I was being a good kid (X-Files was on Friday night), ~ Mindy Kaling,
337:He drinks his stout and laughs that there’s nothing like a great bloody steak of a Friday night and if that’s the worst sin he ever commits he’ll float to heaven body and soul, ha ha ha. ~ Frank McCourt,
338:I think my real depressions started when I was about 16 and doing The Patty Duke Show. I would go to bed at about 10 o'clock on a Friday night and not get up again until 6:30 Monday morning ~ Patty Duke,
339:I was in no mood to argue. I was in the mood to go to sleep for fifty years, wake up an old maid and live out my life in a nursing home with my only excitement being Friday Night Bingo. ~ Kristen Ashley,
340:We have dinner every single night, Monday through Friday, with our children. We sit down around 6 or 6:30 and it's a family dinner - it's time to check in, just to be around each other. ~ Mark Consuelos,
341:Friday night was the night most people thought they were supposed to have fun. Trouble was most people didn't know what fun was or how to have it, so things usually ended up pretty ugly. ~ Kinky Friedman,
342:Friday's turmoil in global markets looks set to continue to exert a dominant force on the foreign exchange markets. The usual trend when U.S. stocks fall is that the U.S. dollar suffers. ~ Craig Ferguson,
343:I get to drive, drop her off downtown for her fake date from hell with a complete tool, and then lurk for the rest of the evening? Awesome. Exactly what I wanted to be doing on a Friday night. ~ Sara Ney,
344:I have a lot of favorite films. I tend to love the silliness of 'Bringing Up Baby.' 'Charade' is fantastic. 'His Girl Friday,' the banter in that, that alone made me want to be a writer. ~ Jennifer Grant,
345:Mooning over what was, so far, just a casual fuck, was too juvenile for words. And the little leap of pleasure I got when he finally called on Friday night? Was not to be spoken of ever. ~ Ann Somerville,
346:Thursday afternoon, the dark clouds closed in, and by Friday morning a heavy rain was falling. The mountain peaks were hazy sentinels, disappearing into misty fog that clung to the valley. ~ Danika Stone,
347:Cam pitied them. They had no idea of the particular joy of a Friday afternoon at four o'clock, or the hedonistic thrill of a Saturday-midnight joyride that took all of Sunday to recover from ~ Lauren Kate,
348:Friday had always considered herself to be equal among her siblings, but by the time the ship finally came to rest in the harbor, she felt she had finally lived up to the Woodcutter name. ~ Alethea Kontis,
349:Logan is going to meet me there at nine to put the tattoo over my heart. Her tattoo. The broken butterfly. My broken butterfly. I’m going to brand myself with something that is all Friday. ~ Tammy Falkner,
350:Don’t worry, I’m still earthbound,’ Friday called down. ‘But I’ve found something!’ ‘What?’ asked Melanie. ‘It’s a flying fox!’ said Friday. ‘Don’t touch it!’ said Melanie. ‘It might bite you. ~ R A Spratt,
351:On Greer’s first Friday night at Ryland, from along the dormitory halls came the ambient roar of a collective social life forming, as if there were a generator somewhere deep in the building ~ Meg Wolitzer,
352:I get anxious but worry doesn't really do any good. If something is broken or in trouble, you've got to bend down, pick it up and fix it. Worry just makes us get wrinkles. So try not worrying. ~ Gavin Friday,
353:I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously. ~ David Copperfield,
354:I said, Saturday is the first day of my National Center Test."

"That's tomorrow, though!" My eyes bugged out.

"Yes, ever since antiquity, the day after Friday has been Saturday. ~ Mizuki Nomura,
355:The Elephant of Depression wasn't just parked on my chest, it was relaxing there with the Walrus of Gloom and the Hippo of Bleak Friday Nights in Alone. They had beers. They were settling in. ~ Hester Browne,
356:In a two-hour interview last Friday, Bruce Jenner told ABC's Diane Sawyer, 'For all intents and purposes, I'm a woman.' At which point, Joe Biden ran in and started giving Bruce a shoulder rub. ~ Jimmy Fallon,
357:We have to have genius creative thoughts precisely four times a year and on exact dates. I actually write them on my calendar. I write, 'Friday, Nov. 8. Three o'clock. Have a genius creative idea.' ~ Tom Ford,
358:My uncle Jimmy took liver salts twice a day for 40 years. He died on Sunday, was buried Wednesday and the following Friday they had to go to the cemetery to beat his liver to death with a stick. ~ Frank Carson,
359:Purple Cow (SETH GODIN) - Your Highlight on page 68 | location 1042-1042 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:00:32 Assume that what was remarkable last time won’t be remarkable this time. ========== ~ Anonymous,
360:Christmas and Easter can be subjects for poetry, but Good Friday, like Auschwitz, cannot. The reality is so horrible it is not surprising that people should have found it a stumbling block to faith. ~ W H Auden,
361:Good Friday and Easter free us to think about other things far beyond our own personal fate, about the ultimate meaning of all life, suffering, and events; and we lay hold of a great hope. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
362:Stop waiting for Friday
for summer,
for someone to fall in love with you,
for life.

Happiness is achieved when you stop waiting for it and make the most of the moment you are in now! ~ Anonymous,
363:Think of everything you've ever experienced that was painful; that's the meaning of Good Friday. Think of all the ways that love ultimately healed your heart; that's the meaning of Easter. ~ Marianne Williamson,
364:Well, I get my subject on Wednesday night; I think it out carefully on Thursday, and make my rough sketch; on Friday morning I begin, and stick to it all day, with my nose well down on the block. ~ John Tenniel,
365:When I was a kid growing up in the States in the late '70s and early '80s, as soon as 'Dallas' came on on a Friday night on CBS at 9 P.M., we stopped everything from that moment on as a family. ~ John Barrowman,
366:I’m not someone who can be depended on five days a week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday? I don’t even get out of bed five days in a row—I often don’t remember to eat five days in a row. ~ Gillian Flynn,
367:So clumsy, yet her dinner parties were splendid, prepared at unbelievable speed. She hated to cook. Chewing gum, cigarettes, candy, drugs, alcohol, and taxicabs took her from Monday to Friday. ~ Leonard Michaels,
368:The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good. ~ T S Eliot,
369:If I were to just focus on stand-up, I could actually, paradoxically enough, be home way more, because I would leave on a Friday, go do a couple theaters Friday, Saturday, maybe Sunday, come home. ~ Patton Oswalt,
370:On a Tuesday they were wed
And by Friday they were dead
And they buried them in the churchyard side by side,
Oh, my love,
And they buried them in the churchyard side by side.
~ Cassandra Clare,
371:Music and books were my inspiration too. I read avidly as a kid. And that's the beautiful thing about books and music and even movies, is that you can actually escape. You can go into other worlds. ~ Gavin Friday,
372:The Pottery Barn and Rubber Soul had gotten old, but my ability to order more than the chicken fingers with honey mustard from T.G.I. Friday’s would always provide me with a sense of accomplishment. ~ Joshua Ferris,
373:Reagan and Friday walk into the room, and the door closes behind them. “Why can’t we go in?” Sam asks, looking like a kicked puppy. “Because she’s going to have a fucking baby, numbnuts,” I tell him. ~ Tammy Falkner,
374:I think people of my generation are really worrying about thier zits and getting that date for Friday night. I think that's their reality. I don't' know if they're worrying too hard about their future. ~ Claire Danes,
375:Maybe you held up the book defensively and they struck it first?’ said Sergeant Crowley. ‘No, Friday wouldn’t do that,’ said Melanie. ‘She’d be more likely to stick her head in front to protect the book. ~ R A Spratt,
376:Junior faculty members used to come up to me and say, ‘Wow, you got tenure early; what’s your secret?’ I said, ‘It’s pretty simple, call me any Friday night in my office at ten o’clock and I’ll tell you. ~ Cal Newport,
377:You should make sure you enjoy every last moment of high school then,” said Friday. “It is the last place where you’ll find someone scorned for caring about what they do and working hard to be good at it. ~ R A Spratt,
378:Lila sat in the passenger seat and I sat in the driver’s side of Aires’ 1965 Corvette. She’d come home with me to act as my barrier for Family Friday—or as I liked to refer to it, Dinner for the Damned. ~ Katie McGarry,
379:Toys R Us is closing its FAO Schwarz store on Fifth Avenue in New York City, citing the high cost of running the retail space in that location, the company said Friday. It is seeking another Manhattan space. ~ Anonymous,
380:At the office, there was that palpable sense of Friday joy, everyone colluding with the lie that somehow the weekend would be amazing and that, next week, work would be different, better. They never learn. ~ Gail Honeyman,
381:He texts me on Wednesday and asks if I want to have dinner with him on Friday night. I say I have plans because I’m trying to play hard to get, which has absolutely never worked for me in my entire life. He ~ Jami Attenberg,
382:I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads ~ Federico Garcia Lorca Photo Sigfrid Lundberg (streetphoto from Lund, Sweden)Fab Friday to us all .... 🍂☀️🍂💃,
383:I was too young to be an avid enthusiast for the franchise, but like billions of people I remember as a child sitting around with the family on a Friday night with pizza and popcorn and a 'Die Hard' movie on. ~ Jai Courtney,
384:We must apologise to the readers for returning with such insistence to the Robinson Crusoe and Friday story, which properly belongs to the nursery and not to the field of science — but how can we help it? ~ Friedrich Engels,
385:Black Friday is not another bad hair day in Wall Street. It's the term used by American retailers to describe the day after the Thanksgiving Holiday, seen as the semi-official start of Christmas shopping season. ~ Evan Davis,
386:No way! Everyone knows he’s in love with that Raven girl. But get this. I saw that ghost guy at the movies last Friday. Alone. Who goes to a movie by himself?” “Only a loony loser crazy person,” Josie said. ~ Ellen Schreiber,
387:The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood--
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good. ~ T S Eliot,
388:When I was about 13 or 14, I had an English teacher who made a deal with me that I could get out of doing all of the year's regular work if I would write a short story a week and on Friday read it to the class. ~ Victor Salva,
389:And if you didn't want him to take me away from you, maybe you should've talked to me when I needed you so badly on Friday." Tears slip down my cheeks. "Maybe you should've taken me when you had the chance. ~ Miranda Kenneally,
390:The path to paradise is often the path of suffering. If our chief goal is to avoid suffering, we will probably never find paradise. Paradise is not found in the mall, it’s found on the Easter side of Good Friday. ~ Brian Zahnd,
391:I just started as a part of the public school music program. I took lessons at the school every Friday and was a part of the school band. I was just a normal kid taking instrumental lessons at school, nothing special. ~ Kenny G,
392:I would categorically not rule out that it's not the last season of Community. Does that make sense? I would love nothing more than for Community to have a following on Friday, and to be able to continue it. ~ Robert Greenblatt,
393:Later Jewish tradition made this the first in a sequence of psalms chanted as a prelude to the Friday-evening prayer for welcoming the Sabbath, evidently because the Sabbath was seen as a celebration of creation. ~ Robert Alter,
394:Michael: "Thing is, I'd like to go out with you. What are you doing on Saturday?"

Siobhan: "Committing suicide."

Michael: "Alright then, what are you doing on Friday?"

(from Stormling, 2014) ~ John Hennessy,
395:That Friday morning, I stopped by Tractor Supply and picked up a twenty-five-pound salt block for $6.99. I made Wyatt take it over to him later that night. It had been as satisfying as I imagined it would be. ~ Rachel Higginson,
396:Though I have started emailing with one of my fellow readers whenever there's something important to say about Modern Family or Friday Night Lights, and with another when I notice her updates on Goodreads.com. ~ Rachel Bertsche,
397:I went through the natural process that most actors go through. I brought myself out here, had an audition on a Wednesday; then had a call-back on Thursday, had a call-back on Friday and I had it by Friday afternoon. ~ Sean Mahon,
398:My mobile rang around lunchtime one day, and it was George Michael. He wanted to come in on Friday. We were like, 'okay, if that's what you want'. And he was a very good guest. That's a real exception to the rule. ~ Graham Norton,
399:Odessa is the setting for this book, but it could be anyplace in this vast land where, on a Friday night, a set of spindly stadium lights rises to the heavens to so powerfully, and so briefly, ignite the darkness. ~ H G Bissinger,
400:Work is about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread, for recognition as well as cash, for astonishment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying. ~ Studs Terkel,
401:I came home every Friday afternoon, riding the six miles on the back of a big mule. I spent Saturday and Sunday washing and ironing and cooking for the children and went back to my country school on Sunday afternoon. ~ Ida B Wells,
402:Joe Biden will speak to the nation's largest gay rights group during a human rights convention on Friday. Then on Saturday, he is scheduled to speak to them again to apologize for whatever he said in Friday's speech. ~ Jimmy Fallon,
403:Only enough to protect the organization. Friday, you are well aware that the absence of Eyes and Ears today simply means that they are concealed. Be assured that I am shameless about protecting the organization. ~ Robert A Heinlein,
404:The rest of us would have liked some time off. They only gave us that Friday afternoon, which we took gladly, but we, too, suffered from stress and all sorts of disorders and would have liked more than an afternoon. ~ Joshua Ferris,
405:In English, the gods have left their names in our days of the week. You can find Tyr the one-handed (Odin’s son), Odin, Thor, and Frigg, the queen of the gods, in, respectively, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. ~ Neil Gaiman,
406:Jenna Bush was cited for underage drinking in Austin Friday. Her dad warned her that too much partying at school could cost her a good career. At $400,000, he's making the lowest salary of any of his Yale classmates. ~ Argus Hamilton,
407:R. Elazar says it is enough if the bottom crust is formed. The Passover sacrifice may be turned around in the oven (on Friday) when it is getting dark. In the heating-house of (the sanctuary) the fire was fed at eventide. ~ Anonymous,
408:Hillary Clinton began a New York thank-you tour Friday by calling for the abolition of the Electoral College. No wonder Arkansas never liked her. She hasn't been in office three days and already she's an abolitionist. ~ Argus Hamilton,
409:I'm 53, and it's hard to get to the gym every day. If I know on Friday I'm going to be wrestling, then I don't want to look bad, so it gives me motivation. Plus, once you're in motion, it's a lot easier to stay in motion. ~ Kevin Nash,
410:Life becomes a habit. You get up, dress, eat, go tae work, clock in etcetera etcetera automatically, and think about nothing but the pay packet on Friday and the booze-up last Saturday. Life's easy when you're a robot. ~ Alasdair Gray,
411:Nature is a big part of my weekend. Whenever possible, I take Friday and Monday off and spend four days outdoors. We should remind ourselves that there was something here before us, a force more powerful than us. ~ Cary Hiroyuki Tagawa,
412:The order goes to the Tower, ‘Bring up the bodies.’ Deliver, that is, the accused men, by name Weston, Brereton, Smeaton and Norris, to Westminster Hall for trial. Kingston fetches them by barge; it is 12 May, a Friday. ~ Hilary Mantel,
413:Meditation on Savitri, August 21, 2020, Friday.Thus streamed down from the realm of early LightEthereal thinkings into Matter's world;Its gold-horned herds trooped into earth's cave-heart. ~ Sri Aurobindo,… instagram.com/p/CEIVUPJHHvJ/…,
414:I was a very shy child. I didn't like football. I didn't like the usual stuff that was shoved at. Sports were always down you and the Gaelic language, which I've actually disliked as a kid but as I grow up I quite like it. ~ Gavin Friday,
415:Unfortunately, I can’t be Tina, because it’s very difficult to lure her into a Freaky Friday– type situation where we could switch bodies, even though in the movies they make it look so easy. Believe me, I’ve tried. ~ Mindy Kaling,
416:I had great luck with Tim McGraw twice in 'Friday Night Lights' and 'The Kingdom.' I love finding off-beat casting and finding someone you know in one way and you reinvent them in another way. I like doing that as a director. ~ Peter Berg,
417:I remember driving the tractor on our farm, and Tim McGraw would be on the radio. I'd find myself walking out of class, singing his songs. And then Tim ended up playing my father in 'Friday Night Lights.' It was surreal. ~ Garrett Hedlund,
418:Steven and I had always come to the market to check out the fresh flowers, so when Friday came around with the fresh roses, I always stood in the middle of it all, breathing in the memories and breathing out the hurt. ~ Brittainy C Cherry,
419:What’s wrong with Tuesdays?” Trent asks. “Everything. Monday’s always Monday, but at least it’s the start of something new. Wednesday is hump day, Thursday’s almost Friday, and Friday brings the weekend. But Tuesday? Nada. ~ Steven Rowley,
420:Don’t take away my fun.” She smiled and leaned my way. “Every Friday, him in my yard, sweatin’ and mowin’ my lawn. Even old women need a thrill.” She settled back and closed her eyes. “That right there’s gonna be mine.” If ~ Kristen Ashley,
421:I see a pretty bright line between analysis and opinion. And so, to that end, my goal on Friday nights is to try to assemble the smartest reporters who are available to me that week who have been involved in covering the news. ~ Gwen Ifill,
422:It's about five and the party begins at seven, so I have to get the hell out of here. I need to shower, shave, eat, straighten my hair, apply make-up, and try to get a cab on a Friday night. Ugh, girly things. Kill me now. ~ Jennifer Harlow,
423:Most college students would have deemed it a waste of a perfectly good Friday night, but most students were not in a program with constant stress and regular physical battles, with the possible exception of architecture majors. ~ Drew Hayes,
424:My real name isn't Gavin. I was given Gavin Friday by my friends. I'm christened Fionan Hanvey, which is Gaelic and there is no actual English translation. I hated it as a kid but as I grew up I sort of went, "Now I like it." ~ Gavin Friday,
425:There's something exciting and incredibly liberating for an artist to finish something Friday night and the world hears it Friday night instead of eight months later after marketing people and all those assholes get involved. ~ Trent Reznor,
426:I like the company of men. I've never been welcome in those groups, but then I would no more go to a consciousness-raising group and talk about my intimate life with my husband than fly to the moon. I never understood all that. ~ Nancy Friday,
427:Instead of making Friday The 13th, Part VIII or whatever, I was making the girl-meets-boy, girl-meets-girl-dressed-as-boy movie. It was fun. I liked it. It's goofy. I look back at myself and think, "What the hell was I doing?" ~ Sherilyn Fenn,
428:Musk guides his engineers into taking ownership of their own delivery dates. “He doesn’t say, ‘You have to do this by Friday at two P.M.,’” Brogan said. “He says, ‘I need the impossible done by Friday at two P.M. Can you do it? ~ Ashlee Vance,
429:I grew up in San Antonio, Texas, and went to a big high school called Douglas McArthur where there was a lot of track and a lot of football. It was a bit like 'Friday Night Lights.' I used to spend a lot of time at the track. ~ Norah O Donnell,
430:There was engrained poetry and then when you look back at our history and in the 20th century, the last century, probably the greatest writers of the 20th century were Irish. It became our only weapon, was our poetry, our music. ~ Gavin Friday,
431:Do you think I'm going to live until 100? I'll have to, maybe Bono can arrange that. That would be interesting. Hey Bono, thank you for my 50th, can you make me live another 50 years? It's just such a pleasure to be and an honor. ~ Gavin Friday,
432:Lots of people will contact me on Friday night, male and female. Everyone likes me because it's always a fun time being with me. I'm the life of the party, really. It doesn't matter the situation because I'll always bring the mood up. ~ Seungri,
433:I check my email again—nothing—and try calling. The result is even more nothing. Nothing for everyone. We have a last minute sale on nothing, please bring all your nothing to the checkout counter. It is the Black Friday of nothing. ~ Lila Monroe,
434:I hate procrastinating, so much so that I often do my homework on Friday so it won’t be hanging over my head all weekend long. The good
thing is, my (nonexistent) social life doesn’t usually interfere with this quirk of mine. ~ Kim Harrington,
435:Meditation on Savitri, August 14, 2020, Friday.But all was still a mobile Ignorance;Still Knowledge could not come and firmly graspThis huge invention seen as a universe. ~ Sri Aurobindo, (1993). Savitri, Puducherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram, p. 242,
436:People that come to my shows are definitely people that feel outsiders. They feel like I don't feel sexy, I don't feel like - I can't go out every night on Friday and I can't connect to that, and I feel so much pressure to do that. ~ Emeli Sande,
437:Well, everyone, welcome to Shark Week. Oh that's on CBS and there's been a lot of cutbacks, so it's just Friday night for a couple of minutes. And we don't have any sharks, just an immigrant with a puppet. Hey, but it's a start! ~ Craig Ferguson,
438:He was surprised at how many people put absolutely every piece of information about their lives on their pages. Phone numbers, addresses, where they partied every Friday night, who they had sex with and the when and where of it. ~ Catherine Bybee,
439:We had one of those Friday dates that turned into an entire weekend, and by the end of it, I loved him so much my larynx ached. Vulnerable love, incorrigible love. Love in which he was both the nausea and the sodium bicarbonate. ~ Kathleen Rooney,
440:A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
441:And then the bombshell landed. Early in the afternoon of Friday, October 28, James Comey, the director of the FBI, sent a letter to Congress announcing that new evidence had emerged in the case relating to Hillary Clinton’s e-mails. ~ Joshua Green,
442:Do you think Friday unlucky?

No, I think Friday lucky, All Christian people, whatever their lighter superstitions, have always thought Friday lucky. Otherwise they would have talked about Bad Friday instead of Good Friday. ~ G K Chesterton,
443:On Friday a statement arrived to say that Hans Hubermann was to be drafted into the German army. A member of the Party would be happy to play a role in the war effort, it concluded. If he wasn’t, there would certainly be consequences ~ Markus Zusak,
444:On the Paris Review website, Nicole Rudnick wrote that the stunt reminded her of a post last year on Gawker, whose writer tested TGI Friday’s “Endless Appetizers” promotion, “during which she ate mozzarella sticks for close to 14 hours. ~ Anonymous,
445:Women of Manhattan, magnificent as they were, they forgot sometimes they weren’t immortal. They could throw themselves like confetti into a fun-filled Friday night, with no thought as to what crack they fell into by Saturday. ~ Marisha Pessl,
446:Faith isn’t just Good Friday and Easter Sunday; faith is awkward Saturday too. So much is sitting in that tomb with the soon-to-be resurrected Lord. It’s so dark. So damp. So scary. The silence is deafening. But there is hope in there. ~ A J Swoboda,
447:Hillary Clinton will travel to Vietnam with the president this Friday. It's a fact that at the height of the war in 1971, she tried to enlist in the Marines, but they turned her down. Apparently we weren't that mad at the Viet Cong. ~ Argus Hamilton,
448:We bring the holy things of the church onto the holy streets of the city because on some level, the violence and despair of Good Friday is still a human reality. Unfortunately, we’ve never lacked an opportunity to pay such a visit. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
449:Well, Ms. Sanford, it's like this. Your bag is packed. It's Friday night and your daughter is away for the weekend. And you don't have a husband. You can forget your girlfriend tonight, you're coming to my house." His words were final. ~ Lynda Chance,
450:I am enjoying seeing and learning things here, though I don’t ‘like’ the place in a way. It makes me feel such a decadent sybaritic old European. I leave Yale on Friday, go to Boston, Washington and back to New York – and sail on Nov 4. ~ Iris Murdoch,
451:I believe that DVD is that which gives some hope to retaining some content in movies that will appeal to an older audience or the more sophisticated audience or the audience that doesn't need or desire to see a movie on a Friday night. ~ Warren Beatty,
452:My head was throbbing, and my hands were shaking, but I went down the ladder to my workroom - and started figuring out how to rip someone's heart out of his chest from fifty miles away. Who says I never do anything fun on a Friday night? ~ Jim Butcher,
453:So Friday night we turn off every screen in a very ritualistic way. When we start, we light candles, all the cell phones go off, the TV goes off, and the computers go off. And then we’re offline for all of Saturday until after sunset. ~ Jocelyn K Glei,
454:TV kind of worked out naturally for me. I was fortunate to do a show like 'Breaking Bad' and then go straight into something like 'Friday Night Lights.' It's not something I focus on, but when they're great projects, I can't pass them up. ~ Emily Rios,
455:will plant!” True to his word, on Friday, when she arrived, there were dozens of plants waiting by the garden plot that they had cleared earlier in the week. She stopped and stared at it, wondering at the quantity as well as where he had ~ Sarah Price,
456:In terms of American Horror Story and Nashville, what attracted me to those, and Friday Night Lights, for that matter, is that they felt like something innovative and something that we hadn't seen before. As an actor, that's exciting. ~ Connie Britton,
457:Miss Frost, sometimes I feel fifty three. Seldom, but at times, I feel twenty. Like the days. Ever feel a Saturday on a Tuesday? Or a week of one Friday after another? Recently I've been seventy. But I remember thirty four as a fine age. ~ J P Donleavy,
458:The last months, weeks and days have seen accelerating discussions, involving the DUP for the first time, about a comprehensive agreement which would see all outstanding matters dealt with and the Good Friday Agreement implemented in full. ~ Gerry Adams,
459:A phone beeped quietly and she woke. It was morning. Friday the 30th of April. One day before May 1st, and Greta Dapple's birthday, and the Summer of Light, when the world would tear itself apart. What a cheery, happy thought to wake up to. ~ Derek Landy,
460:My head was throbbing, and my hands were shaking, but I went down the ladder to my workroom - and started figuring out how to rip someone's heart out of his chest from fifty miles away.
Who says I never do anything fun on a Friday night? ~ Jim Butcher,
461:She might like it if you bring cupcakes,” Friday says. She waggles her eyebrows at me. Peck doesn’t like cupcakes. I think she’s the only person in the world who doesn’t like my cupcakes. One day, I’m going to get her to eat one. One day. ~ Tammy Falkner,
462:Think about for a minute what your body goes through out there. On a Friday night, you have a steak and then Saturday morning, you get up and have some eggs and some pancakes. Then Sunday, you're on 'Survivor' and suddenly you have nothing. ~ Jeff Probst,
463:Work is about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread, for recognition as well as cash, for astonishment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying.


Studs Terkel ~ Studs Terkel,
464:Oil jumps as Saudi king's death feeds market uncertainty Abdullah died early on Friday and his brother Salman became king, the royal court in the world's top oil exporter and birthplace of Islam said in a statement carried by state television. ~ Anonymous,
465:And so I rehabilitate myself - staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction - than to lose it in slumber. ~ Sylvia Plath,
466:I'm a guy so I equate vulnerability with fear. What makes me fearful. I feel vulnerable when I release material, my work, to the world, and I have no control over the outcome. Those are very vulnerable moments. I'm getting married on Friday. ~ John Rzeznik,
467:In Los Angeles on Black Friday, a woman pepper sprayed Wal-Mart shoppers who tried to cut in line. The police acted fast by immediately hiring her to get rid of peaceful protesters outside banking institutions all across the United States. ~ Craig Ferguson,
468:Oversoul Seven grimaced at Cyprus and began the examination. 'Let's see,' he said, 'In Earth terms, using an analogy, I'm a man on Wednesday and Friday, a woman on Sunday and Thursday, and have the rest of the time off for independent study. ~ Jane Roberts,
469:Mitt Romney forcefully declared his interest in a third presidential run to a room full of powerful Republican donors Friday, disrupting the fluid 2016 GOP field as would-be rival Jeb Bush was moving swiftly to consolidate establishment support. ~ Anonymous,
470:The days went by without incident and often without their name. When you'd unpacked the hours from the day and then the night and piled them all up, you could toss the boxes they came in, which is all that "Wednesday" or "Friday" really are. ~ Ismail Kadare,
471:We turn off the TV, video games and computer - except for homework - during the week. The TV's reserved for Friday night, Saturday and Sunday just because that's the time to do homework, and it makes it that much less chaotic in our house. ~ Candace Cameron,
472:There was a mountain man guy there on Friday." I fired up the laptop. "I, like, wanted to have his children and shave his face but also feel his mustache sanding my balls and have him teach me how to smoke venison. I was a bounty of contradictions. ~ J A Rock,
473:Oh, yeah.” Carissa nodded. “They were googley-eyed in class on Friday. It was pretty steamy, the whole ‘I’m
screwing you with my eyes’ thing they had going on.” I choked on my drink. “That was not what we were doing. We were talking! ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,
474:Superstitious." What a strange word. If you believed in Christianity or Islam, it was called "faith". But if you believed in astrology or Friday the thirteenth it was superstition! Who had the right to call other people's belief superstition? ~ Jostein Gaarder,
475:Do you ever read any of the books you burn?’ He laughed. ‘That’s against the law!’ ‘Oh. Of course.’ ‘It’s fine work. Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn ’em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That’s our official slogan.’ They ~ Ray Bradbury,
476:The cinema industry is competing against everything else people can do on a Friday or Saturday night. If they don't have a good time, you're going to lose them to something else. So much of what we do is trying to make the Alamo experience special. ~ Tim League,
477:In the past I'd always felt like 'the girl' in the show or the movie. On 'Friday Night Lights' there were a bunch of girls, and I was the woman. Initially there was a little struggle with my identity around that. But now there's a sense of ease. ~ Connie Britton,
478:I was an OK boxer, I wasn't great, I was OK, but I loved the discipline of getting together every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, usually Saturday afternoons too, with a whole bunch of mates and training, very, very hard for about two-and-half hours. ~ Liam Neeson,
479:We look at a couple of lads as they walk into the pub, Jim Barnes from Slough and someone I don't recognise. A tall bloke with a silver earring who looks knackered with a bruised right eye and cuts along his knuckles. Must've had a good Friday night. ~ John King,
480:What they talked about and what was in the air was only the present, interrupted by the long times between Monday and Friday. These absences made their closeness to each other even more paramount, since together was where they’d always, only been. ~ Richard Ford,
481:Do you really think anyone needs some kind of notarized statement saying
'Dear Saint Peter, here's another stiff, pass him through the gates, signed, Father McGonnigill.'...'PS: He once had a hot dog on a Friday, but don't hold that against him.' ~ P N Elrod,
482:Every Good Friday, this anchored but ever-changing anniversary of my accident, I go to the little creek that saved my life and light one more candle. I offer thanks for two facts: that I am one year older, and that I am one year closer to death. ~ Andrew Davidson,
483:Many years ago in a period commonly know as Next Friday Afternoon, there lived a King who was very Gloomy on Tuesday mornings because he was so Sad thinking about how Unhappy he had been on Monday and how completely Mournful he would be on Wednesday. ~ Walt Kelly,
484:Meditation on Savitri, August 21, 2020, Friday.Thus streamed down from the realm of early LightEthereal thinkings into Matter's world;Its gold-horned herds trooped into earth's cave-heart. ~ Sri Aurobindo, (1993). Savitri, Puducherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram, p. 243,
485:She wakes Friday morning with a pit in her stomach. She walks to the window and lifts it open, and the humid air collects on her skin. The fragile light of early morning stretches across the sky and the birds sing to each other about its promise. ~ Kelly Quindlen,
486:What is that thing Shakespeare said?” asked Melanie.
“He said a great deal of things,” said Friday. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The lady doth protests too much.” quoted Melanie.
Mirabella gasped. “Are you saying that...Ian is a lady? ~ R A Spratt,
487:Do you really think anyone needs some kind of notarized statement saying
'Dear Saint Peter, here's another stiff, pass him through the gates, signed, Father McGonnigill.'...'PS: He once had a hot dog on a Friday, but don't hold that against him.' ~ P N Elrod,
488:parents, who were very busy with their work. “Enturbulating” was a Scientology word for disrupting or upsetting. So, in addition to not being allowed to complain at the Ranch out loud, we couldn’t complain about it in letters, either. Friday ~ Jenna Miscavige Hill,
489:The modern physicist is a quantum theorist on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and a student of gravitational relativity on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On Sunday, he is praying... that someone will find the reconciliation between the two views. ~ Norbert Wiener,
490:If she had seen Ben, nothing would have made her believe that practically every apartment contained a family, a Bible, and a dream that one day enough could be scraped from those meager Friday night paychecks to make Brewster Place a distant memory. ~ Gloria Naylor,
491:Later that Friday night, after an agonizingly long workday, I was dragging myself up the deserted street thinking that the whole world, except for me, had someplace to go on that long weekend, and what’s more, they all had someone to go with. ~ Alcoholics Anonymous,
492:Usually I'm able to prepare a message about two to three weeks in advance.I know some preachers don't like that. They want to be finishing it on Friday before they preach it on Sunday, but our worship team really likes me to get it done way in advance. ~ Max Lucado,
493:A very bouncy Kyle woke Livia at some ridiculous o’clock on Friday morning.
“Wakey-wakey, you sloppy, old whore. It’s time to do you up. You’re going out tonight, so you don’t get to dress in nursing home casual.” Kyle ripped off Livia’s covers. ~ Debra Anastasia,
494:I'm half Puerto Rican and every Friday we have rice and beans and chicken in my house - so that's like a very Latin staple. It's just so comforting. I look forward to every single Friday because I just can't wait for my rice and beans and chicken. ~ Victoria Justice,
495:My recipe for bliss on a Friday night consists of a 'New York Times' crossword puzzle and a new episode of 'Homicide;' Saturdays and Sundays are oriented around walks in the woods with the dog, human companion in tow some of the time but not always. ~ Caroline Knapp,
496:Any movie about cult figure Charles Manson needs lots of sex, drugs and blood. But as John Roecker discovered while filming his first feature - screening Friday and Saturday only at the Avalon - the key to amping up the gore is an old standby: puppets. ~ John Roecker,
497:Lucas was fifteen minutes late to class on Friday, and we had a pop quiz first thing—which he missed. My first thought was how irresponsible it was to miss a quiz… and then I remembered that I missed the midterm. I couldn't exactly point any fingers. ~ Tammara Webber,
498:When we agree to meet with friends, have drinks, dinner, and watch a movie on a Friday evening, we incur coordination costs. All the emails, text messages, and phone calls that are required to arrange a social evening are the coordination costs. So ~ David J Anderson,
499:During a charity boxing match on Friday, Mitt Romney lasted two rounds against Evander Holyfield and raised a million dollars. It was just like Holyfield's fight with Mike Tyson, except Romney chewed off his other ear talking about his 18 grandchildren. ~ Jimmy Fallon,
500:Meditation on Savitri, August 7, 2020, Friday.A master Magician of measure and deviceHas made an eternity from recurring formsAnd to the wandering spectator thoughtAssigned a seat on the inconscient stage. ~ Sri Aurobindo, (1993). Savitri, Sri Aurobindo Ashram, p. 241,
501:You've got to use alcohol and not let it use you. I come from a country that's been doomed by alcohol. The Irish could drink; they could drink Europe. And they'd have a good go at America, too. I mean, you guys - your alcohol is like not good, it's weak. ~ Gavin Friday,
502:He doesn’t say, ‘You have to do this by Friday at two P.M.,’” Brogan said. “He says, ‘I need the impossible done by Friday at two P.M. Can you do it?’ Then, when you say yes, you are not working hard because he told you to. You’re working hard for yourself. ~ Ashlee Vance,
503:You will need to know the difference between Friday and a fried egg. It’s quite a simple difference, but an important one. Friday comes at the end of the week, whereas a fried egg comes out of a hen. Like most things, of course, it isn’t quite that simple. ~ Douglas Adams,
504:After sex I like to text a girl on the second day, long enough to instill just a bit of doubt, but not so much that she’s freaked out. For example, if I have sex with her on Friday night but sleep over and leave Saturday morning, I’ll contact her on Monday night. ~ Roosh V,
505:Since the start of the Ashes I have had a hectic workload. I've played almost every game, but I'm thinking that after South Africa and the Bangladesh series I can clock off for two or three months. It's like Friday afternoon for a guy who goes to work all week. ~ Brett Lee,
506:We have had a great relationship with the White House.We just had every cabinet person designee of ours meet with the cabinet members of the [Barack] Obama administration on Friday. I've met numerous times with Denis McDonough, they've been nothing but helpful. ~ John Lewis,
507:I have never in my life found myself in a situation where I've stopped work and said, 'Thank God it's Friday.' But weekends are special even if your schedule is all over the place. Something tells you the weekend has arrived and you can indulge yourself a bit. ~ Helen Mirren,
508:I'm nothing but envious that you've been happily married for two years. Try hauling your cookies on a new blind date every Friday, only to have your, already extremely low, expectations dashed as you meet men who look like Quasimodo and have Homer Simpson's IQ.  ~ Jane Green,
509:But the worse touristification is the life we moderns have to lead in captivity, during our leisure hours: Friday night opera, scheduled parties, scheduled laughs. Again, golden jail. This “goal-driven” attitude hurts deeply inside my existential self. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,
510:But the worst touristification is the life we moderns have to lead in captivity, during our leisure hours: Friday night opera, scheduled parties, scheduled laughs. Again, golden jail. This "goal-driven" attitude hurts deeply inside my existential self. ~ Nassim Nicholas Taleb,
511:Friday 14 April: Last night I had a ridiculous dream of Squire’s sending back my poem and saying he could not accept it because I spelt the word ‘receive’ wrongly: and sure enough, the first post brought the poem back! I intend to hammer away for a bit at him yet. ~ C S Lewis,
512:People build continuity into their life: Places, friends and goals. We go to work on Monday with plans for Friday night, enroll as freshmen intending to be seniors and save money for retirement. We try to control what comes next and shape it to meet our will. ~ Nathaniel Fick,
513:the United States helps topple the dictator Bashar al-Assad on Wednesday, then what will it do on Thursday, when it finds that it has helped midwife to power a Sunni jihadist regime, or on Friday, when ethnic cleansing of the Shia-trending Alawites commences? ~ Robert D Kaplan,
514:There are two tests in life, more important than any other test. On Monday morning, when you wake up, do you feel in the pit of your stomach you can't wait to go to work? And when you're ready to go home Friday afternoon, do you say, 'I can't wait to go home?' ~ Charles Schumer,
515:We live in a consumer culture, and Black Friday is like the July 4th of that culture. It might be good not to live in this culture, but it terms of what we can do to make people safer at big sales, it seems more useful to try to avoid dangerous crowd conditions. ~ John Seabrook,
516:I really disliked the fact that our Irish culture is what make us and made us and will make us. And when money came in, we rejected it so quickly. Not even rejected, we didn't think. We just got lazy and all the girls started getting fat and that's not good is it. ~ Gavin Friday,
517:My heroes are all dead. I've lots of heroes. My mum is a hero. She had to put up with me and my dad. She is one of my heroes. Some of my friends are heroes. There are so many. But heroes usually let you down, don't they? There is people I admire, people I respect. ~ Gavin Friday,
518:[80] IF you sneeze on Monday, you sneeze for danger; Sneeze on a Tuesday, kiss a stranger; Sneeze on a Wednesday, sneeze for a letter; Sneeze on a Thursday, something better; Sneeze on a Friday, sneeze for sorrow; Sneeze on a Saturday, see your sweetheart to-morrow. ~ Andrew Lang,
519:If the United States helps topple the dictator Bashar al-Assad on Wednesday, then what will it do on Thursday, when it finds that it has helped midwife to power a Sunni jihadist regime, or on Friday, when ethnic cleansing of the Shia-trending Alawites commences? ~ Robert D Kaplan,
520:Man, Duke and I work our fannies off. We don't eat expensive dinners out. We don't go to the mvies or buy our clothes anywhere but Kmart--our biggest treat is taking the kids to Walmart on Friday nights, having a fast food hamburger and doing the grocery shopping. ~ Lori Copeland,
521:A onetime ally and former high school classmate of New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie pleaded guilty Friday, while two other former members of Christie's inner circle were indicted, in connection with an intentional 2013 traffic jam leading to the George Washington Bridge. ~ Anonymous,
522:I remember once in junior high school, on a Friday, my mom came home from work and said to my brother and I, 'You know, between us, we have only 27 cents, but we have food in the refrigerator, we have our little garden out back, and we're happy, so we are rich. ~ John Paul DeJoria,
523:After sex, men fear too much intimacy; they want to separate again. Women want to talk, to continue the merging, melting fusion into one. Postcoital conversations keep the woman's power alive. Through unconscious severance, by falling asleep, the man regains his self. ~ Nancy Friday,
524:She would never again lie in bed on a Good Friday morning and relax in the blissful knowledge that there was nothing to do and nowhere to be, because for the rest of her life, there would always, always be something left undone. An unmade confession. An ugly secret. ~ Liane Moriarty,
525:When people try to take your culture away from you, your essence of your culture becomes stronger. It's like even in Africa. When you see African-Americans, they're stronger because of what they've gone through. It's even subliminal; I think it becomes in their genes. ~ Gavin Friday,
526:But the most important thing to know about being an introvert is that there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not broken because you’re quiet. It’s okay to stay home on a Friday night instead of going to a party. Being an introvert is a perfectly normal 'thing' to be. ~ Jenn Granneman,
527:I am convinced that when we bring our griefs and sorrows within the story of God's own grief and sorrow, and allow them to be held there, God is able to bring healing to us and new possibilities to our lives. That is, of course, what Good Friday and Easter are all about. ~ N T Wright,
528:I went to art school, and every Tuesday and Friday we drew the nude. If you look at Western painting, male and female nudes are in the center of every painting. It's difficult and exciting to draw the nude. Why get so upset about this? It's our duty to break taboos. ~ Peter Greenaway,
529:You may have heard of Black Friday and Cyber Monday. There's another day you might want to know about: Giving Tuesday. The idea is pretty straightforward. On the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, shoppers take a break from their gift-buying and donate what they can to charity. ~ Bill Gates,
530:The day had started out suitably dour for a Good Friday, but had suddenly changed its mind and decided to twirl about and show off its autumn colors after all. There was a brisk, flirty breeze, and the sun was pouring through the red leaves of her mother’s flame tree. ~ Liane Moriarty,
531:Friday wiggles her toes, and I realize I’ve been sitting here rubbing the inside of her ankle for about ten minutes. I pull my hand back, kind of chagrined that I let it go on that long. Matt raises his brow when I catch his eye, and he grins at me. I flip him the bird. ~ Tammy Falkner,
532:I was into David Bowie. I attracted long hair and earrings when it was quite a risque thing to do in Dublin. We didn't have the liberation that America and Britain in the '60s but I did always look to England and America, mainly because of the music that came from there. ~ Gavin Friday,
533:Most modern men want sex and can’t have it. They want success and never get it.
They want money and never earn enough. Everybody has desires and nobody—
Except the psychopathic few— Has the guts to go out and just take what they want.”
—Professor Michael Friday ~ Barbie Wilde,
534:Every Friday afternoon Brad invites me to join him and his frat buddies for a game of basketball at the Y. Every Friday I remind Brad I don’t know how to play basketball. This confuses him. Someday I’m going to become Brad’s boss. The very first thing I will do is fire him. ~ Roxane Gay,
535:Kids want to be professional footballers and I think they need to know what it takes to get there - you know, the dedication. People see footballers playing on a Saturday afternoon in front of the TV cameras, but from a Monday to Friday people don't really see what goes on. ~ John Terry,
536:Oh, why don’t we have a night off?” said Hermione brightly, as a silver-tailed Weasley rocket zoomed past the window. “After all, the Easter holidays start on Friday, we’ll have plenty of time then . . .” “Are you feeling all right?” Ron asked, staring at her in disbelief. ~ J K Rowling,
537:Without Easter, Good Friday would have no meaning. Without Easter, there would be no hope that suffering and abandonment might be tolerable. But with Easter, a way out becomes visible for human sorrows, an absolute future: more than a hope, a divine expectation. ~ Hans Urs von Balthasar,
538:I wanted all the music to sound strong. It's all down to the restoration and mastering. In many ways I feel the work in general was never properly mastered in the first place. To me, making the music sound the way we wanted it was by far my biggest goal with the re-issues. ~ Gavin Friday,
539:What’s it like? Ballet school?”
“Harsh,” he said. “Everyone dances until they collapse. We eat only raw-egg smoothies and wheat protein. Every Friday we have a dance-off and whoever is left standing gets a chocolate bar. Also we have to watch dance movies constantly. ~ Cassandra Clare,
540:By July 4th we headline at Hyde Park on a Friday of 25,000 strong. The actor Lior Ashkenazi flies over from Israel just to see the concert. Standing next to him backstage, it is difficult for me to shine, for some people are too in-spot to be matched, and Lior is such a person. ~ Morrissey,
541:There are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in. ~ Bill Hicks,
542:Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. ~ Dr Seuss,
543:I have marveled at, and sometimes openly questioned, the self-restraint God has shown throughout history, allowing the Genghis Khans and the Hitlers and the Stalins to have their way. But nothing - nothing - compares to the self-restraint shown that dark Friday in Jerusalem. ~ Philip Yancey,
544:Humans waste far too much time worrying about things that will never befall them. It’s my experience that the greatest tragedies are the ones that don’t even cross our minds—the events that blindside us on a Friday afternoon when we’re wondering how to spend our weekend. ~ Richard Paul Evans,
545:You’ll have a faithful Indian companion. Girl Friday. Whatever you want. I’ll even launder my own irreclaimable socks. You’ve already told me I’m a terrific conversationalist, and I’m a person you know who’s not dead. Think carefully before you turn down an offer like this. ~ Chet Williamson,
546:When we're coming up to the race, the Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I always have the same lunch. So that's before the second practice, before qualifying and before the race, I always have a tuna vegetable risotto. The chef makes it slightly spicy, so there's a bit of a kick. ~ Valtteri Bottas,
547:I too have read his version of the facts. Like you and millions of others. And everyone got the picture, right from the start: He had a man’s name; my brother had the name of an incident. He could have called him “Two P.M.,” like that other writer who called his black man “Friday. ~ Kamel Daoud,
548:According to the United Nations annual report released Friday, most of the forcibly displaced worldwide are homeless in their own countries and are known as internally displaced persons. An additional 16.7 million people are refugees in another land. Astonishingly, half are children. ~ Anonymous,
549:One exception to the 2–4 day rule is to avoid contacting her for the first time on a Friday or Saturday. Girls like to give the appearance that they’re popular or busy, so there’s a lower chance she’ll respond back within a reasonable amount of time if you contact her on those two days. ~ Roosh V,
550:You may have sought and tried to obtain instant godliness. There is no such thing....We want somebody to give us three easy steps to godliness, and we'll take them next Friday and be godly. The trouble is, godliness doesn't come that way. ~ Jerry BridgesJay Adams~ Jerry Bridges ~ Jerry Bridges,
551:If I have any attribute that serves me well, it's I don't have a long-range plan in life. I have no idea. I just don't look ahead, I really don't. You know when people get out of college and they're talking about their five-year plan. Five-year plan? I got a plan to get to Friday. ~ Michael Wilbon,
552:I trust the red sun setting,

the leafless November trees.

On Monday morning I look foward

fearlessly to Friday’s eve.

But humans are not as reliable

as nature, as trees.

I wonder if you’ll come back;

I trust only that you leave. ~ Ellen Wittlinger,
553:Unless you're playing Who's Hiding the Ecstasy?, I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it. I've got plans." Don't married people know that the last thing a single person wants to do on a Friday night is play a nutty game of Yahtzee? I'd rather take a bubble bath with my father. ~ Chelsea Handler,
554:I want a family, Friday. Not just a fuck. Tail is easy to come by. You, on the other hand…” He lets his voice trail off. “You’re one of a fucking kind, and I want you to be mine so badly I can taste it. And I’ll still be tasting it next week, next year, and every day following that. ~ Tammy Falkner,
555:The last 15 years we had one of the biggest economic booms. But I think a few bubbles have burst in a few countries. So we are all going through the same things. But let's say Ireland, in the '70s and the '80s was tough, but if you grow up with a tough background it makes you strong. ~ Gavin Friday,
556:Grossman was NOT a man. (3) Mrs. Grossman was NOT Mr. Todd. Judy was the first to raise her hand. “Where’s Mr. Todd?” “I’m sure Mr. Todd told everyone on Friday that he was going to a special teacher conference.” “I wasn’t here Friday,” said Judy. “He’s going to learn to be a better ~ Megan McDonald,
557:I looked up at the sky. A mother wants to make friends with her daughter. The daughter wants a mother more than a friend. Ships passing in broad daylight. Mother has a boyfriend. A homeless, one-armed poet. Father also has a boyfriend. A gay Boy Friday. What does the daughter have? ~ Haruki Murakami,
558:Good Friday is not about us trying to "get right with God." It is about us entering the difference between God and humanity and just touching it for a moment. Touching the shimmering sadness of humanity's insistence that we can be our own gods, that we can be pure and all-powerful. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,
559:Purple Cow (SETH GODIN) - Your Highlight on page 85 | location 1290-1291 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:26:03 What you need is the insight to realize that you have no other choice but to grow your business or launch your product with Purple Cow thinking. Nothing else is going to work. ~ Anonymous,
560:Our language was even taken from us. The Irish Gaelic language was outlawed and the religion was outlawed. Hence the religion later being stronger; stronger to a negative point of view. But our venge was, I mean if you listen to Irish language, it's very complicated but it's very poetic. ~ Gavin Friday,
561:The only time I got into trouble was when I forged M's signature on the weekly report we had to take home every Friday and take back to school again signed by one of our parents. The reason I did so was that M happened to be out at the time and I thought I could save myself trouble. ~ Daphne du Maurier,
562:Those were comfortable, carefree years. The word I’d use now is idyllic. On Friday nights, we cheered on the Bulldogs of Midland High. On Sunday mornings, we went to church. Nobody locked their doors. Years later, when I would speak about the American Dream, it was Midland I had in mind. ~ George W Bush,
563:When you use force, people get hurt, and when you kill people, their relatives don't like it. And usually war has some unanticipated consequences so it's something you shouldn't launch into, on the expectation that this is going to rally the nation. This is not like 'Friday Night Lights'. ~ Wesley Clark,
564:Antología de Charles Bukowski (Charles Bukowski) - Your Highlight on page 21 | Location 314-319 | Added on Friday, May 23, 2014 8:41:53 PM La edad no es un crimen pero la vergüenza de una vida deliberadamente desperdiciada entre tantas vidas deliberadamente desperdiciadas sí lo es. ========== ~ Anonymous,
565:He doesn’t say, ‘You have to do this by Friday at two P.M.,’” Brogan said. “He says, ‘I need the impossible done by Friday at two P.M. Can you do it?’ Then, when you say yes, you are not working hard because he told you to. You’re working hard for yourself. It’s a distinction you can feel. ~ Ashlee Vance,
566:I'm so glad you brought that up Jay Lethal as a performer has grown into, I'll say this even though I'm wrestling him this Friday, he's one of my favorite wrestlers in the game right now. He's unreal. He's amazing in the ring. It doesn't matter who he's wresting. He's unreal on the microphone. ~ Adam Cole,
567:In recent years it has become popular for some retailers to begin their Black Friday sales on Thursday night. Do not support this inane trend. If you feel like you want to replicate the experience, blindfold yourself, tape $150 to your forehead and roll yourself down a hill in a shopping cart. ~ Jason Gay,
568:All the actors I respect, especially old-Hollywood actors, the reason I think so many of them have had long careers is that there is a sort of mystery about them. You don't know what they do on Friday nights when they go home from work. You have no clue. You have this sort of fantasy about them. ~ Kate Mara,
569:After the bill had been pulled that Friday, Katie Walsh, feeling both angry and disgusted, told Kushner she wanted out. Outlining what she saw as the grim debacle of the Trump White House, she spoke with harsh candor about bitter rivalries joined to vast incompetence and an uncertain mission. ~ Michael Wolff,
570:It was a Friday night, she was at a club, and a good-looking man was currently giving her the I-want-to-take-you-home-and-I-hope-I-last-longer-than-five-minutes look… and she was thinking about pie, a young adult book, and feeding her cat. She was so turning into the cat lady at twenty-seven. Sweet. ~ J Lynn,
571:I love the way an Irish man, they can hardly speak proper English, is doing William Shakespeare. So I find that extraordinary as I get older. But I always see music, live shows, performances as moments and to really get there you've just got to actually get into the essence, flesh and the blood. ~ Gavin Friday,
572:Adultery: A Novel (Paulo Coelho) - Your Highlight on page 96 | Location 1461-1462 | Added on Friday, September 19, 2014 9:18:17 AM I take the iPad from the nightstand. I multiply 365 by 70. The answer is 25,550. That’s the average number of days a normal person lives. How many have I already wasted? ~ Anonymous,
573:And then, on a sunny Friday morning, for three seconds, you can't search for anything. You can't check your email. You can't watch any videos. You can't get directions. For just three seconds, nothing works, because every single one of Google's computers around the world is dedicated to this task. ~ Robin Sloan,
574:On Good Friday Jesus died But rose again at Eastertide.....Lord, teach us to understand that your Son died to save us not from suffering but from ourselves, not from injustice...but from being unjust. He died that we might live - but live as he lives, by dying as he died who died to himself. ~ George MacDonald,
575:I think Ray might have wanted a son. One night when I was seven or eight I announced to my family that I wanted to play hockey with the boys on Friday nights and Ray became just a little too eager. Okay he shouted. All right We have to get you a stick We have to get tape I'll be waiting in the car ~ Miriam Toews,
576:I write for a radio show that, no matter what, will go on the air Saturday at five o'clock central time. You learn to write toward that deadline, to let the adrenaline pick you up on Friday morning and carry you through, to cook up a monologue about Lake Wobegon and get to the theater on time. ~ Garrison Keillor,
577:Just look at the Chinese characters used for the names of the days of the week. Color-wise, Monday (Moon) would be yellow. Tuesday (Fire) is red. Wednesday (Water) is blue. Thursday (Wood) is green. Friday (Gold) would be gold, Saturday (Earth) would be light brown. sunday (Sun) would be white. ~ Nagaru Tanigawa,
578:Logan had fixed the tattoo that day, and she’d started working for me. That was four years ago. Four fucking years of looking at her beautiful legs and red lips. Every. Single. Day. Four years of watching her and wanting her. Four years of lusting over Friday. Four years with her busting my chops. ~ Tammy Falkner,
579:When Brittany walks into Mrs. P.'s class on Friday I'm still thinking about how I'm going to get back at her for throwing my keys into the woods last weekend. It took me forty-five minutes to find the suckers, and all the while I was cursing Brittany. Okay, so I give her props for dishing it out. ~ Simone Elkeles,
580:It was a Friday night football game, and the two were strutting victoriously off the field. While Luke’s then-girlfriend Karen jogged up to him for a kiss, for one shining moment, Aldo’s dark gaze had met and held hers. Just like that, late-blooming sophomore Gloria had developed her very first crush. ~ Lucy Score,
581:Every year, the Friday before the new Saturday-morning shows would premiere, the networks would do this big preview special, and I was always glued to the TV. As horrible as they were, they were entertaining at the time. There was a lot of showmanship from the networks based around the new lineup. ~ Seth MacFarlane,
582:I actually think the whole concept of retirement is a bit stupid, so yes, I do want to do something else. There is this strange thing that just because chronologically on a Friday night you have reached a certain age... with all that experience, how can it be that on a Monday morning, you are useless? ~ Stuart Rose,
583:I was born on the 5th April 1942. On Good Friday. Round about crucifixion time. Archbishop Ussher, a man for dates, who calculated that the world began on September 27th 4004 BC, says the crucifixion took place at three o'clock in the afternoon on Good Friday in the year 33 AD. I was right on time. ~ Peter Greenaway,
584:She went out with Jacob for five dates, and then they broke up. She came over that night with a tub of ice cream and a bag of Hershey's KISSES. "Comfort food?" I said.
"If I needed comfort food I'd have brought two tubs of ice cream. I'm nor upset, Luce. This is what I always eat on a Friday night. ~ Cath Crowley,
585:I knew that we had an obligation and that was to keep an energy in it and try to keep the audience interested. In fact, I asked some of the actors to take a look at His Girl Friday, a Howard Hawks film with Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant, because they talk over each other and there's a great energy. ~ Dustin Hoffman,
586:The truth is I'm a dork. I collected comics. I still love cartoons. I'd rather be at home on a Friday night than out at some club… My sense of humor is that of a geek. My likes and dislikes are that of a geek. I've memorized every crappy sci-fi movie there is, but still haven't seen Schindler's List. ~ Nathan Fillion,
587:Go out with me, Hope. Just dinner. Because I can’t fucking stop thinking about you. Couldn’t after I saw you the first time at Olive’s on Friday night. It only got worse after I saw you here Monday morning. I don’t know what it is about you . . . but there’s something that makes me want to figure it out. ~ A L Jackson,
588:It was before Vatican II and the liberalization of church doctrine. You weren't meant to eat meat on Friday in deference to Christ, who died on Friday. If you did, you went to hell, . . That way, Hitler would be in hell alongside someone who ate meat on Friday. I thought there was no justice there. ~ Christopher Durang,
589:After I calmed down a little and had a chance to think, I figured . . . I love you enough to try and deserve you. I would do anything, be anything, for you. Last night I went to your apartment to beg you to give me another chance. I was shaking in my boots, thinking you might not forgive me for Friday night. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
590:Alec Lightwood, eldest son of the Shadowhunters who ran the New York Institute, had turned up on Magnus’s doorstep, thanked him for saving his life, and asked him out while turning fifteen shades between puce and mauve. In response Magnus had promptly lost his mind, kissed him, and made a date for Friday. ~ Cassandra Clare,
591:Sometimes being lazy can get you in trouble. You ever not take a shower all weekend, just lounge around, then you're running late for work on Monday? There's always one person at work: "Something smells like smoke in here!" "Uh, I went to a barbeque on Friday night. Only had 48 hours to take a shower. Busy." ~ Jim Gaffigan,
592:The Olympics start on Friday, and Russia is implementing the most intensive security in Olympics history. During the games, the government will monitor every email, every social media message, and listen in on every phone call. In fact, people are even comparing Russia to the United States, that's how bad it is. ~ Jay Leno,
593:I think I like wrestling,” she says. “Tell that to the fingernail marks on my arm,” I tease. She drops her voice down to a purr. “I’ll kiss it and make it better later.” Friday must have heard her, because she snorts behind us. Sky laughs and winks at me. She even fits in with my family. And I fit into hers. ~ Tammy Falkner,
594:BERLIN — Germany became the latest and perhaps most significant country so far to commit itself to improving the representation of women on corporate boards, passing a law on Friday that requires some of Europe’s biggest companies to give 30 percent of the seats of supervisory boards to women beginning next year. ~ Anonymous,
595:It was as though they had never known love: both terrible and wonderful. She had considered them before, the people who did not know Friday. She wondered now if this was how Ronit felt in New York, without lines and demarcations, without order and sense, without anchor. A thing both to be feared and desired. ~ Naomi Alderman,
596:I'm the kind of guy who, I need a watch that tells me what day it is. I need to know it's Friday on my watch. I need to look at it and go, 'Friday today.' Tomorrow I will not know it's Saturday until I look at my watch. My watchband broke, I was crippled. I have no concept of time, I have no concept of dates. ~ Nathan Fillion,
597:I work out Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; take Thursday off; then I work out Friday and Saturday. So sometimes I'll eat whatever I want on Thursday, like a big breakfast of pancakes and bacon and eggs and stuff. You can eat a big, hearty breakfast because you're going to burn off most of it during the day anyway. ~ Mark Wahlberg,
598:Just look, Letty.” Miss Blacklock looked. Her eyebrows went up. She threw a quick scrutinizing glance round the table. Then she read the advertisement out loud. “A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation. ~ Agatha Christie,
599:Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day,
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay. ~ Anonymous,
600:========== If I Stay (Forman, Gayle) - Your Note on page 182 | Location 2191 | Added on Friday, September 26, 2014 4:01:31 PM We look before and after and pine for what is not. Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught. The sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Ode to a Skylark by Lord Byron? ~ Anonymous,
601:Some people see Black Friday as a much-needed break for their wallet. I see it as retail outlets showing the customers the full weight of their contempt. The frenzy to buy cheap crap from China, the human downgrade of people fighting with each other over items they can probably live without, to me, is an insult. ~ Henry Rollins,
602:Two men were apprehended on Friday night carrying out a burglary very similar in method to the one you suffered, he says. When we went to an address in Lewisham we recovered a number of items listed on our database as stolen. That’s fantastic, Simon says, elated. He glances at me. Isn’t it, Emma? Brilliant, I say. ~ J P Delaney,
603:There is a man up in Philadelphia, I've known him for 50 years now, his name is Sid Mark. He does a radio program featuring Frank Sinatra music exclusively - one show for decades, "Friday with Frank," "Saturday with Sinatra," "Sunday with Sinatra," for decades. This is something that is really quite important. ~ Frank Sinatra Jr,
604:I'm not someone who can be depended one five days a week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday? I don't even get out of bed five days in a row-I often don't remember to eat five days in a row. Reporting to a workplace, where I should need to stay for eight hours-eight big hours outside my home- was unfeasible. ~ Gillian Flynn,
605:What the fuck, Kells?” I say. I push her back again, and she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “What the fuck was that for?” I really want to wash my mouth out and spit because all my kisses are reserved for Friday now, and I feel like she just fucking spoiled my kisser. ~ Tammy Falkner,
606:This is so inconvenient. But there is no doubt.” She paused for a moment and said: “I will die the day after tomorrow. On Friday, just before half past six in the morning.” It was an impressive statement, and did not deserve this reply: “Oh, that’s a shame, tae be missin’ the weekend like that,” said Rob Anybody. ~ Terry Pratchett,
607:To me, religion is about our dignity, not our depravity. I stopped attending Mass at Our Lady of Immaculate Conception and went instead to Our Lady of Angels. I no longer lingered after Friday prayer among my brethren. I went to temple at crowded times when the Brahmins were too distracted to come between God and me. ~ Yann Martel,
608:virtualized environments from Bill’s team work as expected, we can go into production one week from Friday.” I gape at Chris. He just made up an arbitrary date to go into production, with complete disregard for all the things we need to do before deployment. I have a sudden flashback. In the Marines, we had a ritual for ~ Gene Kim,
609:Imagine that you are a doctor and you suddenly learn that you’ll see twenty patients on a Friday afternoon instead of twenty-five, while getting paid the same. Would you respond by spending more time with each patient? Or would you simply leave at six-thirty instead of seven-thirty and have dinner with your kids? ~ Malcolm Gladwell,
610:It is not that fathers are better or worse, not that they are more loved or criticized, but rather that they are viewed with far less intensity. There is no Philip Roth or Woody Allen or Nancy Friday who writes about fathers with a runaway excess of humor, horror ... feeling. Most of us let our fathers off the hook. ~ Ellen Goodman,
611:We were kind of never one of CBS favorites [with Threshold], even though we'd gotten really good reviews for the pilot. We were on at, what was it, 10 o'clock on a Friday night? That's kind of where you bury a show if you don't want it to last. But, wow, what a cast, huh? You could never get that cast together again. ~ Brent Spiner,
612:We don't have a long of natural resources as a country; we have a very beautiful country. Visually, I mean, everyone goes on about it's green, it's the mountains and the rivers and it's clean and it's not that populated. It is stunningly beautiful, but we've no oil. We've no coal. We've no money. We just have Ireland. ~ Gavin Friday,
613:Everyone is having this experience right now, where your friend comes over and says, "Have you seen this?" And you're like, "No! Get off my back!" I can't watch everything, it's impossible. We have young kids, and we stay home on Friday nights, sometimes, you only have 23 minutes to watch something. This is that thing. ~ Mark Duplass,
614:I like having plans. I like keeping them. Even if said plan is to spend an uninterrupted hour watching Friday Night Lights. If I pass the day excited about solo time on the couch with a glass of wine, pad thai, and Tim Riggins, it's hard to shift gears and muster up enthusiasm for an invitation when it comes my way. ~ Rachel Bertsche,
615:One time someone wrote to us: “I’m applying all of the things you suggest, and I am coming up with a ton of ideas to improve my life. The only problem is, when I go out drinking with my friends on Friday night, they all laugh at the ideas. What should I do?” We wrote back: “Simple solution: stay home on Friday night. ~ James Altucher,
616:There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I’d lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock. The threads tighten slightly from Monday to Friday. ~ Gail Honeyman,
617:There are pros and cons of experience. A con is that you can't look at the business with a fresh pair of eyes and as objectively as if you were a new CEO. Fire yourself on a Friday night and come in on Monday morning as if a search firm put you there as a turn-around leader. Can you be objective and make the bold change? ~ Andrea Jung,
618:NOS4A2 (Joe Hill) - Your Highlight on page 627 | location 8858-8860 | Added on Friday, 30 January 2015 23:39:24 Najszczęśliwszymi chwilami w moim życiu były te wolne od wpływu kobiet, kiedy nie musiałem się dostosowywać. Mężczyźni przez większość życia są przekazywani z rąk jednej kobiety w ręce następnej, i muszą im służyć. ~ Anonymous,
619:On Friday the 13th, April 2029, an asteroid large enough to fill the Rose Bowl as though it were an egg cup will fly so close to Earth that it will dip below the altitude of our communication satellites. We did not name this asteroid Bambi. Instead, we named it Apophis, after the Egyptian god of darkness and death. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,
620:The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps. ~ Samuel Beckett,
621:This is Friday night,” Anthony said. The time code said 10:47. Cal came out of a bedroom and moved down the hall. He walked slowly with his feet close to the floor, almost gliding. In the hooded robe and aviators he looked like the Fly turned monk on his way to evening prayers. The house felt deserted, like people had escaped. “I ~ Joe Ide,
622:Was this what it was like to be human? Were people actually so miserable and brainless that they looked forward to this—to spending Friday night, precious time off from wage slave drudgery, sitting in front of a television with a can of beer? It was mind-numbingly dull, and to my horror, I found that I was getting used to it. ~ Jeff Lindsay,
623:I do a one-hour workout called Drenched, a cardio-boxing fitness routine, Monday through Friday. There are usually between twenty-five and fifty people there - everyone from stay-at-home moms and professional martial artists to teenagers and seniors. They play great dance music. When I can, I take two classes back-to-back. ~ Carrie Ann Inaba,
624:I don’t know either,” I tell him honestly. “But if you are, I think I need to go to church tomorrow, because that means impossible things exist like unicorns and the resurrection.”

He laughs then, a wide mouthed, white teeth flashing. “Tomorrow’s Friday.”

I nod. “I know, but it can’t ever be too early to repent. ~ Jen Frederick,
625:Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger.
Sneeze on Tuesday, kiss a stranger.
Sneeze on Wednesday, sneeze for a letter.
Sneeze on Thursday, something better.
Sneeze on Friday, sneeze for woe.
Sneeze on Saturday, a journey to go.
Sneeze on Sunday, your safety seek.
For the devil will have you the rest of the week. ~ R L Stine,
626:When you think of the former high school football star, you think 6-foot-2, white, meathead as the model for that kind of character. Since I'm not 6-foot-2 or white, I just thought about what I could bring to it. I thought about Smash Williams from 'Friday Night Lights,' like the cocky quarterback, and played around with that. ~ Donald Glover,
627:Your Highlight on page 69 | location 1044-1046 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:01:18 All of a sudden, it’s obvious why you need a permission asset. If your company doesn’t have one yet, you can start today, for free, by using Outlook on your PC. Give people an email address to write to. Write back. You’re on your way. ========== ~ Anonymous,
628:Have you ever considered seeing a psychiatrist?’ asked Mirabella, looking genuinely scared. Ian came over and studied Friday’s work. ‘I think Friday should be taken to the nurse,’ said Ian. ‘The knock to her head is more serious than we thought. If it’s made her capable of feeling human emotion, she may have suffered brain damage. ~ R A Spratt,
629:He doesn’t say, ‘You have to do this by Friday at two P.M.,’” Brogan said. “He says, ‘I need the impossible done by Friday at two P.M. Can you do it?’ Then, when you say yes, you are not working hard because he told you to. You’re working hard for yourself. It’s a distinction you can feel. You have signed up to do your own work. ~ Ashlee Vance,
630:On Monday, you’ll map out the problem and pick an important place to focus. On Tuesday, you’ll sketch competing solutions on paper. On Wednesday, you’ll make difficult decisions and turn your ideas into a testable hypothesis. On Thursday, you’ll hammer out a realistic prototype. And on Friday, you’ll test it with real live humans. ~ Jake Knapp,
631:Morning or night, Friday or Sunday, made no difference, everything was the same: the gnawing, excruciating, incessant pain; that awareness of life irrevocably passing but not yet gone; that dreadful, loathsome death, the only reality, relentlessly closing in on him; and that same endless lie. What did days, weeks, or hours matter? ~ Leo Tolstoy,
632:Dance halls were where young men and women conducted their courtships, and most had one clear objective: to find a spouse. Mercedes was an exception. The last thing on her mind was to find a soulmate.... When she went out on a Friday and Saturday night she had no desire for anything beyond the life-enhancing thrill of the dance. ~ Victoria Hislop,
633:Harry had run into trouble falling asleep Friday night, which he had anticipated might happen, and so he had decided to take the obvious advance precaution of buying a sleeping potion; and to prevent it from constituting a visible sign that he was nervous, he had decided to buy it off Fred and George a couple of months earlier. ~ Eliezer Yudkowsky,
634:THE FOLLOWING DAY, Wednesday, Hendricks telephoned acceptance, and on Friday afternoon Roosevelt joyfully released news of the nomination to the press. Privately, to his old Assembly colleague Henry L. Sprague, he wrote: “I have always been fond of the West African proverb: ‘Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.’ ”28 ~ Edmund Morris,
635:It probably wasn't smart to judge them based on appearance. I, for instance, was destined to be a world-renowned surgeon, but between my long, brown braid, square-framed glasses, and boyish figure, I looked more like the kind of girl who works in a library and spends Friday nights having deep, meaningful conversations with her cats. ~ Carrie Harris,
636:Norton says he's going to tell on me for being late. Henley and Grey will get the notice and I'll have to discuss it on Friday. Why were you late, Parker? What do you think that would accomplish, Parker? And then the tough question. What destructive behaviors were you engaging in for the five minutes you weren't in class, Parker? ~ Courtney Summers,
637:Stephen Colbert , whose "The Colbert Report" show ended its run on Comedy Central last week, might be off the airwaves temporarily - but he's back on the walls of the National Portrait Gallery. Friday, the gallery put up a new portrait of the comedian in a spot befitting the host: near some public bathrooms, just above a water fountain. ~ Anonymous,
638:What were once only hopes for the future have now come to pass; it is almost exactly 13 years since the overwhelming majority of people in Ireland and Northern Ireland voted in favour of the agreement signed on Good Friday 1998, paving the way for Northern Ireland to become the exciting and inspirational place that it is today. ~ Queen Elizabeth II,
639:Once a week, beginning at sunset on Friday and until sunset on Saturday, the family had to pause. A Jewish merchant had explained the Sabbath to Agios already, back in Egypt. No devout Hebrew could work or travel on that day. If they were near a temple, the family went there. If no temple was available, they prayed where they were. When ~ Glenn Beck,
640:Why did we do this on a Friday when it would hit the airports hardest and bring out the most protesters? almost the entire White House staff demanded to know. “Errr … that’s why,” said Bannon. “So the snowflakes would show up at the airports and riot.” That was the way to crush the liberals: make them crazy and drag them to the left. ~ Michael Wolff,
641:Why did we do this on a Friday when it would hit the airports hardest and bring out the most protesters? almost the entire White House staff demanded to know. “Errr … that’s why,” said Bannon. “So the snowflakes would show up at the airports and riot.” That was the way to crush the liberals: make them crazy and drag them to the left. ~ Michael Wolff,
642:The season of Lent is puzzling to many. Denying ourselves our favorite treats or habits—even for a short time—seems archaic in our I-want-it-now culture. Lent is a plodding, definitive crescendo that leads up to the cacophonous noise of Good Friday and the gorgeous aria of Easter. It’s a season marked by deliberateness and intentionality. ~ Anonymous,
643:If you want to be Justin Timberlake, go for it. But if you want to be somebody else, go for it but it's usually very hard. You just got to believe in yourself, work hard. I've no advice, I did everything the right and wrong way. You make it up as you go along, but it has to be in your blood stream and it's not a job. It's a way of life. ~ Gavin Friday,
644:Absolutely. If a Muslim who has-who is-a practicing Muslim who believes the word of the Koran to be the word of Allah, who abides by Islam, who goes to mosque and prays every Friday, who prays five times a day-this practicing Muslim, who believes in the teachings of the Koran, cannot be a loyal citizen to the United States of America. ~ Brigitte Gabriel,
645:Exceptions were made for Friday episodes of One Life to Live, and, occasionally, for Oprah, who was one of the few black people Helen had any regard for. Perhaps in the past she had been more open-minded, but getting mugged in the foyer of our building convinced her that they were all crooks and sex maniacs. “Even the light-skinned ones. ~ David Sedaris,
646:If [Donald Trump] doesn't make sure that all the foreign government payments - and this includes banks and other corporations owned by foreign governments and sovereign wealth funds, that all of that money is not out of the Trump organization by Friday [20 Jan.2017], when he takes the oath, he will be in violation of "The Constitution." ~ Reince Priebus,
647:But the sound frightened Isaac. The thudding, he knew, was caused by great deep-ocean swells falling upon the beach. Most days the Gulf was as placid as a big lake, with surf that did not crash but rather wore itself away on the sand. The first swells had arrived Friday. Now the booming was louder and heavier, each concussion more profound. ~ Erik Larson,
648:I think people have a tendency to think of a writer as someone who wants to go take a walk, maybe case a library... I think that's great sometimes but we really treat it like Monday through Friday come in early. You're not late for inspiration. You're working through it no matter what is happening even if you're writing a terrible version. ~ Roberto Orci,
649:For instance, in group therapy, I'll have people stand up, show off, give a speech about themselves as though they've just died and have to give a eulogy. Even with this explicit permission - even an order - to say something nice about themselves, this is the hardest thing in the world for people to do. They'd rather take their clothes off. ~ Nancy Friday,
650:...the phone rang.

When the phone rang so early in the morning, it oftentimes meant somebody was dead. An elderly person had passed in the night. A Friday night traffic fatality. The families of deceased would set about the task of notifying family and friends, and somewhere among the sad litany of phone calls, they dialed our number. ~ Ravi Howard,
651:Animals and Women: Feminist Theoretical Explorations (Carol J. Adams;Josephine Donovan) - Your Highlight on page 9 | location 125-127 | Added on Friday, 23 January 2015 20:44:47 We believe that all oppressions are interconnected: no one creature will be free until all are free—from abuse, degradation, exploitation, pollution, and commercialization. ~ Anonymous,
652:I have a secret. A big, fat, hairy secret. And I’m not talking minor-league stuff, like I once let Joseph Applebaum feel me up behind the seventh-grade stairwell or I got a Brazilian wax after work last Friday or I’m hiding a neon blue vibrator called the Electric Slide in my night table. Which I’m not, by the way. In case you were wondering. ~ Karen MacInerney,
653:He [Tom Avery] is acutely, palpably afraid of Friday nights, what to do with them, those gaping, sneering, and stubbornly recurring widths of time - how to accommodate them, fill them, use them, annihilate them. He'd do anything to sidestep a Friday night. Friday nights demand conviviality and expenditure. It's the time to let loose (yeah, sure). ~ Carol Shields,
654:I have a secret. A big, fat, hairy secret. And I’m not talking minor-league stuff, like I once let Joseph Applebaum feel me up behind the seventh-grade stairwell or I got a Brazilian wax after work last Friday or I’m hiding a neon blue vibrator called the Electric Slide in my night table. Which I’m not, by the way. In case you were wondering. ~ Karen MacInerney,
655:I think a lot of kids do dream in their own way, except 25, 30 years later legend happens because some of us have become quite well known. So the myth becomes magical. So I tend to sort of see it very practical for me. When I go out for a drink, Bono can buy the pints because he has more money than me. We're the same guys, do you know what I mean. ~ Gavin Friday,
656:Inspired by these meetings, Franklin created a scheme in which the Junto members would contribute funds toward buying books that all members could use. This model soon grew beyond Franklin’s Friday evening gatherings, leading him in 1731 to write the charter for the Library Company of Philadelphia, one of the first subscription libraries in America. ~ Cal Newport,
657:Okay, well now he felt like an ass. “I know. I just…you mentioned the sex and—” “Hey! Don’t blame this on me. I mentioned sex on Friday night. It’s Monday. I’m over you.” Rod crossed his arms, giving him a cocky grin. Landon bit back a smile. “Over me already, huh? That was quick.” “The heart is fleeting.” “Apparently so is the ass.” “Apparently.” Rod ~ Riley Hart,
658:But Zimmermann surprised him. On Friday, March 2, during a press conference, Zimmermann himself confirmed that he had sent the telegram. “By admitting the truth,” Lansing wrote, “he blundered in a most astounding manner for a man engaged in international intrigue. Of course the message itself was a stupid piece of business, but admitting it was far worse. ~ Erik Larson,
659:I have the greatest appreciation for [producers] Matt Alvarez and Ice Cube. They put me in Friday after Next, and now this, which I hope is just the start of a long, wonderful relationship. I love the urban comedies, because they keep you famous, keep you having fun, and keep you in love with the business. Those are my roots. I'll always love doing those. ~ Terry Crews,
660:Miss Harris, when was the last time you saw your sister?” “On Friday. We grabbed a Starbucks after tennis.” “And you never saw your sister alive again?” The anchor’s eyes were misty, she obviously felt every word’s impact. “Yes. The next time I saw Corinne, she was, she was…dead.” Michelle’s voice was breaking, rich with emotion, but her eyes remained dry. ~ J T Ellison,
661:On Friday morning, when Eugenia leaves, Rosie bawls, trying to embrace her, but her grandmother isn’t the type. The older woman just keeps on walking until she gets into the cab. It doesn’t mean Eugenia feels less. Martha thinks it means that she feels more, but is worried about the dam that’ll burst if she ever lets the emotion get the better of her. ~ Melina Marchetta,
662:When you hire a person to plan your wedding, this does not include securing the groom. Plan to get married on Friday the 13th. In years to come this will make it much easier to explain why things turned out badly. To look beautiful at your wedding, take time to plan it. It took me a long time to find two ugly bridesmaids and a frumpy little flower girl. ~ Phyllis Diller,
663:Friday 22 June 1821 [Halifax]

I owe a good deal to this journal. By unburdening my mind on paper I feel, as it were, in some degree to get rid of it; it seems made over to a friend that hears it patiently, keeps it faithfully, and by never forgetting anything, is always ready to compare the past & present and thus to cheer & edify the future. ~ Anne Lister,
664:It was Friday, July 24, 1992, when I stepped on the train. Every year I think of it. I see it as my real birthday: the birth of me as a person, making decisions about my life on my own. I was not running away from Islam, or to democracy. I didn't have any big ideas then. I was just a young girl and wanted some way to be me; so I bolted into the unknown. ~ Ayaan Hirsi Ali,
665:One foreign correspondent came up to be friendly. He asked this man what he should think about what Khomeini had said. How seriously should he take it? Was it just a rhetorical flourish or something genuinely dangerous? “Oh, don’t worry too much,” the journalist said. “Khomeini sentences the president of the United States to death every Friday afternoon. ~ Salman Rushdie,
666:Friday beneath the sky, its little postcards of melancholy
Outside each window,
the engines inside the roses at half speed,
The huge page of the sea with its one word despair,
Fuchsia blossoms littered across the deck,
Unblotted tide pools of darkness beneath the ferns …
And still I go on looking,
match after match in the black air. ~ Charles Wright,
667:It is about a search, too, for daily meaning as well as daily bread, for recognition as well as cash, for astonishment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather than a Monday through Friday sort of dying. Perhaps immortality, too, is part of the quest. To be remembered was the wish, spoken and unspoken, of the heroes and heroines of this book. ~ Studs Terkel,
668:To those who care about punctuation, a sentence such as "Thank God its Friday" (without the apostrophe) rouses feelings not only of despair but of violence. The confusion of the possessive "its" (no apostrophe) with the contractive "it's" (with apostrophe) is an unequivocal signal of illiteracy and sets off a Pavlovian "kill" response in the average stickler. ~ Lynne Truss,
669:All my days are themed. Monday is managementTuesday is product, engineering, and design. Wednesday is marketing, growth, and communications. Thursday is partnership and developers. Friday is company and cultureOn the days beginning with T, I start at Twitter in the morning, then go to Square in the afternoon. Sundays are for strategySaturday is a day off. ~ Jack Dorsey,
670:Go out with me.” His gravelly voice echoed through the line … “Go out with me, Hope. Just dinner. Because I can’t fucking stop thinking about you. Couldn’t after I saw you the first time at Olive’s on Friday night. It only got worse after I saw you here Monday morning. I don’t know what it is about you…but there’s something that makes me want to figure it out. ~ A L Jackson,
671:MIRRORING Out of this will come a person who is going to have a good image of herself. Someone who will be able to walk into rooms without undue shyness, believe that other people like her, accept praise for her work as due, and smile at the nice reflection of herself in other people’s eyes just as she smiles back at what she sees in the mirror. – Nancy Friday ~ Pete Walker,
672:ON FRIDAY, AUGUST 3, 1492, Don Cristóbal Colón—newly entitled as High Admiral and newly appointed a noble of our court—departs the port of Palos. He travels with three ships—the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María. Serenaded by his crew, he stands at the prow of the Santa María, the wind ruffling his silvery hair. He looks ahead, always ahead, to the horizon. ~ C W Gortner,
673:would seem to call for nastier treatment than Mr. Barr’s tender loving care. “The Killing of Sister George” continues through Nov. 1 at the Beckett Theater at Theater Row, 410 West 42nd Street, Clinton; 212-279-4200, telecharge.com. A Bridge Deal From the McConnell Cup By PHILLIP ALDER The main team event for women at the world championships, which opened Friday ~ Anonymous,
674:The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien (Tolkien, J.R.R.) - Your Highlight on Location 529-531 | Added on Friday, December 26, 2014 8:28:31 PM Do you think Tom Bombadil, the spirit of the (vanishing) Oxford and Berkshire countryside, could be made into the hero of a story? Or is he, as I suspect, fully enshrined in the enclosed verses?1 Still I could enlarge the portrait. ~ Anonymous,
675:Where do humans meet for normal dates?’
How the hell would she know? Except then she remembered Mary saying something about a colleague of hers meeting a man…What was the name of the place?
‘TGI Friday’s.’ she said. 'There’s one in Lucas Square.'
'Fine. Tell her eight o’clock tonight.'
'What name do I give her?'
'Tell her it’s…Hal. Hal E. Wood. ~ J R Ward,
676:Effectively we become the DVD of Elf that you ignore at nine o'clock on a Friday night, on the presumption there will be something better (at least, something more fulfilling, more complex, and that you haven't seen twice before) on the shelves somewhere. And guess what you end up going home with? Well, that's what we are to these beautiful, fantastic women: Elves. ~ Nick Hornby,
677:Saeed went with his father to pray on the first Friday after the curfew's commencement, and Saeed prayed for peace and Saeed's father prayed for Saeed and the preacher in his sermon urged all the congregants to pry for the righteous to emerge victorious in the war but carefully refrained from specifying on which side of the conflict he thought the righteous to be. ~ Mohsin Hamid,
678:Saeed went with his father to pray on the first Friday after the curfew's commencement, and Saeed prayer for peace and Saeed's father prayed for Saeed and the preacher in his sermon urged all the congregants to pry for the righteous to emerge victorious in the war but carefully refrained from specifying on which side of the conflict he thought the righteous to be. ~ Mohsin Hamid,
679:My parents used to play music when we had gone to bed, especially on Friday and Saturday evenings. Often it was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep. Every now and again he played records when he was alone in his study. Steinar had told me once that he had brought a Pink Floyd LP into the classroom and played it. He had said this with awe in his voice. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd,
680:We've got wars. Imagine having more money, you could buy more beer. Have you been to Dublin in its heyday like in the boom heyday at like 4:00 in the morning on a Sunday or Saturday? It's like beyond New Orleans. It's like St. Patrick's Day every day. It's not good. I don't even like pubs anymore. I like going for a meal and having a bottle of wine. Be more gentle. ~ Gavin Friday,
681:Things slowed down for awhile. Sometimes that happens. The pot boils, and then, just before it can boil over, some hand — God, fate, maybe plain coincidence — lowers the heat. I mentioned this once to Wireman and he said life is like Friday on a soap opera. It gives you the illusion that everything is going to wrap up, and then the same old shit starts up on Monday. ~ Stephen King,
682:There's a kind of decadence about all this: If 9/11 was really an inside job, you wouldn't be driving around with a bumper sticker bragging that you were on to it. Fantasy is a by-product of security: it's the difference between hanging upside down in your dominatrix's bondage parlor after work on Friday and enduring the real thing for years on end in Saddam's prisons. ~ Mark Steyn,
683:Last month, Dean Sheeter (whose name usually transports Franny when I mention it) approached me with his gracious smile and bull whip, and I am now lecturing to the faculty, their wives, and a few oppressively-deep type undergraduates every Friday on Zen and Mahayana Buddhism. A feat, I haven’t a doubt, that will eventually earn me the Eastern Philosophy Chair in Hell. ~ J D Salinger,
684:On a Tuesday they were we, and by Friday they were dead and they buried them in the courtyard side by side, oh, my love, and they buried them dies by side" breaking away from Gideon with some reluctance, Sophie, rose to her feet and dusted off her dress. "Please forgive me, my dear Mr. Lightwood-I mean Gideon- but I must go murder the cook. I shall be directly back. ~ Cassandra Clare,
685:Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously. ~ Charles Dickens,
686:Archiwum burzowego światła #01 - Droga Królów (Brandon Sanderson) - Your Highlight on page 229 | location 3177-3178 | Added on Friday, 30 January 2015 17:25:32 Nie jestem pewna, czy zgadzam się z takim doborem słów. Być wybrednym to znaczy być uprzedzonym. Ograniczającym. Czy możemy sobie pozwolić na ograniczenia w tym, co przyjmujemy? Czy mówimy o pożywieniu, czy o myślach? ~ Anonymous,
687:Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously. In ~ Charles Dickens,
688:I didn’t realize you were that close.” “No one is close to Friday,” she says. Then she looks directly into my eyes. “Except you.” I laugh, but there’s humor in the sound. “I am about as far away from Friday as anyone can get. She’s got so many fucking walls that I can’t get a peep over them, much less get around them.” “Eventually, she’ll open the door and let you walk in. ~ Tammy Falkner,
689:She had taken a degree in Domestic Science in a college in northern England, and used notebooks from her class to order the household’s meals. Sunday: roast beef. Monday: collops with sippets of toast (mince). Tuesday: beef stew. Wednesday: brawn. Thursday: steak and kidney pie. Friday: stewed oxheart. Saturday: tripe and onions. To be a white housewife was hardly arduous. ~ Doris Lessing,
690:Are we going to get killed?"
Cam scoped out the dingy room. No doubt there was at least one shotgun behind the bar and a few armed patrons, but no one struck him as particularly dangerous. "Not likely."
She kept her palm on the table and covertly pointed to a guy in a biker jacket with a large skull smoking a blunt. "But possible?"
He shrugged. "It is Friday night. ~ Avery Flynn,
691:It happens that the stage sets collapse. Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm – this path is easily followed most of the time. But one day the “why” arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement. ~ Albert Camus,
692:Top Gun,” I whispered to Lindsey. We’d started pointing out Luc’s ubiquitous pop culture references, having decided that because he cut his fangs in the Wild West, he’d been entranced by movies and television. You know, because living in a society of magically enhanced vampires didn’t require enough willing suspension of disbelief.
-Merit in Chloe Neill’s Friday Night Bites ~ Chloe Neill,
693:Archiwum burzowego światła #01 - Droga Krolow (Sanderson Brandon) - Your Highlight on page 264 | location 3649-3652 | Added on Friday, 30 January 2015 18:45:04 Na tym świecie są dwa rodzaje ludzi, synu – powiedział surowo jego ojciec. – Ci, którzy ratują życie. I ci, którzy odbierają życie. – A co z tymi, którzy chronią i bronią? Tymi, którzy ratują życie poprzez odbieranie życia? ~ Anonymous,
694:If people depend on me to be a man of truth, I have to prove again and again and again and again that I am a man of truth. It cannot be that on Monday I am a man of truth, on Tuesday I speak three-quarters truth, Wednesday I speak half-truth, on Thursday I speak one-quarter truth, on Friday I don't speak at all, and on Saturday I can't even think how to speak the truth. ~ Harbhajan Singh Yogi,
695:Naughty King (A Sexy Manhattan Fairytale: Part One) (Valentine, Michelle A.) - Your Highlight on Location 149-151 | Added on Friday, March 20, 2015 4:11:48 PM But know this: I’m going to make your life a living hell while you’re here. I’ll have you dying to fuck my brains out or needing to walk away before you kill me with your own bare hands. Either way—you’re fucked.” ========== ~ Anonymous,
696:The evidence is very conclusive; the celebration in honor of the resurrection of Adonis had become to be known as a Christian festival, which has not been abolished even unto this day. The ceremonies held in Roman Catholic countries on Good Friday and on Easter Sunday, are nothing more than the festival of the death and resurrection of Adonis, as we shall presently see. ~ Thomas William Doane,
697:While contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, he muttered between his teeth: 'Tuesday. It was not Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Perhaps it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday.' No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred. Yes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with the last occasion on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now Friday. ~ Victor Hugo,
698:Elantris (Sanderson, Brandon) - Your Highlight on page 237 | Location 4560-4562 | Added on Friday, March 21, 2014 2:19:28 AM Sometimes we must fall, sometimes we will rise—some must be hurt while others have fortune, for that is the only way we can learn to rely on one another. As one is blessed, it is his privilege to help those whose lives are not as easy. Unity comes from strife, ~ Anonymous,
699:I have shot myself in the foot so many times, I'm crippled. Look, I am not exactly Mr. Great Career Guy. I shoot actually what I think. In a weird way, I used to think that was really messed up. Now I think it's okay. Mistakes, once you don't repeat the same mistakes, have no regrets. Live and learn. We mess up, so what. But know why you messed up and don't make the same mistake. ~ Gavin Friday,
700:It was Friday and I wouldn't get to see him again for at least two days. I headed back to my office, probably the only one of the two hundred plus attorneys who worked there who wasn't thrilled that the weekend had finally arrived. I contemplated my plans for the next day. I could rearrange the kitchen cupboards, maybe catch a matinee, slit my wrists. The possibilities were endless. ~ N M Silber,
701:Not only were the Anglo-Saxons relatively uncultured, they were also pagan, a fact rather quaintly preserved in the names of four of our weekdays, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, which respectively commemorate the gods Tiw, Woden, and Thor, and Woden’s wife, Frig. (Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, to complete the picture, take their names from Saturn, the sun, and the moon.) ~ Bill Bryson,
702:On Friday there was a department Colloquium on plasma physics, given by Norman Rostoker. Gordon went and sat well in the back. Rostoker’s first slide was: Seven Phases of the Thermonuclear Fusion Program I Exultation II Confusion III Disenchantment IV Search for the Guilty V Punishment of the Innocent VI Distinction for the Uninvolved VII Burying the Bodies/Scattering the Ashes ~ Gregory Benford,
703:Osman and Prideep had been in my employment for some weeks. Every Friday I would take the to lunch. It was the high point of their calender. During the meal I would harangue them as a reminder of what they had been hired for: but my orations never seemed to increase their output. I realised later that, in the East, a commitment to produce does not automatically accompany employment. ~ Tahir Shah,
704:While contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, he muttered between his teeth: 'Tuesday. It was not Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Perhaps it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday.'
No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred. Yes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with the last occasion on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now Friday. ~ Victor Hugo,
705:I sat him down the other night and explained as gently as possible that I do not care about ice-skating. I do not care about Michelle Kwan or Tara Lipinski and would be happy if I never hear the words triple lutz or double axel again. I told him that on Friday and walked into the kitchen an hour later to find him in tears. “It’s heartbreaking,” he said, watching his beloved skaters. ~ David Sedaris,
706:I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name. ~ Clementine von Radics,
707:Within hours, large crowds were streaming into the car park and by the time a twelve-year-old boy—the Saracen’s best friend—drove past with his father he knew exactly what it meant. It was a Friday—the Muslim day of rest—and the traffic was terrible, so it took the kid over an hour to get home. He immediately grabbed his bicycle and rode eight miles to tell his friend what he had seen. ~ Terry Hayes,
708:Behold me - a Sophomore! I came up last Friday, sorry to leave Lock Willow, but glad to see the campus again. It is a pleasant sensation to come back to something familiar. I am beginning to feel at home in college, and in command of the situation; I am beginning, in fact, to feel at home in the world - as though I really belonged to it and had not just crept in on sufferance. ~ Jean Webster,
709:Instead of the calendrical terms Monday, Tuesday and so forth, we cheerfully offer the following surrogates. Use them freely and often, for their use honors us all. For Sunday, please use Sunshine. For Monday. pleasy use Monty. For Tuesday, please use Toes. For Wednesday, please use Wetty. For Thursday, please use Thurby. For Friday, please use Fribs. For Saturday, please use Satto-gatto. ~ Mark Dunn,
710:I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name. ~ Clementine von Radics,
711:The problem lying behind the lack of human fulfillment was a shortage not just of time but of imagination. They found a day that worked for them and then stuck to it and repeated it, at least between Monday and Friday. Even if it didn’t work for them—as was usually the case—they stuck to it anyway. Then they’d alter things a bit and do something a little bit more fun on Saturday and Sunday. ~ Matt Haig,
712:I am not a huge fan of the Celtic Tiger; I was so glad that you could see people being prosperous, that you didn't see people begging, that the city started looking good, that people had jobs. But it was almost like if you have such a hard time for so long, then you turn around and give a kid a check for a million quid, they're going to go nuts. And we went a bit nuts, we went up our ass. ~ Gavin Friday,
713:Here, you! The boss wants you. Buck up!' Mr Stafford was talking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver as
Henry entered.
'Oh, Rice, here's a woman wants her husband shadowed while he's on the road. He's an actor. I'm sending you. Go to this address, and get photographs and all particulars. You'll have to catch the eleven o'clock train on Friday.' 'Yes, sir.' 'He's in "The Girl ~ P G Wodehouse,
714:Socialism and Communism don't work, but neither does straightforward capitalism. We've got to get a new way of thinking and working. We blew it so there was good and bad about the celtic tiger. But we're tiny. There's four million in the country, do you know what I mean? We're tiny. Four million in a country, how many is in New York? Seven? Ten? But we're strong, so hopefully we pull through. ~ Gavin Friday,
715:The Catholic church had a huge profound influence on me in that as you get older you realize that you can't blame everything; that there is good and bad, and things get misdirected. So I would call myself a black Catholic. I still have this attraction to it because all religions I'm not a fan of. I'm a fan of sort of belief in spirituality. So I would be into Christ rather than the Catholics. ~ Gavin Friday,
716:My Clippings - Your Highlight on Location 352-354 | Added on Friday, March 6, 2015 4:36:54 PM One of the strangest events, however, happened in the first year of Elizabeth (1558), when “dyed Sir Thomas Cheney, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, of whom it is reported for a certain, that his pulse did beat more than three quarters of an hour after he was dead, as strongly as if he had been still alive. ~ Anonymous,
717:I just the other day got, an internet was sent by my staff at 10 o'clock in the morning on Friday and I just got it yesterday. Why? Because it got tangled up with all these things going on the internet commercially... They want to deliver vast amounts of information over the internet. And again, the internet is not something you just dump something on. It's not a truck. It's a series of tubes. ~ Theodore Stevens,
718:I see Logan reach up and high-five her. “What was that for?” she asks. Logan grins. “I got cuddled last night.” “Because I rock,” she says, and she high-fives him again. He grins at me at the back of the shop and shakes his head. He jerks his thumb toward her and signs to me, She’s a good one. I saw that! Friday signs dramatically at him. I meant for you to! he signs back with just as much force. ~ Tammy Falkner,
719:I was a child of the '60s basically, which is a real blank. I really started growing up, I think, in the '70s. I'm a glam-rock kid. But Dublin, Ireland in those days was a very dark place, as in it was a very poor, almost third world. Economically, the whole world is going through a recession at the moment. In the '60s, '70s, and the '80s in Ireland was a real recession. It wasn't a pleasant place. ~ Gavin Friday,
720:And if you listen to Irish music, they say that kilts came from the middle east. So really I'm an Arab. If you listen to the way someone like Sinead O'Connor sang. It could be Muslim. You know that angst that sort of ****. That wail. I think it's in our genes. I think certain stuff is in our genes, like nobody can dance like a black guy. It's in their genes. So we don't have oil, but we have poetry. ~ Gavin Friday,
721:Half a world away, on the same Friday, the Chamber of Deputies in France opened debate on paying the United States a debt of 25 million francs (about $5 million) as an indemnity for French damage to American shipping during the Napoleonic wars. France had agreed to pay the money under an 1831 treaty, but after four days of consideration, by a margin of eight, France declined to honor its obligations. ~ Jon Meacham,
722:It’s No-Touch Tuesday, Martin,” I breathed, reaching for his wrist. His hand stilled, and his face fell to my neck. “Fine. No-Touch Tuesday. But then tomorrow is going to be Wet-and-Wild Wednesday, and the next day will be Tongue-and-Teeth Thursday, and Friday…” He bit me, his teeth sharp—why were his teeth so sharp?!—then licked the spot. “Well, I think you can guess what’s going to happen on Friday. ~ Penny Reid,
723:On a Tuesday night they were wed, And by Friday they were dead. And they buried them in the churchyard side by side, Oh my love, And they buried them in the churchyard side by side." Breaking away from Gideon with some reluctance, Sophie rose to her feet and dusted off her dress. "Please forgive me, my dear Mr. Lightwood- I mean Gideon- but I must go and murder the cook. I shall be directly back. ~ Cassandra Clare,
724:Rules were about averages, not specifics, and since people were conditioned since childhood to accept rules, it was easy to follow them blindly. To trust in the system. It was easier not to worry about random possibilities. It meant that people didn’t have to think about potential consequences, and when the sun was shining on Friday afternoons, they could play Frisbee without a care in the world. ~ Nicholas Sparks,
725:What’s the matter, Yer Ladyship?” “I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, hating herself for the admission of weakness. “O’ course you can, darlin’. Just take your time.” “I’m Lirin—” The Firbolg giant chuckled. “’Ey, don’t remind me. Oi ain’t eaten recently.” ========== The Symphony of Ages (Haydon, Elizabeth) - Your Highlight on Location 2224-2225 | Added on Friday, February 20, 2015 6:55:03 PM ~ Anonymous,
726:Without warning a lady appeared.
She came from the direction of Friday-street, for she had just been with Mr. Newbolt. She strode capably through the snow. She wore a black silk gown and something very queer swung from a silver chain about her neck. Her smile was full of comfort and her eyes were kind and happy. She was just as Mr. Newbolt had described.
And the name of this lady was Death. ~ Susanna Clarke,
727:On the third Friday of each month, I go to the Andy Griffith Museum. I get to meet hundreds of fans who stand in long lines for hours to meet me. Some months I don't feel too good and I think maybe I won't go, but then when I go and get to be there with so many wonderful people it always lifts my spirits and makes me feel better. I wouldn't stand in line for hours to meet me, but I'm so glad my fans do. ~ Betty Lynn,
728:Movies aren't "slow burn," and aren't serious, aren't interesting, because everything from the movie to the promotional materials is telling you that you have to see it between Friday and Sunday, and then you can forget about it. It's not an important movie, it's just a lowest-common-denominator thrill-ride for three days when you've got nothing to do. That does a major disservice to the quality of the films ~ Ti West,
729:A weird theory I have is we come from a suppressed culture. Ireland is one of the most invaded countries ever. I think the British started it very early, it could be like 800 that decided to come and show us out; and the Danes in the north. We've had a tough time and pretty much a similar culture would be the Jewish culture; they had a pretty hard time. They were being kicked around for a long, long time. ~ Gavin Friday,
730:WHAT I’M ASKING for is not that much. I just want a boyfriend who is sweet and trustworthy. That’s it. He doesn’t need to have a perfect body or look like George Clooney. I want a guy who wants to curl up on a Friday night and watch Netflix. He can even pick the show. I mean, ideally, it’s serialized and female-driven, and maybe not that boring political one. But honestly, I don’t care. It’s not important. ~ Mindy Kaling,
731:When she's not talking to him the house is heavy and cold and we know we're not supposed to talk to him either for fear she'll give us the bitter look. We know Dad has done the bad thing and we know you can make anyone suffer by not talking to him. Even little Michael knows that when Dad does the bad thing you don't talk to him from Friday to Monday and when he tries to lift you to his lap you run to Mam. ~ Frank McCourt,
732:I think Binky has latched onto you because your emotional level is equal to his intellectual level.” said Melanie.
Friday frowned. “I’m not sure that is a compliment.
“Yes, it is.” said Ian. “She’s saying that between you, you and Binky make a well-rounded six-year-old.”
“Thanks, Ian,” said Binky with a watery smile, “I don’t understand half the things you say, but I’m glad to have a friend like you. ~ R A Spratt,
733:Once, I was a kid and everyone else was old. The tables will turn. I'll be the guy that kids look at and see as old. Me. Fucking ME. Me, who was once out cruising on Friday nights, staying up until dawn. Me, who thought I was indestructible, who thought I was forever. Turns out I was wrong. Turns out I was just one in 6.8 billion, and very much subject to the same laws of time and space as everyone else. ~ Johnny B Truant,
734:He cocked his head and sent her a dimpled smile. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"
Where am I going? "I don't know. Probably the library."
"On a Friday night?" He made a show of horror. "What the heck are you going to do there?"
"Oh, what most people do at their local library—three way orgy, summon up the dead, if there's time, jam up the copy machine with Canadian quarters. Same old same old. ~ Jennifer Shirk,
735:Paraskevidekatriaphobia (i.e. the fear of Friday the 13th) did NOT originate from the story of Jesus, but rather from ancient Egypt's calendrical system of the 10-days decans which Hesiod had directly addressed in his work! Fearing the Sunset in the West starts with the month entering its middle phase beginning or ending with Friday the 13th depending on our starting point on the circular zodiac of Dendera. ~ Ibrahim Ibrahim,
736:Netanyahu's speech: A former chief of Israel's Mossad spy agency rejected claims made by Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu in his address to Congress about Iran's nuclear program. In an interview aired on Channel 2 TV Friday, Meir Dagan questioned Netanyahu's claim that the emerging deal would allow Iran to create a bomb within a year or less. "Bull-" Dagan said. "The time is longer than what he describes. ~ Anonymous,
737:Once, I was a kid and everyone else was old. The tables will turn. I'll be the guy that kids look at and see as old. Me. Fucking ME. Me, who was once out cruising on Friday nights, staying up until dawn. Me, who thought I was indestructible, who thought I was forever. Turns out I was wrong. Turns out I was just one in 6.8 billion, and very much subject to the same laws of time and space as everyone else. One ~ Johnny B Truant,
738:What made Madeleine sit up in bed was something closer to the reason she read books in the first place and had always loved them. Here was a sign that she wasn’t alone. Here was an articulation of what she had been so far mutely feeling. In bed on a Friday night, wearing sweatpants, her hair tied back, her glasses smudged, and eating peanut butter from the jar, Madeleine was in a state of extreme solitude. ~ Jeffrey Eugenides,
739:On Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday:

"These two simply appreciate one another more than either of them appreciates anyone else, and they would rather be appreciated by one another more than by anyone else. They just are at home with one another, whether or not they can ever live together under the same roof -- that is, ever find a roof they can live together under. ~ Stanley Cavell,
740:Look at you. You're young. You're scared. Why are you so scared? Stop being paralyzed. Stop swallowing your words. Stop caring what other people think. Wear what you want. Say what you want. Listen to the music you want to listen to. Play it loud as fuck and dance to it. Go out for a drive at midnight and forget you have work the next day. Stop waiting for Friday. Live now. Do it now. Take risks. This life is yours. ~ Anonymous,
741:ON FRIDAY, 25 August, Roosevelt shocked most of his countrymen by dropping to the floor of Long Island Sound in one of the Navy’s six new submarines, appropriately named the Plunger. He remained beneath the surface (lashed with heavy rain) long enough to watch fish swim past his window. Then, taking the controls, he essayed a few movements himself, including one which brought the ship to the surface rear end up. ~ Edmund Morris,
742:The fans [of Vampire diaries] that we have now are the people who will watch it any day of the week. So, my first instinct was a little bit of an ego tap, but the second I processed it, I was fine. The only weird thing will be maybe not having as many people live tweeting because they're actually out doing something more interesting on Friday night. I'm not going to sit at home, reading Twitter on Friday night. ~ Caroline Dries,
743:them. Anyway, you won’t be going up to school in the carriages, you’ll be going in the boats.” Ginny kissed Albus good-bye. “See you at Christmas.” “Bye, Al,” said Harry as his son hugged him. “Don’t forget Hagrid’s invited you to tea next Friday. Don’t mess with Peeves. Don’t duel anyone till you’ve learned how. And don’t let James wind you up.” “What if I’m in Slytherin?” The whisper was for his father alone, and ~ J K Rowling,
744:Archiwum burzowego światła #01 - Droga Królów (Brandon Sanderson) - Your Highlight on page 846 | location 11533-11535 | Added on Friday, 2 January 2015 22:59:58 Sądzę, że coś w naszym wnętrzu rozumie, że postępowanie dla dobra społeczeństwa jest zazwyczaj dobre również dla jednostki. Ludzkość jest szlachetna, jeśli damy jej szansę. Ta szlachetność jest czymś, co istnieje niezależnie od nakazów takiego czy innego boga. ~ Anonymous,
745:Art makes people do a double take and then, if they're looking at the picture, maybe they'll read the text under it that says, "Come to Union Square, For Anti-War Meeting Friday." I've been operating that way ever since - that art is a means to an end rather than simply an end in itself. In art school we're always taught that art is an end in itself - art for art's sake, expressing yourself, and that that's enough. ~ Eric Drooker,
746:I see what you think of me,' said he, gravely; 'I shall make but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow.'
My journal!'
Yes; I know exactly what you will say:- Friday went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings- plain black shoes- appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense. ~ Jane Austen,
747:Do women dress for men or women? I’ve always wondered why that eternally provocative question is put in terms of approval - as if the heart of the matter, the answer, were indeed a question of approval by either sex. But the question is never satisfactorily answered because it is incorrectly posed. It’s disapproval, the fear of it, that motivates most women, and with disapproval it doesn’t matter where it comes from. ~ Nancy Friday,
748:What did you do?’ asked Ian. ‘Set up a casino in the basement?’ ‘Did you blow something up?’ asked Harvey curiously. ‘Like that time you blew up your pencil case.’ ‘I never blew up my pencil case,’ said Friday. ‘Ian imploded it.’ Ian smiled happily at the memory. ‘Good times.’ ‘Children, children,’ chided Mrs Cannon, clapping her hands to gain the class’s attention. ‘Have I taught you nothing?’ ‘Pretty much,’ said Ian. ~ R A Spratt,
749:On a Tuesday night they were wed,
And by Friday they were dead.
And they buried them in the churchyard side by side,
Oh my love,
And they buried them in the churchyard side by side."

Breaking away from Gideon with some reluctance, Sophie rose to her feet and dusted off her dress. "Please forgive me, my dear Mr. Lightwood- I mean Gideon- but I must go and murder the cook. I shall be directly back. ~ Cassandra Clare,
750:My Clippings - Your Highlight on Location 26-28 | Added on Friday, March 6, 2015 4:58:54 PM practically every word ever written about Jesus of Nazareth, including every gospel story in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, was written by people who, like Stephen and Paul, never actually knew Jesus when he was alive (recall that, with the possible exception of Luke, the gospels were not written by those after whom they were named). ~ Anonymous,
751:I’m sold on her, but she’s not so much on me. I don’t know how she’ll take it. I go into my office and pull out a piece of paper. On it, I draw little hearts around the edges, because I know she likes them. Then in big block letters I write: WANTED: WIFE TERMS NEGOTIABLE ONLY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BOMBSHELLS NEED APPLY PREFERABLY ONES NAMED FRIDAY I tack it to the bulletin board and go to my office to wait for her to find it. ~ Tammy Falkner,
752:So, what exactly is the News-Press' unforgivable crime? Calling illegal aliens 'illegals' in a headline for a story about illegal aliens descending on California DMVs. A new law went into effect last Friday allowing illegal aliens to obtain driver's licenses without proof of lawful residence. The article featured interviews with ecstatic illegal aliens, including one who has been in the country illegally for '22 years.' ~ Michelle Malkin,
753:The next Friday, I went to visit my favorite Englishman for game night. Justus groaned when I bragged about our plans for an all-night Godzilla marathon, but I knew he was glad to be rid of me. He liked to go out and get his freak on, whether he’d admit it or not. Every man has needs, and his were never satisfied when I tagged along. Maybe I was a little mean to the women, but it irritated me that he didn’t have standards. ~ Dannika Dark,
754:Your ancestors fought for you to have a share in that institution over there. It's yours. See the school board, and every Friday night hold your meetings there. Have your wives clean it up Saturday morning for the children to enter Monday. Your organization is not a praying institution. It's a fighting institution. It's an educational institution along industrial lines. Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living! ~ Mother Jones,
755:You know the typical crowd, Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there? Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. ~ Charles Bukowski,
756:I can’t tell if you want it to be true,” he says in a low voice that I feel as if I’m the only one who can hear. “I don’t know either,” I tell him honestly. “But if you are, I think I need to go to church tomorrow, because that means impossible things exist like unicorns and the resurrection.” He laughs then, a wide mouthed, white teeth flashing. “Tomorrow’s Friday.” I nod. “I know, but it can’t ever be too early to repent. ~ Jen Frederick,
757:No matter what the storm clouds bring, you can face your pain with courage and hope. For two thousand years ago-six hours, one Friday-Christ firmly planted in bedrock three solid anchor points that we can all cling to. For the heart scarred with futility, that Friday holds purpose. For the life blackened with failure, that Friday holds forgiveness. And for the soul looking into the tunnel of death, that Friday holds deliverance. ~ Max Lucado,
758:A past President, bullied and sandbagged by a monkey posing as a newscaster, finally lashed back....The nation's marketplace of ideas is being poisoned by a propaganda company so blatant that Tokyo Rose would've quit....As with all the other nefariousness and slime of this, our worst presidency since James Buchanan, he [President Bush] is having it done for him, by proxy. Thus, the sandbag effort by Fox News Friday afternoon. ~ Keith Olbermann,
759:On Friday night, my dad wants to have a family activity. so we go ice-skating. It's me and my mom and my dad and my sister. It's like we're all together. It's like a beautiful dream. It's like the Disney Channel. Except that my dad and I hate each other. And my mom hates herself. And my sister is humiliated by the bunch of us. And I'm secretly waiting for the inevitable devastation of our entire civilization. But except for that. ~ Blake Nelson,
760:You were at the party on Friday night, weren't you?" I didn't mentioned I'd followed him into the woods.

He leaned back in his chair, his legs sprawled out. His boots nudged the bottom ruffle of my skirt. "Aye."
Aye? Seriously? Could he be any hotter?
Unless he had been looking for his girlfriend at the party.
Not hot.
"I was supposed to meet my cousin," he elaborated, "but I didn't find her,"
Hot again. ~ Alyxandra Harvey,
761:When she’s gone, I look over and see Friday on the couch. I walk over to sit down at her feet, just like I was before, but she looks me in the eye and says, “Don’t even think about it.” She looked so peaceful before Kelly got here. Now she’s not. Now she’s not peaceful at all. I’m afraid to push it because I get the feeling that if she got her fingertips near my neck now, she’d use those hands to choke me. What the fuck did I do? ~ Tammy Falkner,
762:I believe in being fully present," Morrie said. "That means you should be with the person you're with. When I'm talking to you now, Mitch, I try to keep focused only on what is going on between us. I am not thinking about something we said last week. I am not thinking of what's coming up this Friday. I am not thinking about doing another Koppel show, or about what medications I'm taking. I am talking to you. I am thinking about you. ~ Mitch Albom,
763:PROLOGUE FRIDAY, APRIL 23 OXFORD, ENGLAND ATHENA RAN BLINDLY down the dark country lane, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. Her school jacket with the St. Polycarp’s logo sewn on the pocket was no protection against the sudden drenching spring rain. The knapsack strapped to her body impeded her flight. It did not occur to her to discard it. As the bewildering shock began to wear off, she desperately told herself she was ~ Carol Higgins Clark,
764:Richard wrote a mental diary in his head. Dear Diary, he began. On Friday I had a job, a fiance, a home, and a life that made sense. (Well, as much as an life makes sense). Then I found an injured girl bleeding on the pavement and I tried to be Good Samaritan. Now I've got no fiance, no home, no job, and I'm walking around a couple of hundred feet under the streets of London with the projected life expectancy of a suicidal fruit fly. ~ Neil Gaiman,
765:I was pretty young. I guess I was in high school, so I was probably 13 years old. It was crazy. I remember it very vividly. I remember - it was actually kind of horrifying, because one of my friends - we smoked out of a bong, and one of my friends - this was so stupid - he didn't want to bring - it was after school on a Friday, and he didn't - we smoked weed in this park called the Ravine that was across the street from my high school. ~ Seth Rogen,
766:I’m guessing you’re a little freaked out and planning on bolting the first chance you get. I understand that, I really do. Believe it or not, I was in your shoes a while back, so I know how you feel,” he said. “But here’s the thing. When you run, I’m going to chase you. And now that I have your scent, I can track you through a cattle stampede at the Mall of America during a Black Friday sale. So run as fast as you want. I will catch you. ~ Paige Tyler,
767:Selfish, Shallow, and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids (Daum, Meghan) - Your Highlight on page 22 | Location 368-369 | Added on Friday, May 1, 2015 11:17:34 PM I was never particularly opposed to the idea of having kids—let no one say that I don’t love kids! It always seemed like an interesting future possibility, the same way that joining the Peace Corps someday seemed like an interesting future possibility. ~ Anonymous,
768:I had no problem spending Monday through Friday alone, Saturdays were neutral, but each Sunday had to be reckoned with. There's solitude and then there's loneliness. Monday through Saturday were marked by solitude but on Sundays that solitude hardened into something else. I didn't necessarily want to spend my Sundays with someone, but on those days I was simply reminded, in the nagging pitch that only Sundays can have, that I was alone. ~ Chloe Aridjis,
769:I think the part of media that romanticizes criminal behavior, things that a person will say against women, profanity, being gangster, having multiple children with multiple men and women and not wanting to is prevalent. When you look at the majority of shows on television they placate that kind of behavior. If you go through a weekly Monday through Friday, it's all there. It's in how people on the sitcoms and cop shows talk to each other. ~ Bill Cosby,
770:Reagan and Pete sit down on the other side of Sky, and Reagan starts to talk to her. I’m glad someone is intervening because I want to drag her into a stairwell and kiss her senseless. Pete makes a motion at me like he’s threading a needle really close to his dick and then gives it a tug like he’s leading it around. I glare at him, and he laughs. Paul sits down behind us, with Friday beside him, and he laughs, too. “Shut up,” I grumble. ~ Tammy Falkner,
771:Shit. I fucked that all up. It was going so well and she looked so fucking happy. Watching Friday with her son was like watching chocolate being poured over ice cream. It was warm and soothing, and they just belonged together. The two of them in the same place—it was magical. It was meant to be. My only regret is that I didn’t warn her. I didn’t give her notice that we would be meeting them. But she might not have come if I had told her. ~ Tammy Falkner,
772:If there were a Pulitzer for bleak irony, however, it would go to the News for its Saturday-morning report on one of the most important local stories of the year—the Galveston count of the 1900 U.S. census, which the newspaper had first announced on Friday. The news was excellent: Over the last decade of the nineteenth century, the city’s population had increased by 29.93 percent, the highest growth rate of any southern city counted so far. ~ Erik Larson,
773:It is the responsibility of every human, not just dancers, sports stars, kids, and Olympians—to move. To embrace movement. To become movement. To live movement. Because moving can turn a regular Monday into an extraordinary start to your week. It can turn Tuesday into a quest, Wednesday into an adventure, Thursday into a triumph, Friday into a feat. No matter how you spend your days, claiming your right to MOVE is like claiming your FREEDOM. ~ Cameron D az,
774:I kept thinking I wouldn't make it to Friday night. That something would happen before then to mess with my luck, something like a nuclear bomb going off so there was nowhere for us to meet.

"Pretty harsh," Leo said when I called him to come get me because she'd left me in the gutter with a broken nose. She never even called to check she hadn't killed me. A date like that makes a guy wish they would drop the bomb. Right over his house. ~ Cath Crowley,
775:On the morning of Friday, July first, I had a low-paying job at a waning publisher and a dwindling circle of semi-acquaintances. On Friday, July eighth, I had one foot in the door of Condé Nast and the other in the door of the Knickerbocker Club—the professional and social circles that would define the next thirty years of my life.

That’s how quickly New York City comes about—like a weather vane—or the head of a cobra. Time tells which. ~ Amor Towles,
776:Don't equate activity with efficiency. You are paying your key people to see the big picture. Don't let them get bogged down in a lot of meaningless meetings and paper shuffling. Announce a Friday afternoon off once in a while. Cancel a Monday morning meeting or two. Tell the cast of characters you'd like them to spend the amount of time normally spent preparing for attending the meeting at their desks, simply thinking about an original idea. ~ Harvey MacKay,
777:Don't equate activity with efficiency. You are paying your key people to see the big picture. Don't let them get bogged down in a lot of meaningless meetings and paper shuffling. Announce a Friday afternoon off once in a while. Cancel a Monday morning meeting or two. Tell the cast of characters you'd like them to spend the amount of time normally spent preparing for attending the meeting at their desks, simply thinking about an original idea. ~ Harvey Mackay,
778:Left London, Wednesday, October 2nd, at 8.45 p.m. "Reached Paris, Thursday, October 3rd, at 7.20 a.m. "Left Paris, Thursday, at 8.40 a.m. "Reached Turin by Mont Cenis, Friday, October 4th, at 6.35 a.m. "Left Turin, Friday, at 7.20 a.m. "Arrived at Brindisi, Saturday, October 5th, at 4 p.m. "Sailed on the Mongolia, Saturday, at 5 p.m. "Reached Suez, Wednesday, October 9th, at 11 a.m. "Total of hours spent, 158+; or, in days, six days and a half. ~ Jules Verne,
779:[Billy Bob Conroy role] that was a favor. Actually, the lady who cast Night Court asked me to do it, because it was a Friday, and the person who'd been rehearsing it all week got sick and couldn't come to the taping. And she figured I could put it together pretty quickly - it was not all that big a challenge, frankly - and I said, "Of course." I owed her, after all. Gilda Stratton was her name. She was a really, really nice person. So I did it. ~ Brent Spiner,
780:It‘s a curious fact, because Friday is a day of work and Sunday is a day for pleasure, so you would expect people to enjoy Sunday more, right? But we don’t. It’s not because we really like being in the office and can’t stand strolling in the park and having a lazy brunch. We prefer Friday to Sunday because Friday brings with it the thrill of anticipating the weekend ahead. In contrast, on Sunday the only thing to look forward to is work on Monday. ~ Tali Sharot,
781:Cameron tensed. “I suppose there’s getting-hurt danger, and then there’s the end-up-dead kind of danger,” he said shakily.
Julian was silent, his head still lowered as if he was afraid to look up.
Cameron drew his hand back, watching it tremble. “Is this… this fear, is it what you deal with every day?” It hurt. It scared him to think that Julian might live in fear day in and day out.
“Every day but Friday,” Julian answered without pause. ~ Abigail Roux,
782:Friendship intimacy calls for whoever is on the receiving end of the information to offer "hefty helpings of emotional expressiveness and unconditional support." Yet, as Karbo points out, they can't be too opinionated. So if I'm enraged that Matt canceled our Friday night plans, again, she better huff and puff and agree it was lame of him, but she would never say "He's such an ass, I've never liked him." Such are the unwritten rules of friendship. ~ Rachel Bertsche,
783:Ideas are often generated in physical gathering places where people with diverse interests encounter one another serendipitously. That is why Steve Jobs liked his buildings to have a central atrium and why the young Benjamin Franklin founded a club where the most interesting people of Philadelphia would gather every Friday. At the court of Ludovico Sforza, Leonardo found friends who could spark new ideas by rubbing together their diverse passions. ~ Walter Isaacson,
784:So this is me: Friday Valentina. Twenty-year old media studies student at MacArthur University. I’m short and my hair is purple this week. I wear vintage political t-shirts because they’re hilarious and tragic at the same time. I’m obsessed with superheroes—the real ones, not the ones in comics or movies or cartoons. My vlog is the Friday Report: three parts superhero news to three parts superhero snark. That’s what I call balanced journalism. ~ Tansy Rayner Roberts,
785:What would happen if some invisible gas leak in the school cafeteria caused diminished brain activity in students? Can we safely assume district officials would evacuate the school until further notice? That parents would be up in arms? That media and lawyers would descend in droves to collect statements from the innocent victims? Can we assume that the community would not gather together en masse on Friday nights to eat hot dogs and watch the gas leak? ~ Steve Almond,
786:Last Friday in the music room, every word I said felt like I was taking a knife to my own skin, cutting so deep that I thought I would never know how to not feel pain again,” he said, his voice remarkably calm for such a strong statement. “The worst of it was knowing that in fighting us being together, I was still causing you pain. I can’t do it anymore.” He stood still, focused intensely on me. “Do you believe that we have the ability to change destiny? ~ Michelle Madow,
787:It didn’t matter how much he had done for her or how hard he had tried, because in the end he hadn’t tried hard enough. He had failed. And he had run. And nobody was going to give a shit about how he had given up college, how he had lost the only girl he’d ever loved, how he had spent Friday nights mopping up vomit rather than hanging out with the people who had once been his friends. Nobody cared about that because it didn’t matter. Andrew was the bad guy. ~ Ania Ahlborn,
788:Physics is at present a mass of partial theories which no man has yet been able to render truly and clearly consistent. It has been well said that the modern physicist is a quantum theorist on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and a student of gravitational relativity theory on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On Sunday he is praying. . . that someone will find the reconciliation between the two views. ~ Norbert Wiener, I am a mathematician, the later life of a prodigy (1953),
789:Richard wrote a diary entry in his head.

Dear Diary, he began. On Friday I had a job, a fiancée, a home, and a life that made sense. (Well, as much as any life makes sense). Then I found an injured girl bleeding on the pavement, and I tried to be a Good Samaritan. Now I've got no fiancée, no home, no job, and I'm walking around a couple of hundred feet under the streets of London with the projected life expectancy of a suicidal fruitfly. ~ Neil Gaiman,
790:Richard wrote a diary entry in his head.

Dear Diary, he began. On Friday I had a job, a fianc��e, a home, and a life that made sense. (Well, as much as any life makes sense). Then I found an injured girl bleeding on the pavement, and I tried to be a Good Samaritan. Now I've got no fiancée, no home, no job, and I'm walking around a couple of hundred feet under the streets of London with the projected life expectancy of a suicidal fruitfly. ~ Neil Gaiman,
791:They agreed that Luce would ride with Daniel and her parents would take Callie to the airport. While the girls ate, Luce's parents sat on the edge of the bed and talked about Thanksgiving ("Gabbe polished all the china-what an angel"). By the time they moved on to the Black Friday deals they were on the hunt for ("All your father ever wants is tools"), Luce realized that she hadn't said anything except for inane conversation fillers like "Uh-huh" and "Oh really? ~ Lauren Kate,
792:Could it be? Samantha Kingston? Home? On a Friday?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know. Did you do a lot of acid in the sixties? Could be a flashback.”
“I was two years old in 1960. I came too late for the party.” He leans down and pecks me on the head. I pull away out of habit. “And I’m not even going to ask how you know about acid flashbacks.”
“What’s an acid flashback?” Izzy crows.
“Nothing,” my dad and I say at the same time, and he smiles at me. ~ Lauren Oliver,
793:Friday morning, Kylie, Miranda, and Della, each carting suitcases, walked
the trail to meet up with their parents. They walked slowly, like condemned prisoners moving to their executions.
“I’m going to be peeing on a drug test stick every hour,” Della
muttered.
Miranda sighed. “I’m going to screw up at my competition and my
mom is going to give me up for adoption.”
“I’m going to a ghost hunt,” Kylie added. Both girls looked at her.
“Don’t ask. ~ C C Hunter,
794:Frontex, a Warsaw-based agency, said in an annual report earlier this month that the number of asylum seekers arriving, mainly in Italy, from North Africa in 2013 was 40,000. Ewa Moncure, a spokeswoman for the agency, said in a telephone interview Friday that unofficial figures for 2014 indicated that 37,000 migrants had been detected crossing from Libya and Egypt, while reports in the Italian media suggested that the figure for the same period was closer to 40,000. ~ Anonymous,
795:A religion is sometime a source of happiness, and I would not deprive anyone of happiness. But it is a comfort appropriate for the weak, not for the strong. The great trouble with religion - any religion - is that a religionist, having accepted certain propositions by faith, cannot thereafter judge those propositions by evidence. One may bask at the warm fire of faith or choose to live in the bleak certainty of reason- but one cannot have both.
   ~ Robert Heinlein, from Friday.,
796:If you want to understand a society, take a good look at the drugs it uses. And what can this tell you about American culture? Well, look at the drugs we use. Except for pharmaceutical poison, there are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in. ~ Bill Hicks,
797:If you want to understand a society, take a good look at the drugs it uses. And what can this tell you about American culture? Well, look at the drugs we use. Except for pharmaceutical poison, there are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in. ~ Bill Hicks,
798:What's so great is that we're making money for AIDS in Africa. There's a lot of love and spontaneity, we're doing something creative. That's what I love about Red. It's not just a charity, "Give us money, give us money." It's being innovative. Like here's a show that you won't see anywhere else and you can come and whatever you pay for your ticket it's going somewhere. You can go and buy a pair of Armani shades, like Bono, but the money goes to Africa. It's quite cool. ~ Gavin Friday,
799:This is so much like the old days. And, again, I have mixed feelings. In some ways it's good and comfortable to be fitting straight back in like I've never been away, but, on the other hand, I'm getting this constrictive feeling as well. It's the same places - like the bars and pubs on Friday night - the same people, the same conversations, the same arguments and the same attitudes. Five years away and not much seems to have changed. I can't decide if this is good or bad. ~ Iain Banks,
800:It takes a very long time to sever a marriage in which children are involved. There is a table, two chairs, and a small pile of bargaining chips. This is how it begins, but it ends with one chair in an empty room. The days darken. The children are slices open and split down the middle. Someone takes an arm; someone takes a foot. The car pulling into the driveway on a Friday afternoon becomes a hearse, and everything is couched in lies. The house of old assumes a silence. ~ Kate Mulgrew,
801:One of the biggest problems I found with Irish politics and the economic thing was after the war, after World War II, most of the European countries started to develop economically and socially, but whatever way the Catholic church they took a grip and they almost governed the country. I mean, we were almost like a dictatorship. There is good and bad, but we experienced an awful lot of bad, especially from the institutions that taught children the Christian brothers, etc. ~ Gavin Friday,
802:Then there is the machine that belonged to Louis Blériot himself. I found an old newspaper article by the Dutch correspondent Alexander Cohen, dealing with a series of aviation experiments at the parade grounds in Issy-les-Moulineaux late on a dusky Friday afternoon, 22 November, 1907. Cohen watched M. Farman leave the ground in a ‘giant insect’ of canvas, bamboo and aluminium, and fly for several hundred metres. Which was more than could be said of Blériot’s ‘flying beast’. ~ Geert Mak,
803:If he was at home he would have eaten by now. He and Miriam always dined at five-thirty prompt and he carried on the tradition. He set the table while she cooked. After eating, he washed up and she dried the pots. Their only day off from this routine was Friday—chippy tea day when they sat in front of the TV and ate fish, chips and mushy peas straight from the polystyrene tray. He lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head. Food wasn’t the same without his wife. ~ Phaedra Patrick,
804:A lot of singers don't really know who they are. They have this massive insecurity and this massive ego and they are sort of pulled between both. I mean, why do you want a lot of people to look at you all the time and listen to you? There is something going on there, there is sort of need to express and attention. It's not just ego, it's some sort of complex thing and sometimes you create characters to say something you want to say and then you just throw yourself into that. ~ Gavin Friday,
805:When they got to thew bottom of the stairwell, they stopped dead. Blay's father was facing off with a lesser, a Civil War sword in one hand, a dagger in the other.
Behind his Joe Friday glasses, his eyes were lit like torches, and they flicked over for a split second. "Stay out of this. This one's mine."
The shit was done faster than you can say, Ninja Dad.
Blay's father went Ginsu on the slayer, carving the thing up like a turkey, then stabbing it back to the Omega. ~ J R Ward,
806:The Interior Department on Friday released new regulations that give a green light — pun intended — for fracking on federally owned lands. After four years of study and 1.5 million public comments, the department’s Bureau of Land Management concluded fracking can be done safely. Focusing on science rather than politics — as Cuomo should have done — the bureau set limits on where drilling could happen and set strict standards for the construction of wells and the handling of wastewater. ~ Anonymous,
807:Hey Kate, you coming to our show Friday night?" He leaned in close and touched my shoulder. "The guys would love to see you there."

"Yes. Yes, the guys would indeed." Carter rolled his eyes and smirked. I held back my grin, well aware that he was laughing inwardly at the same thing I was. When Dean spoke of 'the guys,' he mostly meant himself.

With a body like a Ken doll and hair like Meredith's McDreamy, I couldn't figure out for the life of me what he wanted with me. ~ Rachael Wade,
808:Sheila was a formidable advocate for her agency and its insurance fund, savvier about politics and the media than any of us. So despite my objections, the FDIC orchestrated a deal that let WaMu default on its creditors. Shareholders and subordinated debt holders were mostly wiped out, which was understandable. But senior debt holders were exposed to serious haircuts as well. The price of WaMu’s senior debt traded at only 25 cents on the dollar the next day, Friday, September 26. ~ Timothy F Geithner,
809:Green-eyed monsters,” said Magnus, and grinned. He deposited Chairman Meow on the ground, and the cat moved over to Alec, and rubbed against his leg. “The Chairman likes you.” “Is that good?” “I never date anyone my cat doesn’t like,” Magnus said easily, and stood up. “So let’s say Friday night?” A great wave of relief came over Alec. “Really? You want to go out with me?” Magnus shook his head. “You have to stop playing hard to get, Alexander. It makes things difficult.” He grinned. ~ Cassandra Clare,
810:On Monday they went out for a private picnic. On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive. On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells. On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn't share with anyone else. On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them. On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
811:There is a terrible thing that's been happening probably for the last 20 years or so and it's called the music business. And music isn't really business; it's work and you got to pay and you've got to buy your guitar or go into the studio. So there is a business side but when people say, "I'm going into the music business," it's not. It's about expression. It's about creativity. You don't join music, in my mind, to make money. You join it because it's in you; it's in your blood stream. ~ Gavin Friday,
812:The Tories had the legal right to demand extra meetings of the council but I could decide when they would be held and always called them for Friday afternoons, knowing that three or four of the richer Tories went to the country early and were not prepared to stay in the city beyond lunchtime. I realised that nothing in politics is new when I read in Suetonius's The Twelve Caesars that Julius Caesar pulled the same trick when reactionaries in the senate were making his life difficult. ~ Ken Livingstone,
813:I grew up on a street called Cedar Wood Road and by coincidence my best friends that are around the age 10 became a guy called Bono and another guy called Guggi. It was music again. The fact that pulled us together. They found me quite interesting because I had the right albums underneath my arm. Those days where you carry the latest David Bowie album or Roxie music album as you go to school. I mean you can't play an album at school but you were being cool just showing, "Look what I got." ~ Gavin Friday,
814:So what are you doing next Friday night?"
"What have you got in mind?"
"We could try hitting each other with cars," she suggested cheerfully.
"Did that last weekend with Jase," he said with mock regret.
"Go to the zoo and throw ourselves to the lions?" she fired back quickly, desperate to keep him focused on her rather than his caved-in chest.
"The Romans sort of wore that one out. Got anything original?"
"I'll think of something," she warned him.
"Can't wait! ~ Josephine Angelini,
815:I remembered what Dad said once, that some people have all of life's answers worked out the day they're born and there's no use trying to teach them anything new. 'They're closed for business even though, somewhat confusingly, their doors open at eleven, Monday through Friday,' Dad said. And the trying to change what they think, the attempt to explain, the hope they'll come to see your side of things, it was exhausting, because it never made a dent and afterward you only ached unbearably. ~ Marisha Pessl,
816:He thought about going out and buying a Sunday paper but decided not to. Arnold Stockton, Jessica’s boss, a many-chinned, self-made caricature of a man, owned all the Sunday papers that Rupert Murdoch had failed to buy. His own papers talked about him, and so did the rest. Reading a Sunday paper would, Richard suspected, probably end up reminding him of the dinner had failed to attend on Friday night. So instead Richard had a long hot bath and a number of sandwiches, and several cups of tea. ~ Neil Gaiman,
817:It was Friday night, so after dropping our bags we went straight to Shep’s Bar, actually just the remodeled basement of Cottage 3. The place was named for Bill Shepherd, a NASA veteran of three space shuttle flights who was now in Star City training to become the first commander of the International Space Station. He was also a former Navy SEAL who was legendary for saying in his astronaut interview, when asked what he could do better than anyone else in the room, “Kill people with my knife. ~ Scott Kelly,
818:My dad took me to a high school basketball game and this very, very famous coach in Michigan, by the name of Lofton Greene - he was a guy that my dad was familiar with. He was from our hometown. And I watched the game and I said I didn't see this guy doing a lot of coaching. And my dad told me, well, it's just like a teacher - which he was - he said if you do a good job teaching during the week, when they take the test on Friday, that's not the time you have to do a lot of demonstrative things. ~ Tony Dungy,
819:A film called Jai Santoshi Ma about a goddess nobody had heard of till the film came out created a new cult. The film told the story of an unhappy woman who was tortured and starved by her husband’s family while he was away working in some distant city. What keeps her alive in the film is her enduring faith in the goddess Santoshi, for whom she fasts every Friday and practises other austerities. The film became a runaway hit but nobody noticed that this was a new goddess invented in Bollywood. ~ Tavleen Singh,
820:We became friends in Dublin through music and we had real names, Fionan Hanvey and Derek Rowan - what a dreadful name. And Paul Hewson. We gave each other nicknames just the way most kids do, but the nicknames had more to do with how we physically looked or our essence and I had quite square features as a young kid. I was called Wavin for awhile, but I'm a bit softer - I'm a little softer than a surge pipe so they changed that to Gavin. I didn't chose it, it was Bono and Guggi who gave it to me. ~ Gavin Friday,
821:Your Highlight on page 85 | location 1294-1297 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:28:20 your boss wants focus groups to prove that a new product is guaranteed to be a success, don’t bother. If the focus group likes it, they’re probably wrong. If your company wants you to pick one and only one product to feature this Christmas, start working on your résumé. You’re not going to invent a Purple Cow with those sorts of odds and that kind of pressure. Things that have to work rarely do anymore. ========== ~ Anonymous,
822:Green-eyed monsters,” said Magnus, and grinned. He deposited Chairman Meow on the ground, and the cat moved over to Alec, and rubbed against his leg. “The Chairman likes you.”
“Is that good?”
“I never date anyone my cat doesn’t like,” Magnus said easily, and stood up. “So let’s say Friday night?”
A great wave of relief came over Alec. “Really? You want to go out with me?”
Magnus shook his head. “You have to stop playing hard to get, Alexander. It makes things difficult.” He grinned. ~ Cassandra Clare,
823:I remember one time, back in the day, I was at his [Bill Ward] house and he said, ‘Oh, ’ello Ozzy. You’ll never guess what? I’ve just come out of a coma.’
‘What d’you mean, a coma? That’s one stage removed from being dead. You know that, don’t you, Bill?’
‘All I know is I went to bed on Friday, and now it’s Tuesday, and I only just woke up. That’s a coma, isn’t it?’
‘No, that’s taking too many drugs and drinking too much cider and sleeping for three days in a row, you d**k.’
~ Ozzy Osbourne,
824:The new proposed bill, the Consumer Privacy Bill of Rights Act, is intended to fill in the gaps between those statutes by issuing some baseline data-processing requirements for all types of companies. “It applies common-sense protections to personal data collected online or offline, regardless of how data is shared,” the Obama administration said in a statement on Friday, “and promotes responsible practices that can maximize the benefits of data analysis while taking important steps to minimize risks. ~ Anonymous,
825:The Reluctant Buddhist (Woollard, William) - Your Highlight on Location 2484-2486 | Added on Friday, April 3, 2015 2:02:45 PM We might well have to take tough decisions that will disturb other peoples lives, in challenging aspects of a relationship for example. Buddhism does not teach that we should not take that action because it disturbs or challenges other people, only that we should take it with compassion for the other person’s needs, and accepting full responsibility for the causes we are making. ~ Anonymous,
826:The Women in Black are Israeli Jews who meet wall in Jerusalem. They meet every Friday, the Sabbath evening, and pray. They begin by singing Kaddish for all the Israelis killed in the fighting in Israel that week. When they are finished, they pause and read all the names. Then, they turn again to face the wall and sing Kaddish again, this time for all of Palestinians killed in the fighting that week, and they turn when they are finished and once again recite the litany of the names of those killed. ~ Megan McKenna,
827:Friday looked up. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to say anything. She didn’t think she could without crying. But she had to say something. “Let’s make a pledge,” she finally blurted, “Four years from now, when we both finish school, we’ll meet right here.”
“In the airport terminal?” asked Ian, looking about. It wasn’t a very glamorous location. “To do what?”
“I don’t know…” said Friday, “Have an adventure?”
“What sort of adventure,” asked Ian, smiling.
“A mystery, of course,” said Friday. ~ R A Spratt,
828:On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn't share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
829:At this season of the year we draw close to Good Friday. All the eyes of the world will turn back to "a green hill far away, without a city wall," where the founder of Christianity was crucified by those forces of selfishness, greed, and lust for gain that are still at work in the world. It seems to me that unless we do something in Canada about the question of the export of war materials there will be another crucifixion - the crucifixion of a generation of young men, crucified upon a cross of nickel. ~ Tommy Douglas,
830:I don't know what rituals my kids will carry into adulthood, whether they'll grow up attached to homemade pizza on Friday nights, or the scent of peppers roasting over a fire, or what. I do know that flavors work their own ways under the skin, into the heart of longing. Where my kids are concerned I find myself hoping for the simplest things: that if someday they crave orchards where their kids can climb into the branches and steal apples, the world will have trees enough with arms to receive them. ~ Barbara Kingsolver,
831:It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery: closed, of course. ~ Truman Capote,
832:This is as good a time as any to comment on what I think has grown into an abuse. Congress makes holidays and every time there isa holiday it is the practice for one department to telephone over to another department and say we are going to have an extra holiday in this department and what is your department going to do about it.... If it comes on Saturday, they want a holiday on Friday, and of course they couldn't come back and travel on Sunday and so they want another holiday on Monday to get back on. ~ Calvin Coolidge,
833:When, as a child, I first opened my eyes on a Sunday-morning, a feeling of dismal anicipation, which began at least on the Friday,culminated. I knew what was before me, and my wish, if not my word, was "Would God it were evening!" It was no day of rest, but a day of texts, of catechisms (Watts'), of tracts about converted swearers, godly charwomen, and edifying deaths of sinners saved.... There was but one rosy spot, in the distance, all that day: and that was "bed-time," which never could come too early! ~ Lewis Carroll,
834:Sprints begin with a big challenge, an excellent team—and not much else. By Friday of your sprint week, you’ve created promising solutions, chosen the best, and built a realistic prototype. That alone would make for an impressively productive week. But Friday, you’ll take it one step further as you interview customers and learn by watching them react to your prototype. This test makes the entire sprint worthwhile: At the end of the day, you’ll know how far you have to go, and you’ll know just what to do next. ~ Jake Knapp,
835:What did the Messiah need to do in order to be the Lamb of God, in order to make an atonement for the people of Israel? We know that Jesus came to die for our sins, but why did He not simply come down from heaven on Good Friday, go to the cross, arise on Easter, and go back to heaven? It was because Christ’s work on the cross was only half of His mission. In order for Jesus to die for our sins, it was first necessary for Him to fulfill the role that Adam failed to fulfill. He had to fulfill all righteousness. ~ R C Sproul,
836:Are you okay?” she asks. “Fine,” I choke out. I clear my throat because my voice sounds gravelly. “Fine,” I say again. She shakes her head and turns her back to me. “All the spaces with a one in the center will be this fiery orange.” She holds a tray of paint in her hand until she sets it on a stool right beside us. “Are you sure you have time for this? It’s going to take a really long time.” “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.” Friday is almost naked with me in her bedroom. I could stay here for days. ~ Tammy Falkner,
837:(Brett) “Never been to a football game either?” His voice lowered to a gravelly hush. “Well, like I said. We’ll make up for lost time.” He bent down and kissed her. “See you Friday?”
Dazed, all she could contribute was, “Yeah, Friday…” before he turned and went back to his car.
She walked inside, shut the door, leaned her back against it and concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest. It felt like he’d stolen her breath. And her heart. She was pretty sure he had taken a small piece of it with him. ~ Jeanette Murray,
838:Did you ever want to set someone's head on fire, just to see what it looked like? Did you ever stand in the street and think to yourself, I could make that nun go blind just by giving her a kiss? Did you ever lay out plans for stitching babies and stray cats into a Perfect New Human? Did you ever stand naked surrounded by people who want your gleaming sperm, squirting frankincense, soma and testosterone from every pore? If so, then you're the bastard who stole my drugs Friday night. And I'll find you. Oh, yes. ~ Warren Ellis,
839:Dear Harry, If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays. If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you. Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday, I am, yours most sincerely, Albus Dumbledore ~ J K Rowling,
840:Samaras is making the crudest of anti-immigrant pitches, and we didn’t have to wait to see the consequence. On Friday — almost wholly ignored in the wake of the grim news from Paris — a gunman entered a hostel housing primarily migrant workers in Salonika, brandished a pistol and threatened to open fire because he “was sick of paying taxes for you people.” A social outcast, perhaps? A thug belonging associated with the fascists of Golden Dawn? No. Stelios Ioannides is a local functionary of Samaras’s New Democracy. ~ Anonymous,
841:sex, and business. It would have been hard to believe that just six days later, only one of the three would seem to matter. “You’re not listening to me, Heather,” he said into the phone. “I’m going to be in LA from Friday to Tuesday. I’ve already booked time with the studio on Monday. The whole reason I’m coming early is—” Heather cut him off, probably to feed her need for a zinger more than a reply that couldn’t wait. Heather was always “on,” never really able to take a break and just be a person for once. It was ~ Sean Platt,
842:Woman . . . I do the best I can do. I come in here every Friday. I carry a sack of potatoes and a bucket of lard. You all line up at the door with your hands out. I give you the lint from my pockets. I give you my sweat and my blood. I ain't got no tears. I done spent them. We go upstairs in that room at night . . . and I fall down on you and try to blast a hole into forever. I get up Monday morning . . . find my lunch on the table. I go out. Make my way. Find my strength to carry me through to the next Friday. ~ August Wilson,
843:Then one day along come a Friday and that a unlucky star day and I playin' round de house and marster Williams come up and say, "Delis, will you 'low Jim walk down the street with me?" My mammy say, "All right, Jim, you be a good boy," and dat de las' time I ever heard her speak, or ever see her. We walks down whar de houses grows close together and pretty soon comes to de slave market. I ain't seed it 'fore, but when marster Williams says, "Git up on de block," I got a funny feelin', and I knows what has happened. ~ James Green,
844:Black Friday, in reality, is a symptom of the plight that 30 years of Reaganomics has brought to working people in America. Right along with the frenzied rise of shoppers willing to fight each other at retail outlets across America, we've been steadily, for the last 30 years, watching the destruction of organized labor ... of decent pay and wages and conditions for working people. ... We have Black Friday today because the wealthy elite have strangled their workers for 32 years, ever since Ronald Reagan's election. ~ Thom Hartmann,
845:The immolation occurred late on a Friday morning. The lunchtime bustle was picking up as Paul descended from his office building onto the crowded street. He cut an imposing figure against the flow of pedestrians: six feet four inches, broad shouldered, clean-shaven, clothed in the matching black coat, vest, and long tie that was to be expected of New York’s young professional men. His hair, perfectly parted on the left, had just begun to recede into a gentle widow’s peak. He looked older than his twenty-six years. As ~ Graham Moore,
846:To the casual observer there was nothing unusual about these six hours. To the casual observer this Friday was a normal Friday. Six hours of routine. Six hours of the expected. Six hours. One Friday. Enough time for
a shepherd to examine his flocks,
a housewife to clean and organize her house,
a physician to receive a baby from a mother’s womb
and cool the fever of one near death. Six hours. From 9:00 am to 3:00 PM. Six hours. One Friday. Six hours filled with, as are all hours, the mystery of life. ~ Max Lucado,
847:ELSEWHERE in the city, a scheduled passenger named Alta Piper struggled through a restless night in her hotel room. She was the daughter of Leonora Piper, the famed spirit medium known universally as “Mrs. Piper,” the only medium that William James, the pioneering Harvard psychologist and sometime psychic investigator, believed to be authentic. Alta seemed to share her mother’s gift, for throughout that Friday night, as she claimed later, she heard a voice telling her, “If you get into your berth, you’ll never get out. ~ Erik Larson,
848:I go all the way down to First Avenue . . . I realize it's Friday Night all over America, in New York it's just ten o'clock and the fight's started in the Garden and longshoremen in North River bars are all watching the fight and drinking 20 beers apiece, and Sams are sitting in the front row . . . while I spent all summer pacing and praying in mountaintops, of rock and snow, of lost birds and bears, these people've been sucking on cigarettes and drinks and pacing and praying in their souls, too, in their own way . . . ~ Jack Kerouac,
849:When it comes to sticking to your resolutions, research has shown that 'action-oriented' resolutions have a better chance of being upheld than 'idea-oriented.' For example, a resolution to lose weight is really only an idea with nothing actionable to do. However, sticking with that goal in mind, you could make the resolution action-oriented by saying 'get up 30 minutes earlier every Monday, Wednesday and Friday and do a 20-minute workout at home before work.' Now you have an actionable path on how to achieve your goal. ~ Brett Hoebel,
850:Friday tangles her fingers with mine and pulls me toward the bedroom. But just as we’re settling into bed, the door opens and Hayley jumps in the middle. “The sun is shining,” she says. “No, it’s not,” I tell her. “Go back to sleep.” She snuggles between us and gets comfortable. Friday reaches a hand toward me, and I flip her palm up and lay my cheek on it. I love you, she mouths at me. “I love you, too,” I say out loud. “Me, too?” Hayley asks. “You, too,” I say. I kiss her cheek and snuggle into Friday’s palm. I’m in. ~ Tammy Falkner,
851:Ohio Geologists in Ohio have for the first time linked earthquakes in a geologic formation deep under the Appalachians to hydraulic fracturing, leading the state to issue new permit conditions Friday in certain areas that are among the nation’s strictest. A state investigation of five small tremors last month in the Youngstown area, in the Appalachian foothills, found the injection of sand and water that accompanies hydraulic fracturing, or fracking, in the Utica Shale may have increased pressure on a small, unknown fault, ~ Anonymous,
852:Friday tangles her fingers with mine and pulls me toward the bedroom. But just as we’re settling into bed, the door opens and Hayley jumps in the middle. ��The sun is shining,” she says. “No, it’s not,” I tell her. “Go back to sleep.” She snuggles between us and gets comfortable. Friday reaches a hand toward me, and I flip her palm up and lay my cheek on it. I love you, she mouths at me. “I love you, too,” I say out loud. “Me, too?” Hayley asks. “You, too,” I say. I kiss her cheek and snuggle into Friday’s palm. I’m in. ~ Tammy Falkner,
853:Çağ ve Nesil (M. Fethullah Gulen) - Your Highlight on Location 931-934 | Added on Friday, April 18, 2014 1:04:42 AM Farklı düşüncedeki birinin, yol ve sisteminin kritiğini yapabiliriz. Bu, aklın farklı işleyişinin ifâdesidir. Ama, eğer, aynı ufka ulaşmak için çırpınıp duruyorsak, hiç olmazsa onun düşüncesine de saygı göstermeliyiz. Bu, aynı hedefe yönelik bulunmanın, aynı imanı taşıyor olmanın aynı terminolojiyi kullanmanın ve nihayet her şeyin üstünde Yüce Yaratıcı'nın tebcil ettiği mukaddes manâya saygılı olmanın gereğidir. ~ Anonymous,
854:The first day of the West Line, April 5th, falls upon a Friday,— the least auspicious day of the week to begin any enterprise, such as sailing from Spithead, for example. To stand at the Post Mark’d West, and turn to face West, can be a trial for those sentimentally inclin’d, as well as for ev’ryone nearby. It is possible to feel the combin’d force, in perfect Enfilade, of ev’ry future second unelaps’d, ev’ry Chain yet to be stretch’d, every unknown Event to be undergone,— the unmodified Terror of keeping one’s Latitude. ~ Thomas Pynchon,
855:Ten Pathways toward a New Shabbat Do 1. Stay at home. Spend quality time with family and real friends. 2. Celebrate with others: at the table, in the synagogue, with friends or community. 3. Study or read something that will edify, challenge, or make you grow. 4. Be alone. Take some time for yourself. Check in with yourself. Review your week. Ask yourself where you are in your life. 5. Mark the beginning and end of this sacred time by lighting candles and making kiddush on Friday night and saying havdalah on Saturday night. ~ Arthur Green,
856:The universe contains any amount of horrible ways to be woken up, such as the noise of the mob breaking down the front door, the scream of fire engines, or the realization that today is the Monday which on Friday night was a comfortably long way off. A dog’s wet nose is not strictly speaking the worst of the bunch, but it has its own peculiar dreadfulness which connoisseurs of the ghastly and dog owners everywhere have come to know and dread. It’s like having a small piece of defrosting liver pressed lovingly against you. ~ Terry Pratchett,
857:The universe contains any amount of horrible ways to be woken up, such as the noise of the mob breaking down the front door, the scream of fire engines, or the realization that today is the Monday which on Friday night was a comfortably long way off. A dog's wet nose is not strictly speaking the worst of the bunch, but it has it's own peculiar dreadfulness which connoisseurs of the ghastly and dog owners everywhere have come to know and dread. It's like having a small piece of defrosting liver pressed lovingly against you. ~ Terry Pratchett,
858:Put another way, Jesus is God’s perfect pitch—the divine tuning fork to the eternal. Every tuning fork needs to be struck to be heard. The striking of the eternal, unchanging tuning fork of heaven took place when a young virgin gave birth to God’s only Son in an obscure village in first-century Israel. It struck again on a never-forgotten Friday, with the pounding of six-inch nails. The fork struck a third time—on the third day—when a meek and lowly Nazarene split a tomb wide open and came forth in resurrection life. Heaven’s ~ Leonard Sweet,
859:Sam comes out of the bedroom and stops, looking from Cody and Garrett to Friday and back. “Hell yeah,” he finally says. He lifts his hands like he’s praying to God and says, “Thank you for small miracles. And for putting Paul out of his misery.” He shoves my shoulder. “Glad they finally told you.” I choke on my beer. “You knew?” I croak out. “Well, yeah,” he says. “If you weren’t looking at them through that red haze of jealousy you got going on, you’d have seen it, too.” I throw a wadded napkin at his head, but he just laughs. ~ Tammy Falkner,
860:Normal is waking at 6 a.m., fighting traffic, and working eight hours. Normal is to slave at a job Monday through Friday, save 10%, and repeat for 50 years. Normal is to buy everything on credit. Normal is to believe the illusion that the stock market will make you rich. Normal is to believe that a faster car and a bigger house will make you happy. You’re conditioned to accept normal based on society’s already corrupted definition of wealth, and because of it, normal itself is corrupted. Normal is modern-day slavery. Don’t be normal. ~ Peter Voogd,
861:The universe contains any amount of horrible ways to be woken up, such as the noise of the mob breaking down the front door, the scream of fire engines, or the realization that today is the Monday which on Friday night was a comfortably long way off.

A dog's wet nose is not strictly speaking the worst of the bunch, but it has its own peculiar dreadfulness which connoisseurs of the ghastly and dog owners everywhere have come to know and dread. It's like having a small piece of defrosting liver pressed lovingly against you. ~ Terry Pratchett,
862:I’m with you on measuring this week in letters and the two-day drought we are about to experience. If only there was a way to transport letters faster, through some sort of electronic device that codes messages and sends them through the air. But that’s just crazy talk.

Friday from me:

Sending letters through the sky? Like when airplanes attach notes to their tails? I thought they only advertised for going-out-of-business sales. But perhaps our letters would be okay up there as well. I wonder how much they charge per word. ~ Kasie West,
863:I don't even think any stimulants really help writing. You talk to most guys and they say, "Hey. I wrote this." And they're out of their head or they had a few beers or a bottle of whiskey. You wake up the next morning, it's usually pretty crap. But you know Dylan Thomas wrote some great poetry. Brendan Behan. You never know but ultimately I'd say you have to get up early in the morning and you're usually sober when you write your good stuff; it's hard work. So alcohol, keep it for chilling out, fun, and having a good time. Not for work. ~ Gavin Friday,
864:have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,—revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man ~ Victor Hugo,
865:Normal is waking at 6 a.m., fighting traffic, and working eight hours. Normal is to slave at a job Monday through Friday, save 10%, and repeat for 50 years. Normal is to buy everything on credit. Normal is to believe the illusion that the stock market will make you rich. Normal is to believe that a faster car and a bigger house will make you happy. You’re conditioned to accept normal based on society’s already corrupted definition of wealth, and because of it, normal itself is corrupted. Normal is modern-day slavery. Don’t be normal.” Figure ~ Peter Voogd,
866:Early in 1959 he ordered the words “unbelieving” and “perfidious,” which were used with reference to Jews and Muslims, to be deleted from the Good Friday liturgy. Additional outreach followed. A pope had not met with the Archbishop of Canterbury for 400 years, ever since Elizabeth I had been excommunicated. Pope John met in the Vatican with the current Archbishop of Canterbury, the Most Rev. Geoffrey Francis Fisher, for approximately an hour on December 2, 1960. Then, for the first time in history, a Shinto high priest was received by a pope. ~ Wyatt North,
867:Unfortunately for Peter McCluskey, the security services had discovered proof that corroborated the suspicion that he had not eschewed his old comrades-in-arms at all. Indeed, he had become even more virulent in his hatred of the British, had turned his back on Sinn Féin, and cast in his lot with the Real IRA, the off-shoot organisation that denounced the Good Friday Agreement and vowed to continue the war. McCluskey had continued to raise money so that they could buy their bullets and their bombs, and Maguire was here to collect that bounty. ~ Mark Dawson,
868:Friday,” he says. “What?” I ask, breathless with how close he is to me. “I…ah…I don’t know what to do with all these brand-new feelings for you,” he says quietly. “Okay,” I breathe in response. “They scare the shit out of me, but they make me feel hopeful, too.” “Why me?” I ask. “Because you’re you,” he says, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. And therein lies the problem, Paul. I’m me. And that’s all I’ll ever be. The real me—the one he hasn’t met. He’ll probably never see her because it has been a really long time since I’ve seen her myself. ~ Tammy Falkner,
869:The point I wish plainly to bring before you on this occasion is the individuality of each human soul--our Protestant idea, the right of individual conscience and judgment--our republican idea, individual citizenship. In discussing the rights of woman, we are to consider, first, what belongs to her as an individual, in a world of her own, the arbiter of her own destiny, an imaginary Robinson Crusoe with her woman Friday on a solitary island. Her rights under such circumstances are to use all her faculties for her own safety and happiness. ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
870:Total retail sales rose 0.7 percent in November, as holiday shopping began, and that came despite a sharp tumble in gasoline prices that reduced the dollar value of sales at gas stations by 0.8 percent. Analysts had expected a rise of only 0.4 percent. Read narrowly, the results show that some survey data suggesting weak post-Thanksgiving Black Friday sales was misleading at best; retail trade groups said at the time that they believed consumers spread their spending more evenly through November than they have in the past, and that appears to hold up. ~ Anonymous,
871:ZXCVBNMLKJHGFDSAPOIUYTREWQ ========== Magic Tree House #49: Stallion by Starlight (Osborne, Mary Pope) - Your Highlight on Location 132-149 | Added on Thursday, January 29, 2015 7:14:43 PM ========== Magic Tree House #49: Stallion by Starlight (Osborne, Mary Pope) - Your Note on Location 173 | Added on Friday, January 30, 2015 7:17:32 PM Question October Business Awesome Development ========== Magic Tree House #49: Stallion by Starlight (Osborne, Mary Pope) - Your Highlight on Location 173-173 | Added on Friday, January 30, 2015 7:17:32 PM ========== ~ Anonymous,
872:My main influences - I loved art. I sounds a little pretentious to say I was into art but I liked drawing. I liked music; music was my outlet from day one. I was giving you an image of Ireland being this dull, grey, massive unemployment, not much going on and the future was the dull queue or - and, for me, the window of hope was music and books. So I fell in love with sort of T-Rex and David Bowie very young. They sort of said, "Hey. You don't have to live in this north side of Dublin that's all grey and depressed. You can be a spider and go to Mars." ~ Gavin Friday,
873:A Rough Guide

Be polite at the reception desk.
Not all the knives are in the museum.
The waitresses know that a nice boy
is formed in the same way as a deckchair.
Pay for the beer and send flowers.
Introduce yourself as Richard.
Do not refer to what somebody did
at a particular time in the past.
Remember, every Friday we used to go
for a walk. I walked. You walked.
Everything in the past is irregular.
This steak is very good. Sit down.
There is no wine, but there is ice cream.
Eat slowly. I have many matches. ~ Mark Haddon,
874:Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast ~ Washington Irving,
875:When she (Miss Betsey - M. Zh.)reached the house she gave another proof of her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like any ordinary Christian; and now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that extent that my poor dear mother used to say it became perfectly flat and white in a moment.

She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a Friday." (Chapter I) ~ Charles Dickens,
876:A remarkable consensus of Democratic and Republican editorial writers held that Roosevelt would be as “conservative” as McKinley. The very unanimity of this opinion seemed contrived, as if to soothe a nervous stock market. The financial pages reported that “Severe Shocks,” “Feverish Trading,” and “Heavy Declines” had hit Wall Street on Friday, when the Gold Dollar President began to die. Roosevelt knew little about money—it was one of the few subjects that bored him—but even he could see that one false move this weekend might bring about a real panic on Monday. ~ Edmund Morris,
877:On  one  such  Wednesday,  Charlie  introduced  me  to  the  game  Warcraft  3.  It  was  like  no  game  I  had   ever  played  before.  It  enabled  the  player  to  build  an  army  and  battle  against  other  players  online.  After   the  first  round  of  Warcraft  III,  going  up  against  John  Jo  and  Charlie,  I  was  captivated.  The  game  was  so   much  fun.  I  couldn’t  help  but  think  about  it  every  second  for  the  next  two  days.  When  the  following   Friday  arrived,  we  played  it  for  most  of  the  day  and  well  into  the  night. ~ Anonymous,
878:I never really put pressure on myself to make things seem new and spontaneous, mostly because I think everything is kind of derivative at this point. I enjoy the old-fashioned idea of like, His Girl Friday and Bringing Up Baby, those old movies. Those relationships are kind of where I've gotten inspiration for this character and this relationship. But I think what makes it new is just the words coming out of my mouth personally, and my take on it based on my own personal life experience is hopefully going to add something a little different, and add some flavor to it. ~ Judy Greer,
879:daughter of Diblaim; and she conceived and bare him a son. —Hosea 1:2-3 In the minds of the Jews, it was the lack of fertility that was the work of the devil. Barren women were seen as accursed. The Hebrew word for "widow" originally meant "wasted womb." Sex was, and is, a sacrament to Orthodox Jews. Friday nights, when Sabbath officially begins, is reserved for sexual intercourse between man and wife with Jehovah's blessing. In fact, in this ancient religion, it is the husband's duty to satisfy his wife. But something must have happened along the way of history ~ Christopher S Hyatt,
880:Allan: That's quite a lovely Jackson Pollock, isn't it?
Museum Girl: Yes, it is.
Allan: What does it say to you?
Museum Girl: It restates the negativeness of the universe. The hideous lonely emptiness of existence. Nothingness. The predicament of Man forced to live in a barren, Godless eternity like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void with nothing but waste, horror and degradation, forming a useless bleak straitjacket in a black absurd cosmos.
Allan: What are you doing Saturday night?
Museum Girl: Committing suicide.
Allan: What about Friday night? ~ Woody Allen,
881:Some people go through heavy stuff. They fight in wars. They’re in jail. They start a business and it gets shut down by gangsters. They end up hustling their ass in a foreign country. It’s one long list of setbacks and humiliations. But it doesn’t touch them, not really. They’re having an adventure. It’s like: What’s next? An then there’s other people who are just trying to live quietly, they stay out of trouble, they’re maybe ten years old, or fourteen, and one Friday morning at 9:35 something happens to them, something private, something that breaks their heart. Forever. ~ Michel Faber,
882:The whole life of Christ was a continual Passion; others die martyrs but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for to his tenderness then the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after, and the manger as uneasy at first as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day. And as even his birth is his death, so every action and passage that manifests Christ to us is his birth, for Epiphany is manifestation. ~ John Donne,
883:Autumn Day
The raging colour of this cold Friday
Eats up our patience like a fire,
Consumes our willingness to endure,
Here the crumpled maple, a gold fabric,
The beech by beams empurpled, the holy sycamore,
Berries red-hot, the rose's core-The sun emboldens to burn in porphyry and amber.
Pick up the remnants of our resignation
Where we left them, and bring our loving passion,
Before the mist from the dark sea at our feet
Where mushrooms cling like limpets in the grass,
Quenching our fierceness, leaves us in a worse case.
~ Anne Barbara Ridler,
884:All around the UK, the lights are going out and the shutters are falling across the doors of dozens of offices and remote installations. The lights will stay on for a while longer at a handful of sites that are only tenuously connected to the rest of the nation, sites that are isolated by virtue of the perilous forces they work with or by the most draconian of security perimeters; but the orders have been issued, and by Friday evening the Laundry as an organization will have ceased to exist.   FIVE BREAKOUT Zero drives me out of the center of London efficiently and calmly. I ~ Charles Stross,
885:Even Boris Johnson doesn't think there's going to be a United States of Europe. ​And I think there's a real question here that you're being asked to make a decision that's irreversible we cant change it, we wake up on Friday and we don't like it, and we're being sold it on a lie because they lied about the cost of Europe, they lied about Turkey's entrance to Europe, they lied about the European army because we've got a veto for that they put that in their leaflets and they've lied about this here tonight too and its not good enough you deserve the truth you deserve the truth. ~ Ruth Davidson,
886:Some people go through the heavy stuff. They fight in wars. They're in jail. They start a business and it gets shut down by gangsters. They end up hustling their ass in a foreign country. It's one long list of setbacks and humiliations. But it doesn't touch them, not really. They're having an adventure. It's like: What's next? And then there's other people who are just trying to live quietly, they stay out of trouble, they're maybe ten years old, or fourteen, and one Friday morning at 9:35 something happens to them, something private, something that breaks their heart. Forever. ~ Michel Faber,
887:The difference between me and Tiny Lister is that he has never been the greatest actor, he hasn't been able to do a lot of big talking parts in movies, or even... he kind of has one emotion. He never looks at his career as an obstacle, he only looks at the positives. He's done... he knows, he has an opportunity. I mean, you see in a script, "Tiny Lister" type, you know you've made your mark. I mean on Friday After Next, that's what everyone expected me to be the new Tiny because it was that sort of part to fill that role, but if you look at the movie, there was a lot more there. ~ Terry Crews,
888:back up his story? He didn’t give Picard any other names. Only Farley.” Tyson shook his head. “Maybe Farley was the only one whose whereabouts he knew. Maybe they kept up their wartime acquaintance.” “A medical doctor and a strung-out paraplegic junkie? I doubt that. Were they good friends over there?” “Not that I recall.” Corva sat. “This is like pulling teeth. You are not going to tell me what motivates Brandt and Farley, though I think you know.” “Maybe later, Vince, if it gets down to that.” Corva snapped his briefcase shut. “Okay. So Friday it will be you and I and Colonel ~ Nelson DeMille,
889:Before entering Joaquin’s house I always reminded myself that this wasn’t exactly where I was meant to be, but pit stops are okay on the road of life, aren’t they? I thought of myself as some kind of spy, undercover as a girl with low self-esteem, bringing back detailed intelligence reports on the dark side for girls with boyfriends who looked like lesbians and watched Friday Night Lights with them while eating takeout. They could have their supportive relationships and typical little love stories. I’d be Sid and Nancy–ing it up, refusing to settle for the status quo. I’d be cool. ~ Lena Dunham,
890:An aide for Gov. Cuomo slammed State Controller Thomas DiNapoli’s office Friday for getting its numbers wrong. "You would think basic arithmetic would be a qualification to work in the controller’s office," the aide said. His caustic comment came after the controller’s office released overtime data Thursday that smeared a state worker. The data showed that Janet Johnson, a nurse at Franklin Correctional Facility near the Canadian border, was paid for an incredible 5,076 hours of overtime in 2014 — meaning she worked an unbelievable 19.6 hours a day, seven days a week for a full year. ~ Anonymous,
891:I reach around behind her and pull the pillow closer to her butt because she’s naked from the waist down and not wearing a robe. She has a sheet over her lap, but still. Friday rolls her eyes at me. “They’re gay,” she whispers dramatically. “I still don’t want them looking at your ass,” I whisper back. “I could be completely naked and they wouldn’t care.” “I would care,” I grunt out. “Why?” she asks. Her brow furrows. “Because,” I murmur. “Because why?” she asks. I lean close to her ear. “Because it’s mine,” I say so that only she can hear me. “That okay with you?” “Yes,” she says. ~ Tammy Falkner,
892:(Excerpt from a standup routine by Matt Graham:)
Last Friday, my roommate sent me out to get some canned fish, because we're having some Catholic survivalists over for dinner. Weirdest thing happened. I'm coming up the steps, I stumble, all the groceries fall down the stairs. Except for a can of salmon, which falls up the stairs. Bizarre experience, but it gave me an idea. Couple nights later I was driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Cop pulled me over. I told him I was spawning. He said, 'Young man, I have reason to believe you're DUI. You know what that is?' I said, 'Do I! ~ Stefan Fatsis,
893:I’ll wait for you in the living room.” I open the door and go out it as quickly as I can. I stumble directly into Sam. “What the fuck?” I say. “How long have you been there?” He throws up his hands. “I just walked in the door. I swear.” “You’re sure?” “Positive.” He looks at Friday’s door. “What were you doing? Do you need a condom?” I shove him. “No, I don’t need a condom.” He glances toward my lap. “You sure, ‘cause…” He lets his voice trail off. “Don’t talk about her like that.” He grins. “Good.” “What’s good?” “You’re protective.” He nods his head. “I like it.” “So glad you approve. ~ Tammy Falkner,
894:The euro fell to as low as $1.18605, its weakest level since March 2006, having fallen below an important support at $1.20. The common currency last traded at $1.1926, down 0.6 percent from late U.S. trade on Friday. In an interview with German financial daily Handelsblatt published on Friday, ECB President Mario Draghi said the risk of the central bank not fulfilling its mandate of preserving price stability was higher now than half a year ago. "The market took his comments to mean that he is ready to adopt quantitative easing," said Shin Kadota, chief forex strategist at Barclays in Tokyo. ~ Anonymous,
895:We had similar interests with Derek Rowan and Paul Hewson; it sounds really pretentious at 12, 13 year old kids were like into art and poetry, but we were. We weren't into football, we were into making music or being into music and painting and stuff like that. And we called this sort of little gang Lypton Village and we made up imaginary games and this is one day we'll form bands and one day we'll make movies and one day we'll do this and one day we'll do that. A lot of kids do this in their own way, except 25, 30 years later legend happens because some of us have become quite well known. ~ Gavin Friday,
896:And then Graham understood that it was almost too late. He had spent so much time wishing Matthew were different, wondering how to make Matthew different, when it was actually the process of living that did it. Life forced you to cope. Life wore down all your sharp corners with its tedious grinding on, the grinding that seemed to take forever but was actually as quick as a brushfire. What Graham had to do was to love Matthew right now, right this instant—heart, get busy—before Matthew grew up and turned into someone else. Chapter Eight It was a Friday night not so different from any other. ~ Katherine Heiny,
897:Sessizliği Dinlemek (Osho) - Your Highlight at location 27-30 | Added on Friday, 23 May 2014 22:46:19 Yaşam devinim demektir. Olduğumuz yerde kalmamız imkansızdır. Ya daha yüksek bir bilinç düzeyine doğru evrim geçiririz ya da gerileriz. Seçim bizimdir. Seçmememiz söz konusu değildir, seçmemek bile bir seçimdir. Çoğu insan hiçliği seçer. Bu, bilinçsizliğe dönüştür. Bunu alkol ve uyuşturucular, aşırı çalışma, seks ya da duyuların uyarılması yoluyla yaparlar. Pek az kişi daha yüksek bir bilinç düzeyine doğru yolculuk yapmayı seçer. İşte Osho'nun bu kitabında hitap ettiği kişiler bunlar. ========== ~ Anonymous,
898:Brier: Good Friday
Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm
Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.
Because I never knew your care to tire,
Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.
Because so often you have hearkened to
My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,
That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
899:The Wise County Bookmobile is one of the most beautiful sights in the world to me. When I see it lumbering down the mountain road like a tank . . . I flag it down like an old friend. I've waited on this corner every Friday since I can remember. The Bookmobile is just a government truck, but to me it's a glittering royal coach delivering stories and knowledge and life itself. I even love the smell of books. People have often told me that one of their strongest childhood memories is the scent of their grandmother's house. I never knew my grandmothers, but I could always count on the Bookmobile. ~ Adriana Trigiani,
900:Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause. ~ L Frank Baum,
901:One last Friday I handed Mrs. Croft eight one-dollar bills in an envelope, brought my suitcase downstairs, and informed her that I was moving. She put my key into her change purse. The last thing she asked me to do was hand her the cane propped against the table, so that she could walk to the door and lock it behind me. “Good-bye, then,” she said, and retreated back into the house. I did not expect any display of emotion, but I was disappointed all the same. I was only a boarder, a man who paid her a bit of money and passed in and out of her home for six weeks. Compared to a century, it was no time at all. ~ Anonymous,
902:Bash.org.pl (calibre) - Your Highlight on Location 49-53 | Added on Friday, December 12, 2014 11:44:02 PM Dawno dawno temu moja rodzicielka popełniła błąd wychowawczy zastraszając moją młodszą siostrę aby ta w żadnym razie nie wychylała się przez okno gdyż czai się tam diabeł, który może ją przez to okno wyciągnąć (co niechybnie skończyłoby się rozkwaszeniem siostry na chodniku). Była to oczywiście próba ustrzeżenia dziecka przed śmiercią. Wiele lat później siostra wyznała, że BARDZO chciała się wychylić, żeby tego diabła zobaczyć (niewierna), ale bała się że fiknie przez to okno ponosząc śmierć na miejscu. ~ Anonymous,
903:Good Friday
Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon—
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,
904:It had rained without a break since the middle of the afternoon, when the skies had finally started to clear. Ari Thór didn’t make a habit of going to the theatre, but still understood the excitement behind a good production. Tension in the air could sometimes be palpable, but never as overwhelming as it was that Friday evening in the Siglufjördur theatre. But this time there was no production taking place and the auditorium was empty. What he and Tómas – both of them on duty that night – could not avoid was the body. There was no doubt they were looking at a corpse; but Tómas still checked for a pulse ~ Ragnar J nasson,
905:techniques 2 ========== The Ultimate Sales Letter: Attract New Customers. Boost your Sales. (Kennedy, Dan S.) - Your Highlight at location 1622-1630 | Added on Friday, 15 August 2014 10:09:51 illustrations, graphics, charts, and photos to help set them apart. CAPITALIZATION — Use capitalization to set off a single (or two or three) word(s) which need extra emphasis. Use sparingly, since oftentimes it's perceived as “shouting.” Captions — These should always be used under illustrations, graphics, charts, and photos, because captions are one of the most often read Copy Cosmetic enhancements when placed next to an ~ Anonymous,
906:For Children: You will need to know the difference between Friday and a fried egg. It's quite a simple difference, but an important one. Friday comes at the end of the week, whereas a fried egg comes out of a chicken. Like most things, of course, it isn't quite that simple. The fried egg isn't properly a fried egg until it's been put in a frying pan and fried. This is something you wouldn't do to a Friday, of course, though you might do it on a Friday. You can also fry eggs on a Thursday, if you like, or on a cooker. It's all rather complicated, but it makes a kind of sense if you think about it for a while. ~ Douglas Adams,
907:When you’re ready to have the conversation, pick the time and place very carefully. Most people choose to terminate people at the end of the day; the most common day is Thursday. The rationale behind these choices is that if you do it at the end of the day, the person is less likely to run into colleagues on the way out, and doing it on a Thursday (and asking that he or she not come to work on Friday) gives the person a long weekend to begin to go though his or her emotional reaction. Out of common courtesy, I suggest you not fire people within a couple of weeks of Christmas, Thanksgiving, or their birthday. ~ Erika Andersen,
908:My parents, and librarians along the way, taught me about the space between words; about the margins, where so many juicy moments of life and spirit and friendship could be found. In a library, you could find miracles and truth and you might find something that would make you laugh so hard that you get shushed, in the friendliest way. There was sanctuary in a library, there is sanctuary now, from the war, from the storms of our family and our own anxious minds. Libraries are like the mountain, or the meadows behind the goat lady’s house: sacred space."

[Good Friday world, Salon.com, March 28, 2003] ~ Anne Lamott,
909:In the real world of globalised finance, where investment portfolios for the major centres are combined, where the markets (stock, bond, money, real estate, government securities, forex and commodities) tick almost round-the-clock from Tokyo Monday morning to New York Friday 5 pm, via London, Frankfurt, etc, in between (and the digital books are passed at the appropriate times), tracking such practices as “round tripping” – discovering the real footprints – is going to be exceedingly difficult. It would be better to focus on tracing the footprints of the black incomes where they are generated, i e, in India itself. ~ Anonymous,
910:Mrs. Cohen cooked, too- beef stew that had simmered all day, pancakes that weren't pancakes but a combination of potatoes and onions and warmth that floated through the apartment and snuck into the pockets of his coat. And something she called a kugel, its name as playful as the smell of vanilla and sugar and cinnamon that came from the oven. But Al's favorite thing about being with Mrs. Cohen was Friday night. When he arrived, the apartment would be filled with the fragrance of chicken soup and there was always fresh-baked bread, its surface brown and glistening, lying in a fancy braid across the counter. ~ Erica Bauermeister,
911:Some people - and I am one of them - hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically. Had I been reading about this mild old man, instead of writing about him, I would have preferred him to discover, upon his arrival to Cremona, that his lecture was not this Friday but the next. Actually, however, he not only arrived safely but was in time for dinner - a fruit cocktail, to begin with, mint jelly with the anonymous meat course, chocolate syrup with the vanilla ice cream. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
912:Prison is one of the places where we should look for Him. I remember a Good Friday in a cell in the Romanian jail of Jilava. We were all very hungry. But that day when the bowl of gruel was brought to us, we refused to eat it. We fasted. Good Friday is the only fast day described by the Lord Himself: “But the days will come when the bridegroom will be taken away from them, and then they will fast” (Matthew 9:15). Days of fasting, with deep repentance for our past sins and ardent prayers for the persecuted, are the greatest gifts anyone can give to members of the underground church and the missions that help them. ~ Richard Wurmbrand,
913:Your left! Your left! Your left-right-left! Your left! Your left! Your left-right-left! Yeah, yeah, yeah. I left. I left. I left-left-left that wack school and that even more wack ROTC drill team because it was Friday, which to me, and basically every other person on Earth, meant it was time to party. Okay, maybe not everybody on Earth. I’m sure there was a monk somewhere on a mountain who might’ve been thinking of something else. But I wasn’t no monk. Thank God. So for me and my friends, Friday was just another word for party. Monday, Tuesday, Hump Day (because who can resist the word “hump”?), Thursday, and Party. ~ Jason Reynolds,
914:Besides being blind to lots of good things, the GDP also benefits from all manner of human suffering. Gridlock, drug abuse, adultery? Goldmines for gas stations, rehab centers, and divorce attorneys. If you were the GDP, your ideal citizen would be a compulsive gambler with cancer who’s going through a drawn-out divorce that he copes with by popping fistfuls of Prozac and going berserk on Black Friday. Environmental pollution even does double duty: One company makes a mint by cutting corners while another is paid to clean up the mess. By contrast, a centuries-old tree doesn’t count until you chop it down and sell it as lumber. ~ Rutger Bregman,
915:Double with me and Gabriel next Friday!” Isabel announced suddenly. “I’ll find you a date.”

“Pass.”

“Come on. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a date.”

“That’s because I’m awkward and weird and it’s not fun at all for me or the poor soul who agrees to go out with me.”

“That’s not true.”

I crossed my arms.

“You just need to go out more than once … or twice … with someone so they see how fun you are,” Isabel argued, adjusting her backpack straps. “You’re not awkward withme.”

“I’m totally awkward with you but you’re not under pressure to eventually kiss me, so you put up with it. ~ Kasie West,
916:My Clippings - Your Highlight on Location 483-486 | Added on Friday, March 6, 2015 4:28:26 PM Every man ought to endeavour at eminence, not by pulling others down, but by raising himself, and enjoy the pleasure of his own superiority, whether imaginary or real, without interrupting others in the same felicity. The philosopher may very justly be delighted with the extent of his views, and the artificer with the readiness of his hands; but let the one remember, that, without mechanical performances, refined speculation is an empty dream, and the other, that,  without theoretical reasoning, dexterity is little more than a brute instinct. ~ Anonymous,
917:Kilorn and I don’t really see eye to eye on the Feats of First Friday. For me, watching two champions rip into each other is not enjoyable, but Kilorn loves it. Let them ruin each other, he says. They’re not our people. He doesn’t understand what the Feats are about. This isn’t mindless entertainment, meant to give us some respite from grueling work. This is calculated, cold, a message. Only Silvers can fight in the arenas because only a Silver can survive the arena. They fight to show us their strength and power. You are no match for us. We are your betters. We are gods. It’s written in every superhuman blow the champions land. ~ Victoria Aveyard,
918:The evening of Hamilton’s death, New York’s leading merchants exhorted one another to shutter their shops for a state funeral hastily arranged for Saturday, July 14. “The corpse is already putrid,” Gouverneur Morris wrote that Friday, “and the funeral procession must take place tomorrow morning.”5 Mourners assembled on Saturday morning in front of 25 Robinson Street (today Park Place), the home of John and Angelica Church. The New York Common Council, which paid for the funeral, issued a plea that all business in the city should halt out of respect for Hamilton. It was the grandest and most solemn funeral in the city’s history to date. ~ Ron Chernow,
919:It was still dark when Jack left on Friday morning. He sat beside me on the bed and pulled my sleeping body upward, holding me. I awakened with a murmur, and he held my head in one hand, long fingers cupping firmly around my skull. His rich baritone was soft in my ear. “You do what you have to. I won’t stand in the way. But when I come back, you’re not shutting me out, you hear? I’m going to take you somewhere . . . a nice long vacation . . . and we’re going to talk, and I’m going to hold you while you cry until you feel better. And we’ll get you through this.” He kissed my cheek and smoothed my hair, and lowered me back to the mattress. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
920:So, Swami Jesus, will you go on the hajj this year?" Ravi said, bringing the palms of his hands
together in front of his face in a reverent namaskar. "Does Mecca beckon?" He crossed himself. "Or
will it be to Rome for your coronation as the next Pope Pius?" He drew in the air a Greek letter,
making clear the spelling of his Mockery. "Have you found time yet to get the end of your pecker
cut off and become a Jew? At the rate you're going, if you go to temple on Thursday, mosque on
Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church on Sunday, you only need to convert to three more
religions to be on holiday for the rest of your life. ~ Yann Martel,
921:Now the nation’s largest billboard company, Clear Channel Outdoor Inc., is bringing customized pop-up ads to the interstate. Its Radar program, up and running in Boston and 10 other US cities, uses data AT&T Inc. collects on 130 million cellular subscribers, and from two other companies, PlaceIQ Inc. and Placed Inc., which use phone apps to track the comings and goings of millions more. Clear Channel knows what kinds of people are driving past one of their billboards at 6:30 p.m. on a Friday—how many are Dunkin’ Donuts regulars, for example, or have been to three Red Sox games so far this year. It can then precisely target ads to them. ~ Thomas L Friedman,
922:It was Friday, so the farmers' market was in full autumnal swing, a sea of potted chrysanthemums and bushel after bushel of apples, pears, Fauvist gourds, and pumpkins with erotically fanciful stems. On one table stood galvanized buckets of the year's final roses; on another, skeins of yarn in muted, soulful purples and reds. Walter loved this part of the season- and not just because it was the time of year his restaurant flourished, when people felt the first yearnings to sit by a fire, to eat stew and bread pudding and meatloaf, drink cider and toddies and cocoa. He loved the season's transient intensity, its gaudy colors and tempestuous skies. ~ Julia Glass,
923:Bryce Colton is telling everyone you hooked up after the bonfire Friday night.”
“What?” Everyone in the parking lot turned and stared. Okay, maybe I said that a little loud. I hooked my arm through Jane’s and steered her toward the sidewalk.
“I went to the bonfire with you. Do you remember seeing me naked with Bryce Colton?”
She pouted and kicked a rock off the sidewalk. “I thought maybe you went back after you dropped me off.”
“Why do you sound disappointed?”
“It would be nice if one of us had a sex life."
I laughed so hard I snorted. That’s one of the reasons I’m best friends with Jane. I never know what she’s going to say. ~ Chris Cannon,
924:Require Initiative and Problem Solving Your child’s tendency is to let you do all the work. It is your fault if you do it. Begin to say things like, “I’m sorry, but that’s your responsibility. I hope you solve your problem; it sounds difficult, but I’m pulling for you.” Many, many problems can be addressed this way, with kids from four to eighteen: • “Mom, have you seen my shoes?” • “Oh, no, I missed my ride to school!” • “I’m short on my allowance. Can I get a loan till Friday to go to a movie?” • “I’m so mad at you for grounding me!” • “Sorry I’m late, what’s for dinner?” • “It’s the night before my paper is due, and I can’t type.” As you can see, ~ Henry Cloud,
925:Friday, October 3, 1952, Eisenhower was slated to defend Marshall in no uncertain terms. “I know that charges of disloyalty have, in the past, been leveled against General George C. Marshall,” Eisenhower was to have said. “I have been privileged for thirty-five years to know General Marshall personally. I know him, as a man and as a soldier, to be dedicated with singular selflessness and the profoundest patriotism to the service of America. And this episode is a sobering lesson in the way freedom must not defend itself.” Ike never uttered the words. Talked out of it by political advisers who thought it unwise to antagonize McCarthy and his supporters ~ Jon Meacham,
926:I like the hair,” he said.
In the spirit of an off-duty Friday, I wore my hair down. I mostly braided it or curled it into a bun to keep it out of the way, but today it just sort of hung there, a long dark brown wall shifting in the breeze on both sides of my face.
I flexed my wrist, popping a long silver needle into my palm from the leather wrist guard, grabbed my hair, twisted it into a bun, stuck the needle into it to hold it in place, and showed him my teeth in a little smile. There.
He laughed. “Cute. You ever get tired of pretending to be a hard-ass?”
Cute. I think I would prefer to be stabbed in the eye rather than be called cute. ~ Ilona Andrews,
927:The cross is not a picture of payment; the cross is a picture of forgiveness. Good Friday is not about divine wrath; Good Friday is about divine love. Calvary is not where we see how violent God is; Calvary is where we see how violent our civilization is. The justice of God is not retributive; the justice of God is restorative. Justice that is purely retributive changes nothing. The cross is not where God finds a whipping boy to vent his rage upon; the cross is where God saves the world through self-sacrificing love. The only thing God will call justice is setting the world right, not punishing an innocent substitute for the petty sake of appeasement. ~ Brian Zahnd,
928:Buddhist monks cremated the remains of Sherpa guides who were buried in the deadliest avalanche to hit Mount Everest, a disaster that has prompted calls for a climbing boycott by Nepal's ethnic Sherpa community. A Sherpa boycott could critically disrupt the Everest climbing season, which is key to the livelihood of thousands of Nepali guides and porters. Everest climbers have long relied on Sherpas for everything from hauling gear to cooking food to high-altitude guiding. At least 13 Sherpas were killed when a block of ice tore loose from the mountain and triggered a cascade that ripped through teams of guides hauling gear. Three Sherpas missing in Friday's ~ Anonymous,
929:Running is a deeply unpleasant sport at the best of times, but it is particularly awful when you’re bad at it. There is so much unpleasantness at once. First, there is the shortness of breath, then the ache in the legs, then the sharp pain of the stitch, the soreness of the feet, the discomfort of the joints, and the lactic acid burn in the thighs. Eventually, some of this subsides with the increase of dizziness, delirium and sweating. Then there are the added difficulties of cross-country running – scraping through prickly bushes, standing on sharp rocks, getting jabbed by sticks and wading through icy cold streams. Altogether, it was Friday’s idea of hell. ~ R A Spratt,
930:It has been widely pointed out that the two men had much in common. In fact, the parallels are amazing: Lincoln was first elected in 1860, Kennedy in 1960. Both were assassinated on a Friday, in the presence of their wives. Their successors were both southerners named Johnson who had served in the Senate. Andrew Johnson was born in 1808, Lyndon Johnson in 1908. Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846, while Kennedy was elected to the House in 1946. Both men suffered the death of children while in office. The assassin Booth shot inside a theater and fled into a storage facility, while the assassin Oswald shot from a storage facility and fled into a theater. ~ Bill O Reilly,
931:She saw her mother appearing at her bedroom door. “Daddy and I want to talk to you about something.” It would not happen to Liam the way it had happened to her. Over her dead body. It was the one thing she’d always known she could and would spare him from. Her beautiful, grave-faced little boy would not feel the loss and confusion she’d felt that awful summer all those years ago. He would not pack a little overnight bag every second Friday. He would not have to check a calendar on the refrigerator to see where he was sleeping each weekend. He would not learn to think before he spoke whenever one parent asked a seemingly innocuous question about the other. ~ Liane Moriarty,
932:You know what the worst customer service in the world is? I’ll tell you. It’s the weed guys. You just cannot depend on these people. They’ll give you a time, right? And you’re looking forward to it all week and get off work on Friday at five. Of course I personally wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard of people with jobs. And the weed guy never shows up, and he doesn’t answer his phone, and you drive by his house and his car’s gone, and then you’re totally un-stoned at midnight and accidentally bump into the guy at a party and go, ‘Dude, what’s the deal? We had a time,’ and he says, ‘I was doin’ stuff,’ and I say, ‘Like what?’ and he says, ‘Listenin’ to music’ . . .” “Coleman— ~ Tim Dorsey,
933:It's quite simple and natural if you think it out. The old pagan Britons were in the habit of having fairs when they assembled at their holy centres for the big sun festivals. The fairs went on just the same, whether they were pagan or Christian, and the missionary centres grew up where the crowds came together. When the king was converted, they just changed the Sun for the Son. The common people never knew the difference. They went for the fun of the fair and took part in the ceremonies to bring good luck and make the fields fertile. How were they to know the difference between Good Friday and the spring ploughing festival? There was a human sacrifice on both occasions. ~ Dion Fortune,
934:on December 7, 2001, Osama announced that he was leaving. “He deserted us,” remembers Al-Hubayshi bitterly. “After five weeks his people came round telling us to make our way to Pakistan as best we could and surrender to our embassies there. We had been ready to lay down our lives for him, and he couldn’t make the effort to speak to us personally. Today I think that I was made use of by Bin Laden—exploited,
just like all the young kids who went to jihad. What did he care when he sent us over the horizon to die? He was as bad as the religious sheikhs back in Saudi who preached jihad in their
sermons every Friday. How many of them ever sent their own sons to Afghanistan? ~ Robert Lacey,
935:Between Friday evening and Sunday afternoon, I broke into a total of six offices, one penthouse suite and a small bank, and cursed them all. I cursed the stones they were built on, the bricks in their walls, the paint on their ceilings, the carpets on their floors. I cursed the nylon chairs to give their owners little electric shocks, I cursed the markers to squeak on the whiteboard, the hinges to rust, the glass to run, the windows to stick, the fans to whir, the chairs to break, the computers to crash, the papers to crease, the pens to smear; I cursed the pipes to leak, the coolers to drip, the pictures to sag, the phones to crackle and the wires to spark. And we enjoyed it. ~ Kate Griffin,
936:Apparently she was beyond words so she pushed the card into his hands. He looked down. Blinked. Blinked again before stumbling back into a chair. Did he just wet himself? Ah, who cared? He was holding four tickets to the Yankees vs. Red Sox at Yankee Stadium for this Friday and they were without a doubt the best seats in the stadium.
His eyes shifted from Haley to the tickets and back again before he made a split second decision and made a run for it. He didn’t make it five feet before his little grasshopper tackled him to the ground and ripped the card from his hands.
He spit grass out of his mouth. “Fine. You can come with me I guess,” he said, earning a knee to the ribs. ~ R L Mathewson,
937:I hear a whistle behind me and immediately tense. But it’s just Emily. She lifts the edge of my shirt with delicate fingertips. “Somebody had a really good time playing with markers last night,” she says, but she’s grinning. Heat creeps up my face. I tug my shirt down. “And somebody doesn’t want to talk about it.” She laughs. She and Friday lean close together with their shoulders touching. They both narrow their eyes at me. “How high up do you think those markers went?” she asks Friday. But she knows I can hear her. “I’d rather know how far down they went,” Friday says. They both laugh. A grin tugs at my lips despite the heat that’s flooding my face. “Far enough,” I say quietly. ~ Tammy Falkner,
938:Sunday “Well then, as I have just told you, they devoted each day of the week to productions in one or another special branch of knowledge—either works of their hands, or some other form of consciously designed being-manifestation “Thus, Monday was devoted to the first group, and this day was called the ‘day of religious and civil ceremonies’, “Tuesday was allotted to the second group, and was called the ‘day of architecture’, “Wednesday was called the ‘day of painting’, “Thursday, the ‘day of religious and popular dances’, “Friday, the ‘day of sculpture’, “Saturday, the ‘day of the mysteries’ or, as it was also called, the ‘day of the theater’, “Sunday, the ‘day of music and song ~ G I Gurdjieff,
939:Lucas tried to be as soft as he could be; it wasn’t his natural attitude. “Ambiguous . . . how? Was this a sexual relationship?” “Yes. Twice. I mean, we . . . yes, we slept together twice. When he went away, wherever he went, it’s hard to believe that he might be dead, because he was so upbeat when I last saw him. . . . Anyway, I thought maybe the police would ask me about him, but nobody did, and I didn’t know what to do about that. I was scared. . . . I didn’t know what happened to him, and when he didn’t call me Saturday or Sunday, I thought he wasn’t interested anymore.” “When was the last time you heard from him?” Lucas asked. “Friday night, about . . . nine o’clock,” she said. ~ John Sandford,
940:A tall man in a plaid work shirt stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “Can I buy you a drink, little lady?” I reached back and got Jason’s hand. I raised it where it was visible. “Taken. Sorry.” There was more than one reason I’d wanted to bring Jason with me to a bar on a Friday night. He stared down at Jason, way down, making a show of how very tall he was. “Don’t you want something a little bigger?” “I like them small,” I said, my face very serious. “It makes oral sex easier.” We left him speechless. Jason was laughing so hard, he could barely keep his feet. I pulled him through the crowd by the hand. Holding his hand seemed to be hint enough for the rest of the cruising males. The ~ Laurell K Hamilton,
941:SEPTEMBER 1, 1939 WASHINGTON, D.C. The Nazis invaded Poland on a Friday. At 2:50 a.m., President Roosevelt was awakened at the White House residence by a phone call from William Bullitt, the U.S. ambassador in Paris, with news that German planes were bombing Warsaw and that German panzer divisions had punctured the borders. “Well, Bill, it’s come at last,” the president said. “God help us all.” A few hours later, the president met in the Oval Office with Secretary Hull, Undersecretary Sumner Welles, Secretary of War Henry Stimson, and Harry Hopkins, the commerce secretary and one of Roosevelt’s closest confidants. William Barrett, Hull’s senior advisor, sat in on the meeting to take notes. ~ Joel C Rosenberg,
942:Why, given all the information possessed by the Admiralty about U-20; given the Admiralty’s past willingness to provide escorts to inbound ships or divert them away from trouble; given that the ship carried a vital cargo of rifle ammunition and artillery shells; given that Room 40’s intelligence prompted the obsessive tracking and protection of the HMS Orion; given that U-20 had sunk three vessels in the Lusitania’s path; given Cunard chairman Booth’s panicked Friday morning visit to the navy’s Queenstown office; given that the new and safer North Channel route was available; and given that passengers and crew alike had expected to be convoyed to Liverpool by the Royal Navy—the question remains, ~ Erik Larson,
943:I am obligated to the Big Boss, a man of his word, but he gives it very seldom and usually on a sure thing. But he is not a trimmer. He, in times past, owned a bawdy house, a saloon and gambling establishment, was raised in that environment, but he’s all man. I wonder who is worth more in the sight of the Lord? I am only a small duck in a very large puddle, but I am interested very deeply in local or municipal government. Who is to blame for present conditions but sniveling church members who weep on Sunday, play with whores on Monday, drink on Tuesday, sell out to the Boss on Wednesday, repent about Friday, and start over on Sunday. I think maybe the Boss is nearer Heaven than the snivelers. ~ Margaret Truman,
944:What have I ever had to do in my life that really
needed to be done? I always had a choice, and I always took the easy way
out—we always took the easy way out. At our age the burden of double
maths on a Monday morning and finding a spot the size of Pluto on my nose
was as complicated as it ever got for me.
This time round I’m having a baby. A baby. And that baby will be
around on the Monday, on the Tuesday, on the Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I have no weekends off. No three-month holidays.
I can’t take a day off, call in sick, or get Mum to write a note. I am
going to be the mum now. I wish I could write myself a note.
I’m scared, Alex.
Rosie ~ Cecelia Ahern,
945:While the Right Bank of Paris has seen internationalism and the irrepressible rise of “bobos” (the Parisian form of hipsters) change its landscape in recent years, the Left Bank has been able to preserve the soul of the French capital. Walk through the Latin Quarter’s crooked cobblestone corridors or down the grand plane-tree-lined boulevards of St.-Germain-des-Prés and, more than once, you’ll think you’re inside a black-and-white Robert Doisneau photo. Cafe terraces, limestone buildings and nattily dressed locals create a timeless tableau. That’s not to say that Paris south of the dividing Seine is immune to change. But at least for now, the classic charms outweigh the contemporary influences. Friday 1. ~ Anonymous,
946:WONG 107 words SHUI-KUEN WONG, age 107, beloved mother of the late Kwok Ki Yu. Survived by grandson and granddaughter-in-law, Shan and Huong Yu, grandson Wai Keung (Joe) Yu, granddaughters and grandsons-in-law Patricia and Gabriel Tovanche, Sau Mei (Carol) and Scott Mann and adopted grandson and granddaughter-in-law Quang Truong and Quyen Do. Also survived by great-grandchildren, Kristy Do, Kevin Yu; Lorenzo, Alonzo and Lorena Tovanche; Mei-Li Mann; Nguyen Minh Nhut and Nguyen Minh Thu Do. The family will receive friends at GOLUB FUNERAL HOME, 4703 SUPERIOR AVE., CLEVELAND, THURSDAY, NOV. 20, FROM 5-8 P.M. Funeral service FRIDAY, Nov. 21 at the funeral home at 9 A.M. Interment West Park Cemetery. ========== ~ Anonymous,
947:Tenebrae is Latin for ‘darkness’, so it is a service of darkness. Tenebrae services are held on the night of Good Friday, and its purpose is to recreate the emotional aspects of the passion story. Specifically, Tenebrae is a Christian service with no benefits of Christ’s resurrection. There is no sermon, no prayer in Jesus’ name, no offering as there is no Christian work, and no benediction. There are no announcements, and there is no coffee hour. There is no chat before or after the service. It recreates the betrayal, abandonment and agony of the events of Christ’s death, and it is left unfinished, because the service isn’t over until Easter Day, making it technically the longest service of the Christian calendar. ~ Peter Rollins,
948:1. She switched her breakfast to a high-protein meal (at least 30% protein) à la the Slow-Carb Diet. Her favorite: spinach, black beans, and egg whites (one-third of a carton of Eggology liquid egg whites) with cayenne pepper flakes. 2. Three times a week (Monday, Wednesday, Friday), she performed a simple sequence of three exercises prior to breakfast, all of which are illustrated in the next few pages: One set: 20 two-legged glute activation raises from the floor One set: 15 flying dogs, one set each side One set: 50 kettlebell swings (For you: start with a weight that allows you to do 20 perfect repetitions but no more than 30. In other words, start with a weight, no less than 20 pounds, that you can “grow into. ~ Timothy Ferriss,
949:A major existential breakthrough was averted Friday when, moments before he had a realization of monumental personal significance, 29-year-old local resident Darrell Gatsas instead turned to God. "He was so, so close to discovering something truly fundamental about himself and his place in the universe, but nope—he went with God," close friend Peter Rankin, 27, said. "For a second there it seemed like he was going to seriously consider the cause-and-effect relationship of his own actions and elevate himself to a new level of compassion and understanding, but then he suddenly changed course and asked God to swoop in and fix everything." Reached for comment, God chuckled to reporters that Gatsas is, indeed, a real piece of work. ~ The Onion,
950:But the Easter sacrifice in their own homes - well, think it over. I used to think the same as you, and I still hate to see the lambs and calves going home to their deaths on Good Friday. But isn't it a million times better than the way we do it at home, however 'humane' we try to be? Here, the lamb's petted, unsuspicious, happy - you see it trotting along with the children like a little dog. Till the knife's in its throat, it has no idea it's going to die. Isn't that better than those dreadful lorries at home, packed full of animals, lumbering on Mondays and Thursdays to the slaughterhouses, where, be as humane as you like, they can smell the blood and the fear, and have to wait their turn in a place just reeking of death? ~ Mary Stewart,
951:Wendell and Tanya and I spoke at length about one of his themes that drives me with constancy, that of “good work.” One aspect of this topic that I often regurgitate is his dislike for a society that celebrates the notion of “Thank God it’s Friday!” Taking this position, people are necessarily saying that they despise five of every seven days of their lives. He said he first noticed it when he was teaching college, that people would answer the question “How are you doing?” with “Well, pretty good, for a Monday.” This exposed a joylessness that filled Mr. Berry with concern. “It’s a great harbinger of what’s to come. If you don’t like the classes about what you’re going to do, you’re not going to like going to do it.” “More ~ Nick Offerman,
952:People were patient with each other in the Grand Mosque, and communal—everyone washing his or her feet in the same fountain, with no shoving or prejudice. We were all Muslims in God’s house, and it was beautiful. It had a quality of timelessness. I think this is one reason Muslims believe that Islam means peace: because in a large, cool place full of kindness you do feel peaceful. But as soon as we left the mosque, Saudi Arabia meant intense heat and filth and cruelty. People had their heads cut off in public squares. Adults spoke of it. It was a normal, routine thing: after the Friday noon prayer you could go home for lunch, or you could go and watch the executions. Hands were cut off. Men were flogged. Women were stoned. ~ Ayaan Hirsi Ali,
953:I don’t find it surprising that super-old people are so odd and grumpy. Half their friends are dead, they feel like shit most of the time, and the next major event in their lives is going to be their last. They don’t even have the salve of believing that going to the gym is going to make things better, that they’ll meet someone cute in the small hours of a Friday night or that their career is going to suddenly steer into an upturn and they’ll wind up married to a movie star. They’re out the other side of all that, onto a flat, gray plain of aches and bad eyesight, of feeling the cold in their bones and having little to do except watch their children and grandchildren go right ahead and make all the mistakes they warned them about. ~ Michael Marshall,
954:War, as a legitimate means of shaping the world, died with Christ on Good Friday. Jesus refuted the war option when he told Peter to put up his sword. Killing in order to liberate Jesus and his followers from the violent injustice of Caiaphas, Herod, and Pilate would have been a just war—but Jesus refused to engage in a just war. He chose instead to bear witness to the truth, forgive, and die. Jesus took the death of a world framed by war into his body and he and it both died together. Jesus was buried and with him was buried the old world devoted to sin and death. On the third day Jesus was raised and a new world was born. Of course the old world of death still lingers around us, but in the midst of it, the world to come is being born. ~ Brian Zahnd,
955:careful reconstruction of the British war-cabinet meetings between Friday, 24 May and Tuesday, 28 May, five days that could have changed the world. Lukac’s conclusion is inescapable: never was Hitler as close to total control over Western Europe as he was during that last week of May 1940. Britain almost presented him with a peace agreement which he would probably have accepted, and only one man was finally able to stand in the way: Churchill. Besides Churchill, the British war cabinet in those days had four other members, at least two of whom could be counted among the ‘appeasers’: Neville Chamberlain and Lord Halifax. The other two, Clement Atlee and Arthur Greenwood (representing Labour), had no experience in government at that time. On ~ Geert Mak,
956:Let’s hang Thursday after school. You know, to work on the outline,” I tell Brittany for two reasons. First, I need to stop thinking about getting naked with her in front of Miss Koto. Second, I want Brittany to myself.
“I’m busy Thursday,” she says.
Probably with Burro Face. Obviously she’d rather be with that pendejo than me.
“Friday then,” I say, testing her although I probably shouldn’t. Testing a girl like Brittany could put a serious damper on my ego. Although I caught her at a time when she’s vulnerable and still shaking from seeing my blood. I admit I’m a manipulative asshole.
She bites her bottom lip that she thinks is glossed with the wrong color. “I can’t Friday, either.” My hard-on is officially deflated. ~ Simone Elkeles,
957:I become familiar with cold hard grounds. On a Friday night, I drink three too many glasses of wine and I call Finn. She makes no black humor jokes. It is not an erotic mess anymore, like Sabine once told me it was. The conflict and torture is not a sign of intelligence anymore, as Finn once told me it was. It is ugly. We are exhausted. Gutted. You're too hard! she yells at me. Be soft, she orders. I'm confused, I tell her. I don't know what to grieve. I can't be in a relationship with anyone, she says, so if you have to grieve something, grieve that. She says this strongly. She means it. When we get off the phone I am in fetal position on the bathroom floor, holding my heart, while it literally aches. ~ Chloe Caldwell,
958:For the first time in my life, I’m being sent home with weekly progress reports that I have to give to my father.

The reports are written by Mrs. Leibler and read and signed by Mrs. Kushel, which is my teachers’ way of saying that they’re in agreement about my behavior.

The reports list all my notable behaviors for Monday through Friday. Some of the comments are nice such as the ones about when I participate appropriately in a classroom discussion.

But most of the comments make my father slam the reports on the table and say, “Rose, for God’s sake. Keep your mouth closed when you think of a homonym” or “Do you see any of the other kids clapping their hands over their ears and screaming when they hear the fire alarm? ~ Ann M Martin,
959:King refused to lose hope or to relinquish the belief that “all reality hinges on moral foundations.” He focused his hope on Jesus’ cross and resurrection. “Christ came to show us the way. Men love darkness rather than the light, and they crucified Him, there on Good Friday on the Cross it was still dark, but then Easter came, and Easter is the eternal reminder of the fact that the truth-crushed earth will rise again.” No matter what disappointments he faced, King still preached hope with the passion of a prophet: “I still have a dream, because, you know, you can’t give up on life. If you lose hope, somehow you lose that vitality that keeps life moving, you lose that courage to be, that quality that helps you to go on in spite of all.”[49] ~ James H Cone,
960:The different religions confused me. Which was the right one? I tried to figure it out but had no success. It worried me. The different Gods - Catholic, Jewish, Protestant, Mohammedan - seemed very particular in the way in which they expected me to keep on good terms with them. I couldn't please one without offending the others. One kind soul solved my problem by taking me on my first trip to the planetarium. I contemplated the insignificant flyspeck called Earth, the millions of suns and solar systems, and concluded that whoever was in charge of all this would not throw a fit if I ate ham, or meat on Friday, or did not fast in the daytime during Ramadan. I felt much better after this and was, for a while, keenly interested in astronomy. ~ Richard Erdoes,
961:Thereafter he gave up on a career in the arts and filled a succession of unsuitable vacancies and equally unsuitable women, falling in love whenever he took up a new job, and falling out of love - or more correctly being fallen out of love with - every time he moved on. He drove a removal van, falling in love with the first woman whose house he emptied, delivered milk in an electric float, falling in love with the cashier who paid him every Friday night, worked as an assistant to an Italian carpenter who replaced sash windows in Victorian houses and replaced Julian Treslove in the affections of the cashier, managed a shoe department in a famous London store, falling in love with the woman who managed soft furnishings on the floor above. ~ Howard Jacobson,
962:It happens that the stage sets collapse. Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm—this path is easily followed most of the time. But one day the “why” arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement. “Begins”—this is important. Weariness comes at the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It awakens consciousness and provokes what follows. What follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the definitive awakening. At the end of the awakening comes, in time, the consequence: suicide or recovery. ~ Albert Camus,
963:When it got to be time to design the week—a period of time, unlike the day, month, and year, with no intrinsic astronomical significance—it was assigned seven days, each named after one of the seven anomalous lights in the night sky. We can readily make out the remnants of this convention. In English, Saturday is Saturn’s day. Sunday and Mo[o]nday are clear enough. Tuesday through Friday are named after the gods of the Saxon and kindred Teutonic invaders of Celtic/Roman Britain: Wednesday, for example, is Odin’s (or Wodin’s) day, which would be more apparent if we pronounced it as it’s spelled, “Wedn’s Day”; Thursday is Thor’s day; Friday is the day of Freya, goddess of love. The last day of the week stayed Roman, the rest of it became German. ~ Carl Sagan,
964:They were a mile from Grant’s place at eight-fifteen. The day before, they’d spotted a diner with a strong and reliable Wi-Fi and no protection, with parking on the side and in back, out of sight from the street. Kidd signed on from a laptop and dialed up another laptop, which was hooked into his cell phone, back at the condo. His phone made a call to a friend who, at that moment, was playing a violin in a chamber quartet at the birthday party for a St. Paul surgeon’s wife. Kidd let the call ring through to the answering service, left a message that suggested handball on Friday. “Done,” he said, when he’d hung up. An alibi. Both of their desktop computers would be roaming websites all through the evening, and they’d send out a couple of e-mails. ~ John Sandford,
965:Dear John—   It will be many years before you understand fully what a great man your father was. His loss is a deep personal tragedy for all of us, but I wanted you particularly to know that I share your grief—You can always be proud of him— Affectionately Lyndon B. Johnson The second was a little longer. Himself the father of two girls, he had been particularly fond of the President’s daughter. THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON Friday Night 7:30 November 22, 1963 Dearest Caroline—   Your father’s death has been a great tragedy for the Nation, as well as for you, and I wanted you to know how much my thoughts are of you at this time. He was a wise and devoted man. You can always be proud of what he did for his country— Affectionately Lyndon B. Johnson ~ William Manchester,
966:In my experience, writers tend to be really good at the inside of their own heads and imaginary people, and a lot less good at the stuff going on outside, which means that quite often if you flirt with us we will completely fail to notice, leaving everybody involved slightly uncomfortable and more than slightly unlaid.

So I would suggest that any attempted seduction of a writer would probably go a great deal easier for all parties if you sent them a cheerful note saying "YOU ARE INVITED TO A SEDUCTION: Please come to dinner on Friday Night, Wear the kind of clothes you would like to be seduced in."

And alcohol may help, too. Or kissing. Many writers figure out that they're being seduced or flirted with if someone is actually kissing them. ~ Neil Gaiman,
967:Jobs had not tempered his way of dealing with employees. “He applied charm or public humiliation in a way that in most cases proved to be pretty effective,” Tribble recalled. But sometimes it wasn’t. One engineer, David Paulsen, put in ninety-hour weeks for the first ten months at NeXT. He quit when “Steve walked in one Friday afternoon and told us how unimpressed he was with what we were doing.” When Business Week asked him why he treated employees so harshly, Jobs said it made the company better. “Part of my responsibility is to be a yardstick of quality. Some people aren’t used to an environment where excellence is expected.” But he still had his spirit and charisma. There were plenty of field trips, visits by akido masters, and off-site retreats. ~ Walter Isaacson,
968:Jobs had not tempered his way of dealing with employees. “He applied charm or public humiliation in a way that in most cases proved to be pretty effective,” Tribble recalled. But sometimes it wasn’t. One engineer, David Paulsen, put in ninety-hour weeks for the first ten months at NeXT. He quit when “Steve walked in one Friday afternoon and told us how unimpressed he was with what we were doing.” When Business Week asked him why he treated employees so harshly, Jobs said it made the company better. “Part of my responsibility is to be a yardstick of quality. Some people aren’t used to an environment where excellence is expected.” But he still had his spirit and charisma. There were plenty of field trips, visits by aikido masters, and off-site retreats. ~ Walter Isaacson,
969:See what a good girlfriend I am? I’m all about the compromises.” She grins. “This relationship rocks.”

“Damn right it does.” I kiss her cheek, then suck in a breath when something occurs to me.

“What is it?” she says in concern.

I turn to her with even wider eyes. “Babe…are we boring?”

Allie hoots. “Did you really just ask that?”

“Yes, I fucking asked that.” I wave a hand around the room. “Look at us. It’s Friday night and we’re on the living room couch, talking about how great our relationship is. That’s the most boring thing we can be doing.” I sigh loudly. “Is this our life now? Doomed to stay in and cuddle every night? Is the excitement over?”

“The excitement isn’t over,” she assures me.

“Are you sure? ~ Elle Kennedy,
970:Speaking on ABC’s “This Week,’’ Pfeiffer said Obama has no choice but to act on his own because of Congress’s ‘‘failure to fix the immigration system’’ and to provide extra money to deal with Central American children crossing the US-Mexico border. House Republicans on Friday approved a bill to address the problem of unattended children crossing the Mexican border. The measure would allocate $694 million for border security efforts, including $35 million for the National Guard, and also clear the way for eventual deportation of more than 700,000 immigrants brought here illegally as children. The Senate shelved its own bill on emergency border funds, which means no final congressional action will occur until lawmakers return from their five-week summer break. ~ Anonymous,
971:You start on Monday with the idea implanted in your bosom that you are going to enjoy yourself. You wave an airy adieu to the boys on shore, light your biggest pipe, and swagger about the deck as if you were Captain Cook, Sir Francis Drake, and Christopher Columbus all rolled into one. On Tuesday, you wish you hadn't come. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, you wish you were dead. On Saturday, you are able to swallow a little beef tea, and to sit up on deck, and answer with a wan, sweet smile when kind-hearted people ask you how you feel now. On Sunday, you begin to walk about again, and take solid food. And on Monday morning, as, with your bag and umbrella in your hand, you stand by the gunwale, waiting to step ashore, you begin to thoroughly like it. ~ Jerome K Jerome,
972:You start on Monday with the idea implanted in your bosom that you are going to enjoy yourself.  You wave an airy adieu to the boys on shore, light your biggest pipe, and swagger about the deck as if you were Captain Cook, Sir Francis Drake, and Christopher Columbus all rolled into one.  On Tuesday, you wish you hadn’t come.  On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, you wish you were dead.  On Saturday, you are able to swallow a little beef tea, and to sit up on deck, and answer with a wan, sweet smile when kind-hearted people ask you how you feel now.  On Sunday, you begin to walk about again, and take solid food.  And on Monday morning, as, with your bag and umbrella in your hand, you stand by the gunwale, waiting to step ashore, you begin to thoroughly like it. I ~ Jerome K Jerome,
973:Day One, Morning  The Dempsey Penthouse, New York On the morning the ships came, Meyer Dempsey found himself preoccupied with drugs, sex, and business. It would have been hard to believe that just six days later, only one of the three would seem to matter.  “You’re not listening to me, Heather,” he said into the phone. “I’m going to be in LA from Friday to Tuesday. I’ve already booked time with the studio on Monday. The whole reason I’m coming early is—”  Heather cut him off, probably to feed her need for a zinger more than a reply that couldn’t wait. Heather was always “on,” never really able to take a break and just be a person for once. It was one of the reasons they hadn’t been able to stay married. It was like living with a jester.  “Because you want to do the Walk ~ Sean Platt,
974:AT&T to add 200 Illinois jobs 117 words AT&T said it will create about 200 new retail and technician jobs in Illinois. “In today’s economy, there’s no doubt that broadband creates jobs,” AT&T Illinois President Paul La Schiazza said at a news conference Friday at the company’s Michigan Avenue flagship store. Gov. Pat Quinn was also in attendance. The governor thanked AT&T for contributing to a “broadband employment future.” “This investment of AT&T . . . to create more jobs in Illinois — that’s what we have to do over and over again,” Quinn said. The new jobs will be located in Chicago, Aurora, Elgin, Buffalo Grove, Northbrook, Libertyville, Champaign and Springfield, the company said. AT&T employs more than 14,000 workers in Illinois. —Hannah Lutz ~ Anonymous,
975:Sessizliği Dinlemek (Osho) - Your Highlight at location 64-69 | Added on Friday, 23 May 2014 22:53:31 her seçim bir anlamda nihaidir. Geri dönüşü yoktur, onu unutamazsınız, seçileni seçilmemiş hale getiremezsiniz. Seçiminiz kaderiniz olur. Sizinle kalır, bir parçanız olur; onu inkar edemezsiniz. Ama seçmek her zaman bir kumardır. Her seçim karanlıkta yapılır çünkü hiçbir şey kesin değildir. İnsan bu yüzden anksiyete çeker. İliklerine kadar anksiyete içindedir. Acıları "olmak mı olmamak mı?" ile başlar. Yapmak mı yapmamak mı? Bunu mu yapmalı, yoksa şunu mu? "Seçmemek" mümkün değildir. Seçmediğinizde seçmemeyi seçiyorsunuz demektir ki, bu da bir seçimdir. Onun için seçmeye zorunlusunuz, seçmeme özgürlüğünüz yok. Seçmemek de herhangi başka bir seçim kadar etkilidir. ========== ~ Anonymous,
976:One Friday, after a particularly shattering day at the office, in which my code reviews had all come back red with snotty comments, and my manager, Peter, had gently inquired about the pace of my refactoring ("perhaps not sufficiently turbo-charged"), I arrived home in a swirl of angst, with petulance and self-recrimination locked in ritual combat to determine which would ruin my night. On the phone with Beoreg, I ordered my food with a rattling sigh, and when his brother arrived at my door, he carried something different: a more compact tub containing a fiery red broth and not one but two slabs of bread for dipping. "Secret spicy," he whispered. The soup was so hot it burned the frustration out of my, and I went to bed feeling like a fresh plate, scalded and scraped clean. ~ Robin Sloan,
977:The waitress came over slowly, as if the effort of crossing the floor was synonymous with wading through deep snow and she should be rewarded for it. Myron warmed her up with one of his patented smiles. The Christian Slater model—friendly yet devilish. Not to be mistaken for the Jack Nicholson model which was also friendly yet devilish. “Hi,” he said. She put down a Rolling Rock cardboard coaster. “What can I get you?” she asked, trying to toss up a friendly tone and falling way short. You rarely find a friendly barmaid in Manhattan, except for those born-again waitresses at chains like TGI Friday’s or Bennigan’s where they tell you their name and that they’ll be your “server” like you might mistake them for something else, like your “legal consultant” or “medical advisor. ~ Harlan Coben,
978:What would I like to get away from? Complexity. Anxiety. A feeling I've had my whole life that at any given time there's something I'm forgetting, some detail or chore, something that I'm supposed to be doing or should have already done. That nagging sensation - I get up with it, I go through the day with it, I go to sleep with it. When I was a kid, I had a habit of coming home from school on Friday afternoons and immediately doing my homework. So I'd wake up on Saturday morning with this wonderful sensation, a clean, open feeling of relief and possibility and calm. There'd be nothing I had to do. Those Saturday mornings, they were a taste of real freedom that I've hardly ever experienced as an adult. I never wake up in Elmsford with the feeling that I've done my homework. ~ Lionel Shriver,
979:7.3-magnitude earthquake hits near Papua New Guinea A powerful earthquake struck off the South Pacific nation of Papua New Guinea on Friday, but there were no immediate reports of damage or injuries. The U.S. Geological Survey said the magnitude-7.3 earthquake was located 61 kilometres (38 miles) southwest of the town of Panguna on Bougainville Island. It struck at a depth of 50 kilometres (31 miles). The Pacific Tsunami Warning Center said there was no threat of a destructive widespread tsunami. But the agency said quakes of this size can sometimes generate waves that can be destructive to coasts within a few hundred kilometres (miles) of the epicenter. A staffer at the Geophysical Observatory in the capital, Port Moresby, said no reports of damage or unusual wave activity along ~ Anonymous,
980:In a sense, fear is the daughter of God, redeemed on Good Friday. She is not beautiful, mocked, cursed or disowned by all. But don’t be mistaken, she watches over all mortal agony, she intercedes for mankind; for there is a rule and an exception. Culture is the rule, and art is the exception. Everybody speaks the rule; cigarette, computer, t-shirt, television, tourism, war. Nobody speaks the exception. It isn’t spoken, it is written; Flaubert, Dostoyevsky. It is composed; Gershwin, Mozart. It is painted; Cézanne, Vermeer. It is filmed; Antonioni, Vigo. Or it is lived, then it is the art of living; Srebrenica, Mostar, Sarajevo. The rule is to want the death of the exception. So the rule for cultural Europe is to organise the death of the art of living, which still flourishes. ~ Jean Luc Godard,
981:I rolled my hands along the sides of the coffee cup, busying myself, steadying my nerves. “I’m listening.” “So, I don’t actually live in New York. I live in L.A.” My eyes flew up to his. “Oh. I didn’t know that.” I tried not to sound disappointed. He had the Viper booked every Tuesday, but I supposed that didn’t mean that he was actually present every week. So how often was he in town? As if reading my mind, he said, “I’m here every week. For work. I take a red-eye to New York on Monday, and Thursday night I take a red-eye back.” Thank the Lord. While I was curious about what he did for a living that had him working on two coasts, it was another part of his statement that struck me. “But today is Friday.” “I skipped my flight last night.” My stomach flipped. “Why?” “For you.” I ~ Laurelin Paige,
982:We used to fuck with our Catholic roommate during Lent, trying to determine exactly how specific God's opinion was about that one. What if you ate something that you didn't know contained meat? What if you were driving east at 11:30pm and unknowingly crossed into a new time zone right before biting into a cheeseburger? During an airline flight, did God go by departure time, arrival time, or local time when determining the Hell- or Heavenbound nature of your meals? "What if you're a butcher," I remember saying, "and you're slicing up a side of beef on Friday when a stray bit of flesh becomes airborne and lodges itself in your throat. You begin to choke. You can't cough it up, but you could swallow it and save your life. What then, when your life is at stake?" Ridiculous? Sacrilegious? ~ Johnny B Truant,
983:As for the other neighbors, they had been on vacation for a while already or had left Friday afternoon for a weekend in the mountains, at the sea. The three of us, too, would have been settled at least a month earlier at some seaside vacation place, as we were every year, if Mario hadn't left. The lech. Empty building, August was like that. I felt like guffawing at every door, sticking out my tongue, thumbing my nose. I didn't give a shit about them. Happy little families, good money from professions, comfort constructed by selling at a high price services that should be free. Like Mario, who allowed us to live well by selling his ideas, his intelligence, the persuasive tones of his voice when he taught. Ilaria called to me from the landing:
"I don't want to stay with the vomit stink. ~ Elena Ferrante,
984:What did I think I was doing? What did she think she was doing? When I want to kiss people in that way now, with mouths and tongues and all that, it's because I want other things too: sex, Friday nights at the cinema, company and conversation, fused networks of family and friends, Lemsips brought to me in bed when I am ill, a new pair of ears for my records and CDs, maybe a little boy called Jack and a little girl called Holly or Maisie, I haven't decided yet. But I didn't want any of those things from Alison Ashworth. Not children, because we were children, and not Friday nights at the pictures, because we went Saturday mornings, and not Lemsips, because my mum did that, not even sex, especially not sex, please God not sex, the filthiest and most terrifying invention of the early seventies. ~ Nick Hornby,
985:are sworn, you will be asked to state your name. I know ‘Lange’ is your stage name. Be sure to tell the jury your legal name is LaSalle. Let’s review your testimony again. “You will be asked if you lived with your sister.” “No, when I left college I got my own apartment.” “Are your parents living?” “No, my mother died three years after Leila and I came to New York, and I never knew my father.” “Now let’s review again your testimony, starting with the day before the murder.” “I had been out of town for three months with a stock company. . . . I got in on Friday night, March twenty-eighth, just in time to catch the last preview of Leila’s play.” “How did you find your sister?” “She was obviously under a terrible strain; she kept forgetting her lines. Her performance was a shambles. Between ~ Mary Higgins Clark,
986:Actually ask him out, I can get Kevin to babysit and then we can all go on a double date, I’ve always wanted to do that! Ruby: Oh please, the innocence of the young and inexperienced. Ted and Greg will have absolutely nothing in common, they’re like chalk and cheese; a bank manager and a possible bank robber. They will hate each other, the atmosphere will be awkward, no one will talk, all you’ll hear is the munching of food in our mouths over the deafening silence like some kind of weird Chinese torture, we’ll all refuse dessert, skip the coffee, pick up the check, and leg it out the door and feel relieved and promise ourselves never to meet up again. Rosie: How does next Friday sound? Ruby: Friday’s fine.

Ahern, Cecelia (2005-02-01). Love, Rosie (pp. 83-84). Hachette Books. Kindle Edition. ~ Cecelia Ahern,
987:I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you
are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body.
You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she
will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes
that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back
to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name.

I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me
You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you.
You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own.
But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless.
and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone
and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home. ~ Clementine von Radics,
988:The day of resurrection is determined in this manner. The first Sunday after the full moon in Aries is celebrated as Easter. Aries begins on the 21st day of March and ends approximately on the 19th day of April. The sun’s entry into Aries marks the beginning of Spring The moon in its monthly transit around the earth will form sometime between March 21st and April 25th an opposition to the sun, which opposition is called a full moon, The first Sunday after this phenomenon of the heavens occurs Is celebrated as Easter; the Friday preceding this day is observed as Good Friday. This movable date should tell the observant one to look for some interpretation other than the one commonly accepted. These days do not mark the anniversaries of the death and resurrection of an individual who lived on earth. ~ Neville Goddard,
989:What's on the menu for tomorrow?" I ask.
"Celery root soup with bacon and green apple. And bean and Swiss chard."
"Why don't you ever do something normal, like chicken noodle?" Gretchen asks.
"If you want that, buy a can," Tee says, stirring the creamy goodness in her speckled enamelware pot.
Gretchen begins preparing for the morning. I hover, watching, though by now she knows what to do. She'll make the dough for the soup boules, challahs, sticky buns, and Friday's featured sandwich loaf, cinnamon raisin. I start the poolish- a pre-fermented dough- for my own seven-grain Rustica as she weighs the flour and fills the stand mixer. The machine wheezes, rocking a little too much, as it spins the ingredients together. It's old and will need to be replaced soon. Vintage, Gretchen calls it. ~ Christa Parrish,
990:I’m Josh Wynter, by the way.”
“And do you become Josh Summer in June?” I asked.
Okay, it was totally lame, a stupid thing to say, but I was still reeling from the fact that a hot guy--were all the guys on this island hot?--was roaming the halls and I was…
Not at my best. Ratty robe. Fuzzy slippers. Hair tangled. Teeth unbrushed.
And have I mentioned that I am not a morning person?
“Actually,” he said at last, as though finally catching on to my not-so-witty banter, “I stay Josh Wynter all year. Do you stay unfriendly?”
“That does not deserve an answer,” I mumbled as I shoved past him as quickly as I could and went into the bathroom. I slammed the door shut.
Okay, I had been unfriendly, rude even, but he was so unexpected. And so hot. And I already had a date for Friday night. ~ Rachel Hawthorne,
991:The killing happened amid an outburst of deadly violence across the District that claimed six lives in six days. The victims include a community news reporter who police said was waiting for a bus when she was shot by someone aiming at another person; and a motorist killed when a passenger opened fire from another vehicle on the Anacostia Freeway. The killings bring the District's homicide count to 50, up from 45 at this time last year. At Friday night's vigil, Gliss's pastor, Bishop Melvin G. Brown of Greater New Hope Baptist Church, acknowledged national attention on police use of deadly force. But he urged mourners to address dangers closer to home. "Can we be real tonight?" Brown said. "Most of the violence, most of the killing comes from us killing other folk. Young black folk killing other young black folk. ~ Anonymous,
992:In a frenetic whirlwind we chop and dice and mince, turning anything we can think of into a possible pizza topping, and packing them all in small hotel pans in the rolling coolers we use for field shoots. When the dough has risen, I roll out fifty twelve-inch rounds, separating each with sheets of parchment, and stacking them in sheet pans, a rotini with a creamy sauce with ham and peas, and a simple rigatoni with vegetables in a light tomato sauce. Patrick discovers a big bowl of leftover risotto from Friday's testing, and heats up the deep fryer, yelling at me to set up a breeding station so he can do some arancini. While he is frying the little rice balls, I grab a huge prep bowl and fill it with romaine, shaved Parmesan, croutons and crispy capers, and I mix together a quick peppery pseudo-Caesar-style dressing. ~ Stacey Ballis,
993:Lyft's arguments are a disingenuous attempt to disguise old-fashioned lawbreaking that jeopardizes public safety," Messrs. Schneiderman and Lawsky said in a news release. Lyft launched earlier this year in Buffalo and Rochester. The company said it is filling a transportation gap by allowing car owners to give rides in exchange for suggested donations. Officials in Mr. Schneiderman's office said the court ordered a halt to Lyft's planned launch in New York City on Friday but didn't prevent the service from continuing in Buffalo and Rochester. Lyft, however, said the judge didn't issue a restraining order, calling Messrs. Schneiderman and Lawksy's characterization of the court's action "a deliberate misstatement." The TLC also sought a restraining order against Lyft. Officials said a court hearing is scheduled for Monday. ~ Anonymous,
994:English version by Gabriel Rosenstock O Christ, protect me! How can I know your power? Your peace I need now Branch of fairest flower! O child of Bethlehem Please do not be hard! Ruler of all On Sunday be my guard. On Monday, when you judge me Save me from all harm, Though angered by your wounds Stretch out your arm. On Tuesday, lovely Son Who never shirked pain Let the world's kings stand aside Be my gain! On Thursday, God the Father, Do not deny your face, Your pain stirs love within me Seal your grace. O Trinity, stand by me Without you we are dust, On Friday, hold back your anger, Help us, you must. On Saturday, save me! My deeds leave me in danger, Do not tax me too much, I am no stranger. Son of the Father, help me, Only son most high, Pardon us, in spite of all, I cry.

~ Aonghus of the Divinity, O Christ, protect me!
,
995:I go by the shop, but Friday’s not there. I go to the apartment, but she’s not there, either. I stop in her doorway and look around her room, startled at the lack of her things on the dresser. She did have makeup and other oddities there, but now there’s nothing. I go to the closet and open the door. Her suitcase is gone. I slam my fist against the wall, feeling like someone just kicked me in the gut. She’s gone. Completely and totally gone. I call all my brothers, and no one has seen her. I call all their girlfriends and wives, and they haven’t seen her. I call Garrett and Cody, and they haven’t seen her, either, but now they’re worried. So are my brothers. They want to go out looking for her, each of us taking a different part of the city. But there’s one thing I know for sure. She won’t turn up until she wants to be found. ~ Tammy Falkner,
996:Friday isn’t a lesbian, but Paul thinks she is. When she first started, he hit on her pretty hard, and she started talking about one of her girlfriends one night. He assumed she’s gay. She and I were working late one night, and she admitted to me that she’s not. She likes men. It’s just easier working around a bunch of them when they think she’s a lesbian. I haven’t set Paul straight yet. It’s too funny watching him with her. She’s one of the guys, and I like her that way. I couldn’t think of her as a girl if I tried, and that was before I even met Reagan. Friday takes Emily and Reagan with her around the corner to get a hot dog. They leave, and I can’t keep from laughing while Paul watches the sway of Friday’s ass. He grins at me and shrugs. “Dude, you’re not getting in her pants,” I say. “I can look,” he tosses out, still grinning. ~ Tammy Falkner,
997:Alec cleared his throat. He felt dizzy, but he also felt alive — blood rushing through his veins like traffic at top speed, everything seemingly almost too brightly colored. As he stepped through the door, he turned and looked at Magnus, who was watching him bemusedly. He reached forward and took hold of the front of Magnus’ t-shirt and dragged the warlock toward him. Magnus stumbled against him, and Alec kissed him, hard and fast and messy and unpracticed, but with everything he had. He pulled Magnus against him, his own hand between them, and felt Magnus’ heart stutter in his chest.
He broke off the kiss, and drew back.
“Friday,” he said, and let Magnus go. He backed away, down the landing, Magnus looking after him. The warlock crossed his arms over his shirt — wrinkled where Alec had grabbed it — and shook his head, grinning. ~ Cassandra Clare,
998:A lot of us are raised with a series of checkboxes we treat like stepping stones to a middle-class dream life: you graduate high school, graduate college, land a fulfilling career, find a spouse, buy a house, have 1.7 kids, and retire in time to spend thousands of dollars on a boat. We're urged to make choices that guarantee our stability and a future aren't guarantees, but privileges. We treat life paths as one-size-fits-all options and forget that histories, socioeconomic realities, and individuality make our slanted idea of conformity impossible. There is no one right way to 'adult.' Sometimes it's earning a degree, sometimes it's making it all the way to Friday.

But these traditional success stories are still inescapable. And even if you're happy after choosing something unconventional, convention still looms and fosters doubt. ~ Anne T Donahue,
999:Mothers of Invention: Women of the Slaveholding South in the American Civil War (Drew Gilpin Faust) - Your Highlight on Location 51-51 | Added on Sunday, August 24, 2014 1:56:40 PM I confronted the paradox of being both a southerner and an American at an early age. ========== Mothers of Invention: Women of the Slaveholding South in the American Civil War (Drew Gilpin Faust) - Your Highlight on Location 125-126 | Added on Tuesday, August 26, 2014 2:28:54 PM "The surface of society, like a great ocean, is upheaved, and all the relations of life are disturbed and out of joint." ========== Mothers of Invention: Women of the Slaveholding South in the American Civil War (Drew Gilpin Faust) - Your Highlight on Location 170-170 | Added on Friday, August 29, 2014 1:59:28 PM "Necessity," Confederate women repeatedly intoned, "is the mother of invention. ~ Anonymous,
1000:third layer of nativeness was composed of those who others thought directly descended, even in the tiniest fraction of their genes, from the human beings who had been brought from Africa to this continent centuries ago as slaves. While this layer of nativeness was not vast in proportion to the rest, it had vast importance, for society had been shaped in reaction to it, and unspeakable violence had occurred in relation to it, and yet it endured, fertile, a stratum of soil that perhaps made possible all future transplanted soils, and to which Saeed in particular was attracted, since at a place of worship where he had gone one Friday the communal prayer was led by a man who came from this tradition and spoke of this tradition, and Saeed had found, in the weeks he and Nadia had been in Marin, this man’s words to be full of soul-soothing wisdom. ~ Mohsin Hamid,
1001:I remembered what Dad said once, that some people have all of life's answers worked out the day they're born and there's no use trying to teach them anything new. "They're closed for business even though, somewhat confusingly, their doors open at eleven, Monday through Friday," Dad said. And the trying to change what they think, the attempt to explain, the hope they'll come to see your side of things, it was exhausting, because it never made a dent and afterward you only ached unbearably. It was like being a Prisoner in a Maximum-Security Prison, wanting to know what a Visitor's hand felt like (see Living in Darkness, Cowell, 1967). No matter how desperately you wanted to know, pressing your dumb palm against the glass right where the visitor's hand was pressed on the opposite side, you never would know that feeling, not until they set you free. ~ Marisha Pessl,
1002:I should have mentioned before, that, in the autumn of the preceding year, I had form'd most of my ingenious acquaintance into a club of mutual improvement, which we called the JUNTO; we met on Friday evenings. The rules that I drew up required that every member, in his turn, should produce one or more queries on any point of Morals, Politics, or Natural Philosophy, to be discuss'd by the company; and once in three months produce and read an essay of his own writing, on any subject he pleased. Our debates were to be under the direction of a president, and to be conducted in the sincere spirit of inquiry after truth, without fondness for dispute, or desire of victory; and, to prevent warmth, all expressions of positiveness in opinions, or direct contradiction, were after some time made contraband, and prohibited under small pecuniary penalties. ~ Benjamin Franklin,
1003:HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS ‘In a brief statement on Friday night, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned to this country and is once more active. ‘“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord – well, you know who I mean – is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the Dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe the Dementors are currently taking direction from Lord – Thingy. ‘“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defence which will be delivered free to all wizarding homes within the coming month. ~ J K Rowling,
1004:NOS4A2 (Joe Hill) - Your Highlight on page 628 | location 8861-8868 | Added on Friday, 30 January 2015 23:41:13 Mężczyźni nie mogą przestać myśleć o kobietach. Myślą o jakiejś pani tak, jak głodny myśli o krwistym steku. Kiedy jesteś głodny i czujesz zapach steku pieczonego na grillu, rozprasza cię ściskanie w gardle i przestajesz myśleć. Kobiety są tego świadome. Wykorzystują to. Dyktują warunki, tak samo jak twoja matka przed kolacją. Jeśli nie posprzątasz pokoju, nie zmienisz koszuli i nie umyjesz rąk, nie wolno ci usiąść do stołu. Większość mężczyzn wyobraża sobie, że będą coś warci, jeśli spełnią warunki narzucone przez kobiety. Ale kiedy usunie się kobietę z obrazka, mężczyzna może odzyskać odrobinę wewnętrznego spokoju. Kiedy nie masz się z kim targować, z wyjątkiem samego siebie i innych mężczyzn, możesz się w końcu odnaleźć. To wspaniałe uczucie. ~ Anonymous,
1005:Can I go to the doctor with you tomorrow?” I call back. I wince. Why the fuck did I ask her that? She jerks the curtain back and glares at me. “Why do you want to go?” I shrug and look everywhere but at her. “I just do.” “Ten o’clock,” she says, and she jerks the curtain closed. I want to pump my fist in the air because I feel like I finally won a battle with Friday. All this week has been one fight after another. She fights to pick up after Hayley. She does the dishes and the laundry when she knows I’m planning to do them. She made dinner for me and Hayley twice this past week. Even Sam liked it when he finally dragged his ass home. I’m not used to having anyone take care of me, and I can’t figure out if I like it. I have been taking care of everybody around me for a long time, but Friday has come in like a steamroller and changed my whole fucking life. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1006:BEAVER MOON—THE SUICIDE OF A FRIEND When somewhere life breaks like a pane of glass, and from every direction casual voices are bringing you the news, you say: I should have known. You say: I should have been aware. That last Friday he looked so ill, like an old mountain-climber lost on the white trails, listening to the ice breaking upward, under his worn-out shoes. You say: I heard rumors of trouble, but after all we all have that. You say: what could I have done? and you go with the rest, to bury him. That night, you turn in your bed to watch the moon rise, and once more see what a small coin it is against the darkness, and how everything else is a mystery, and you know nothing at all except the moonlight is beautiful— white rivers running together along the bare boughs of the trees— and somewhere, for someone, life is becoming moment by moment unbearable. ~ Mary Oliver,
1007:FRIDAY MORNING, CADE met with Cameron and Nick McCall, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Chicago office, to get him up to speed on the status of all open FBI investigations. It was the last agency they needed to cover—after this, Cade would be fully briefed and ready to take over as acting U.S. attorney.

They’d been going for over an hour when Cameron stood up from her desk. She took a deep breath and put her hands on her lower back, which parted her suit jacket over her very pregnant stomach.

Cade and Nick exchanged looks, speaking in silent man-code, as was necessary in such circumstances.

You’ve got this, right, if she goes into labor here?

You’re asking me? No, I don’t have this.

“You boys can stop staring at me like I’m a ticking bomb about to explode.”

Busted.

“I just need to stand for a few minutes ~ Julie James,
1008:Indeed, these are the great lingering questions of the Lusitania affair: Why, given all the information possessed by the Admiralty about U-20; given the Admiralty’s past willingness to provide escorts to inbound ships or divert them away from trouble; given that the ship carried a vital cargo of rifle ammunition and artillery shells; given that Room 40’s intelligence prompted the obsessive tracking and protection of the HMS Orion; given that U-20 had sunk three vessels in the Lusitania’s path; given Cunard chairman Booth’s panicked Friday morning visit to the navy’s Queenstown office; given that the new and safer North Channel route was available; and given that passengers and crew alike had expected to be convoyed to Liverpool by the Royal Navy—the question remains, why was the ship left on its own, with a proven killer of men and ships dead ahead in its path? ~ Erik Larson,
1009:Where a typical manager may set the deadline for the employee, Musk guides his engineers into taking ownership of their own delivery dates. “He doesn’t say, ‘You have to do this by Friday at two P.M.,’” Brogan said. “He says, ‘I need the impossible done by Friday at two P.M. Can you do it?’ Then, when you say yes, you are not working hard because he told you to. You’re working hard for yourself. It’s a distinction you can feel. You have signed up to do your own work.” And by recruiting hundreds of bright, self-motivated people, SpaceX has maximized the power of the individual. One person putting in a sixteen-hour day ends up being much more effective than two people working eight-hour days together. The individual doesn’t have to hold meetings, reach a consensus, or bring other people up to speed on a project. He just keeps working and working and working. The ~ Ashlee Vance,
1010:What if we take away the cool music and the cushioned chairs? What if the screens are gone and the stage is no longer decorated? What if the air conditioning is off and the comforts are removed? Would his Word still be enough for his people to come together? At Brook Hills we decided to try to answer this question. We actually stripped away the entertainment value and invited people to come together simply to study God’s Word for hours at a time. We called it Secret Church. We set a date—one Friday night—when we would gather from six o’clock in the evening until midnight, and for six hours we would do nothing but study the Word and pray. We would interrupt the six-hour Bible study periodically to pray for our brothers and sisters around the world who are forced to gather secretly. We would also pray for ourselves, that we would learn to love the Word as they do. ~ David Platt,
1011:I would like to have somebody to take care of.” I cough into my fist. “Someday. Like Paul and Friday. And Logan and Emily. And Matt and Sky. And Pete and Reagan. I want to be a couple.” “You want kids?” She searches my face. “Yeah.” But I don’t want them tomorrow or anything. “I’m still undecided about kids,” she says quietly. I nudge her shoulder. “You like kids. I’ve seen you with PJ and Kit.” “Just because I like them doesn’t mean I could raise one.” She points to her mouth. Then to her tapping toe. “It might be difficult.” “Raising kids is always difficult,” I say with a grin. “Look at Logan and Emily. Emily was terrified one of their kids would inherit her dyslexia.” I tilt my head and study Peck. “Is stuttering hereditary?” She shrugs. “I have no idea. If so, I’m never having kids. Ever.” Note to self: research that tomorrow and never tell her the answer. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1012:KASTAMONU LÂHİKASI (Bediüzzaman Said Nursî) - Your Highlight on Location 4315-4320 | Added on Friday, April 18, 2014 1:34:41 AM Aziz, sıddık kardeşlerim! Risale-i Nur dünya işlerine âlet olamaz, dünya işlerinde siper edilmez. Çünki, ehemmiyetli bir ibadet-i tefekküriye olduğu cihetle, dünyevî maksadlar onunla kasden istenilmez. İstenilse ihlas kırılır, o ehemmiyetli ibadet şekli değişir. Yani, çocuklar gibi döğüştükleri vakit Kur’an’ı başına siper eder. Başına gelen zarar Kur’an’a geldiği gibi; Risale-i Nur, böyle muannid hasımlara karşı siper istimal edilmemeli. Evet Risale-i Nur’a ilişenler tokatlar yerler, yüzer vukuat şahiddir. Fakat Risale-i Nur tokatlarda istimal edilmez ve niyet ve kasd ile tokatlar gelmez. Çünki sırr-ı ihlas ve sırr-ı ubudiyete münafîdir. Bizler, bize zulmedenleri, bizi himaye eden ve Risale-i Nur’da istihdam eden Rabbimize havale ediyoruz. ~ Anonymous,
1013:He had visited his family the evening before, eaten dinner with Renee and Chris, his grandson, in the pretence that everything was ordinary, but in fact to service his end-game ruse. He was going over the mountains, he'd said, to hunt for quail in willow canyons, he had no particular canyons in mind, he intended to return on Thursday evening, though possibly, if the hunting was good, he would return on Friday or Saturday. The lie was open-ended so that his family wouldn't start worrying until he'd been dead for as long as a week - so none would miss or seek him where he rotted silently in the sage. Ben imagined how it might be otherwise, his cancer a pestilent force in their lives, or a pall descending over them like ice, just as they'd begun to emerge from the pall of Rachel's death. The last thing they needed was for Ben to tell hem of his terminal colon cancer. ~ David Guterson,
1014:You got panties with flowers on them,” Hayley says, as she eyes the hip of my undies. She looks up at her dad. “Can I have some panties with flowers on them?” She pulls her pajama pants down at the waist and shows me hers. “Mine just have stripes.” I pull my shirt down over my hips. “What did I tell you about showing your panties to people?” Paul asks. She rolls her eyes at him. “Friday’s a girl,” she says. I bite back my snort because Paul isn’t laughing. I look at him over my shoulder, his eyes meet mine, and they go hot. And so do I. “I know she’s a girl.” His eyes roam up and down my back. “Most definitely a girl.” “We need to get you some waffles,” Hayley says to Paul. “Because you look hungry.” She says it very matter-of-factly, and I can’t keep from laughing this time. Paul shoots me a look of warning, and I throw my hands up. “What?” I cry. “I can’t help it. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1015:If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm you expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is not positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps toward the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic - ay, even an Anglo-Catholic - might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be cold lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb. ~ Charlotte Bront,
1016:Why did you do this?" He was shaking. "Just tell me why."
I tried to muster up some of the righteous indignation that I'd felt on Friday night as I said, "You knocked over my gravestone!" But even to my ears the words sounded tinny and pathetic.
Dan's face was pale. "It was just a gravestone, Chelsea. And it was a mistake. I told you that already, and I meant it. I've never lied to you. My God, can't you tell the difference between a gravestone and a person you love? Can't you tel which one matters?"
But if I had to point to the real problem in my life, it's that I've never known the difference between a gravestone and a person I love. I have never known which is which until it's too late.
"All's fair in love and war," I reminded him, aiming for Tawny's tone. But my voice came out sounding just like me.
"Oh, yeah? And which is this?" he asked. "Love or war? ~ Leila Sales,
1017:He’d decided to keep a journal in the hope that this might help. He looked at the recent entries. Probably Tuesday: hot, flies. Dinner: honey ants. Attacked by honey ants. Fell into waterhole. Wednesday, with any luck: hot, flies. Dinner: either bush raisins or kangaroo droppings. Chased by hunters, don’t know why. Fell into waterhole. Thursday (could be): hot, flies. Dinner: blue-tongued lizard. Savaged by blue-tongued lizard. Chased by different hunters. Fell off cliff, bounced into tree, pissed on by small grey incontinent teddy bear, landed in a waterhole. Friday: hot, flies. Dinner: some kind of roots which tasted like sick. This saved time. Saturday: hotter than yesterday, extra flies. V. thirsty. Sunday: hot. Delirious with thirst and flies. Nothing but nothing as far as the eye can see, with bushes in it. Decided to die, collapsed, fell down sand dune into waterhole. ~ Terry Pratchett,
1018:like Cody and Garrett. I don’t particularly like that their baby could be growing inside Friday, mainly because it makes me jealous as hell, but I like them as people. They’re funny and kind and so obviously in love. They’re going to be good parents. Would it be terrible for me to admit that I hope the insemination didn’t take? It probably would, so I keep that to myself. On the one hand, I am really happy they have a chance at building their family. But on the other, I wish it were my fucking baby inside her. I want to see her get fat and cranky with my child growing in her body. I want to share those moments with her, and I don’t know if I can do that when she’s pregnant with somebody else’s kid. I doubt there are any rules around that, no book I can read to tell me what’s right and wrong. I want to win her, but I don’t know if I can play the game while she’s growing a life. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1019:I like Cody and Garrett. I don’t particularly like that their baby could be growing inside Friday, mainly because it makes me jealous as hell, but I like them as people. They’re funny and kind and so obviously in love. They’re going to be good parents. Would it be terrible for me to admit that I hope the insemination didn’t take? It probably would, so I keep that to myself. On the one hand, I am really happy they have a chance at building their family. But on the other, I wish it were my fucking baby inside her. I want to see her get fat and cranky with my child growing in her body. I want to share those moments with her, and I don’t know if I can do that when she’s pregnant with somebody else’s kid. I doubt there are any rules around that, no book I can read to tell me what’s right and wrong. I want to win her, but I don’t know if I can play the game while she’s growing a life. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1020:She’s just getting a tat,” she says, turning me around. “What kind of tat?” “A tiny little butterfly or something equally as cute. Maybe a Disney princess. She hadn’t decided yet.” She rolls her eyes. Friday has skulls and crossbones and turtles and all sorts of weird shit all over her body. “I want to help her pick something,” I say, trying to push past Friday. “Stop,” she says. “She wants to surprise you.” I run a frustrated hand through my hair. “Tats mean different things to different people,” Friday says. “This means a lot to her, and she should be the one to decide what she gets.” I already know this, but I want to be involved, dammit. “You don’t trust Paul to take care of her?” Friday asks, her eyebrows crashing together. Of course I trust him. “But this is my girl,” I say. I know I sound like a baby. But there it is. She pats me on the arm. “Suck it up, buttercup,” she says. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1021:Man Made God: A Collection of Essays (Walker, Barbara G.;Murdock, D.M.;Acharya S;D.M. Murdock) - Your Highlight on page 229 | Location 5078-5084 | Added on Friday, March 20, 2015 12:14:38 PM Published in the 1890s, suffragette Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s The Christian Church and Women said: The Church has done more to degrade women than all other adverse influences put together... Out of the doctrine of original sin grew the crimes and miseries of asceticism, celibacy, and witchcraft, woman becoming the helpless victim of all the delusions generated in the brain of man... The clergy everywhere sustained witchcraft as a Bible doctrine... So long as the pulpits teach woman’s inferiority and subjection, she can never command honor and respect... There is nothing more pathetic in all history than the hopeless resignation of woman to the outrages she has been taught to believe are ordained of God. ~ Anonymous,
1022:At a quarter to twelve on that Friday, Patty Jefferson died. In the final moments, Jefferson’s sister Martha Carr had to help the grieving husband from his wife’s bedside.13 He was, his daughter recalled, “in a state of insensibility” when Mrs. Carr “with great difficulty, got him into the library, where he fainted”—and not for a brief moment. Jefferson “remained so long insensible that they feared he would never revive.” When he did come to, he was incoherent with grief, and perhaps surrendered to rage. There is a hint that he lost all control in the calamity of Patty’s death. According to his daughter Patsy, “The scene that followed I did not witness”—presumably “the scene” unfolded in the library when he revived—“but the violence of his emotion, when, almost by stealth, I entered his room by night, to this day I dare not describe to myself.”14 (Patsy was writing half a century later.) A ~ Jon Meacham,
1023:I came home to find three rocks on my desk and a card with a penguin on the front. Seeing it was from Greg, I did a little happy dance as I bounced into my room, reading his inscription.


Dearest Fiona,

I’m missing you dreadfully. It’s been an age, I don’t think you’ll recognize me when next we meet. I’ve put on ten stone and lost all my hair. And an eye. I hope you fancy a fat bald man with an eye patch.

Come out with me on Friday. Finals will finally be over and it’ll be time to celebrate. I’ll pick you up at four. We’ll do a first date do-over, eat at Manganiello’s again, plus a new, improved surprise.

Also, FYI: Gentoo penguins mate for life. Whereas Adélie penguins prostitute themselves for rocks.

I’d like to be your Gentoo penguin.

-Greg

P.S. Unless you’re open to a rock arrangement. If so, please find my first down payment enclosed. ~ Penny Reid,
1024:On Friday the 13th of April 2029, an asteroid large enough to fill the Rose Bowl as though it were an egg cup, will fly so close to Earth, that it will dip below the altitude of our communication satellites. We did not name this asteroid Bambi. Instead, it's named Apophis, after the Egyptian god of darkness and death. If the trajectory of Apophis at close approach passes within a narrow range of altitudes called the 'keyhole,' the precise influence of Earth's gravity on its orbit will guarantee that seven years later in 2036, on its next time around, the asteroid will hit Earth directly, slamming in the Pacific Ocean between California and Hawaii. The tsunami it creates will wipe out the entire west coast of North America, bury Hawaii, and devastate all the land masses of the Pacific Rim. If Apophis misses the keyhole in 2029, then, of course, we have nothing to worry about in 2036. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,
1025:But even as a kid you learn pretty quick that church doesn’t start and stop with the hours of service posted on the church sign. No, church dragged on like the last hour of the school day as we waited in the hot car with Dad for Mom to finish socializing in the fellowship hall. Church lingered long into the gold-tinted Sunday afternoons when Amanda and I gamboled around the house, stripped down to our white slips like little brides. Church showed up at the front door with a chicken casserole when the whole family was down with the flu and called after midnight to ask for prayer and to cry. It gossiped in the pickup line at school and babysat us on Friday nights. It teased me and tugged at my pigtails and taught me how to sing. Church threw Dad a big surprise party for his fortieth birthday and let me in on the secret ahead of time. Church came to me far more than I went to it, and I’m glad. ~ Rachel Held Evans,
1026:It was a Friday morning, and Walmart was populated only by the occasional mom with very young children and the random senior citizen, which made my bathroom makeover less conspicuous. Only one woman came in while I stood in front of the mirror, and she went straight to the toilets. I made sure that when she came out I was no longer standing in front of the mirror but was huddled with my palms stretched out beneath a loud hand dryer, my face completely averted. No one expects to see a celebrity in their local Walmart bathroom. Most of us don’t really look at each other anyway. Our eyes glance off without really registering what we’re seeing. It’s human nature. It’s polite society. Ignore each other unless someone is grotesquely fat or immodestly dressed or disfigured in some way—and then we pretend not to see, but we see everything. I was none of those things, and so far human nature was working in my favor. ~ Amy Harmon,
1027:FRIDAY Luke 21:25–36 REFLECTION This Jesus taught as a second Jeremiah. “The world’s a scary place, but don’t let your hearts be troubled. I have overcome the world. So wait in the midst of it all, just before the dawn, for in the midst of the night there are strange and redeeming events afoot.” And with this the church begins a new year, asked to begin afresh, not just on a calendar, but in individual hearts, in relationships, in congregations, and in our yearning for a promise worth living for. Hearers of this passage are bidden to live lives of faithful, active waiting in the meantime because they hear again the name of the One who holds them in the ending time. WESLEY D. AVRAM RESPONSE What fresh thing is waiting to be born in your life or the life of the congregation of which you are a part? PRAYER Redeeming God, I wait with fresh eyes and ears for the new things you will do in my life. Amen. ~ Kathleen Long Bostrom,
1028:The market crash seemed to focus their minds. Before Monday, the public reaction to TARP had been all anti-bailout anger, but now politicians started hearing from constituents whose life savings were disappearing. Senate leaders added some sweeteners to the bill, including extensions of dozens of tax breaks for businesses. The bill also temporarily raised the FDIC’s deposit insurance limit from $100,000 to $250,000, to help protect the kind of account holders burned by IndyMac’s haircuts, and to help prevent runs on traditional banks. On Wednesday, October 1, the tweaked version of TARP passed the Senate with broad bipartisan support, 74–25. On Friday, it passed the House as well, as 57 representatives flipped from no to yes. The abrupt reversal evoked the Winston Churchill line about Americans always doing the right thing after trying everything else, but there was also something inspiring about it. ~ Timothy F Geithner,
1029:Last night, Good Friday night, at the bottom of the escalator at King’s X tube, a weasel-faced man in uniform was sweeping up rubbish with a wide broom, drink cartons, cigarette packets with all the dust and filthy scraps of the day which he pushed towards an elegant long black glove that was lying there. I expected him to pick it up as I would have – I thought of picking it up, but was too late. He smothered it in a wide sweep. It seemed to me extraordinary and shocking that he had no feeling for it. Several images went through my mind, a symbolic hand, a dead blackbird, an ornamental bookmark fallen from a lectern Bible – any once-precious relic being tumbled in the dirt. As I went up the escalator I remembered the Tatterdemallion whom I haven’t seen for months and thought of his body, if he were to die in the tube, being tumbled about with the rest of the thrown-away rubbish.” David Thomson, In Camden Town ~ David Thomson,
1030:VINNIE. They were such a happy couple.
MURRAY. Twelve years doesn't mean you're a happy couple. It just means you're a long couple.
SPEED. Go figure it. Felix and Frances.
ROY. What are you surprised at? He used to sit there every Friday night and tell us how they were fighting.
SPEED. I know. But who believes Felix?
VINNIE. What happened?
OSCAR. She wants out, that's all.
MURRAY. He'll go to pieces. I know Felix. He's going to try something crazy.
SPEED. That's all he ever used to talk about. "My beautiful wife. My wonderful wife." What happened?
OSCAR. His beautiful, wonderful wife can't stand him, that's what happened.
MURRAY. He'll kill himself. You hear what I'm saying? He's going to go out and try to kill himself.
SPEED. (To MURRAY.) Will you shut up, Murray? Stop being a cop for two minutes. (To OSCAR.) Where'd he go, Oscar?
OSCAR. He went out to kill himself. ~ Neil Simon,
1031:Let me stay over,” he said. “No. I have things to get ready for tomorrow. I teach a couple of classes on Monday and Thursday mornings and keep office hours for students in the afternoons. Then I work my twenty-four-hour shifts in Redding on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Tomorrow starts a real busy week and I—” “Okay,” he said. “I’ll watch TV while you get your stuff together.” “No. You’ll seduce me and I have a child in the house.” “Gee, how do you suppose all the families with more than one child managed to do that?” “Those first children were used to their mothers and fathers sleeping in the same bed, but Rosie’s not. Sometimes she crawls in with me in the night.” “I have sweatpants in my duffel. I’ll sleep in those,” he tried. “No.” “Can I have the couch?” “No. Because I know you and you’ll seduce me. I think the only thing more important to you than sex is air. Now be on your good behavior. She isn’t even asleep yet.” “We ~ Robyn Carr,
1032:The story of the Lynch family was this: Once upon a time, a man named Niall Lynch had three sons, one of whom loved his father more than the others. Niall Lynch was handsome and charismatic and rich and mysterious, and one day, he was dragged from his charcoal-gray BMW and beaten to death with a tire iron. It was a Wednesday. On Thursday, his son Ronan found his body in the driveway. On Friday, their mother stopped speaking and never spoke again.
On Saturday, the Lynch brothers found that their father’s death left them rich and homeless. The will forbade them to touch anything in the house — their clothing, the furniture. Their silent mother. The will demanded they immediately move into Aglionby housing. Declan, the eldest, was meant to control the funds and their lives until his brothers reached eighteen.
On Sunday, Ronan stole his deceased father’s car.
On Monday, the Lynch brothers stopped being friends. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,
1033:When I was younger, my brother told me that he had the power to shrink me to the size of an ant. In fact, he said, he used to have another sister, but he shrank her down and stepped on her.

He also told me that when you became a grown-up, you were admitted into a private party that was full of monsters and horror movie characters. There was Chucky, drinking a cup of coffee. And the mummy on the cover of the Hardy Boys book that used to freak me out, except he was doing the twist while Jason from 'Friday the 13th' played the alto sax. He told me you stayed at the party as long as you had to, making conversation with these creatures, and that was why adults were never afraid of anything.

I used to believe everything my brother told me, because he was older and I figured he knew more about the world. But as it turns out, being a grown-up doesn't mean you're fearless.

It just means you fear different things. ~ Jodi Picoult,
1034:When living in Denver, me and my friend Tony – who’s actually up here now and does amazing photography and helped us with the photoshoot for this collection – we did this funny thing on the anniversary of the stock market crash. It was a protest at a mall in Denver, and we called it “Black Friday is the new Black Monday”. We wanted to make the hipster thing into something else, we wanted to see what potential it had. Because we were fascinated by Paris 68, we made these pamphlets that said stuff like “Real hipsters riot”. We tried to encourage that mythology of the hipster from Sorbonne, Paris. This guy you see in Godard movie. We went into Urban Outfitters, threw a bunch of shit, flipped over things, went outside, shot a bunch of fireworks. That was pretty cool. The IEF was grounded in certain theoretical premises of insurrectionist theory, continental philosophy, and critical theory. It was definitely all over the damn place. ~ Anonymous,
1035:She did occasionally criticise my priorities, how could I buy three new LPs one Friday afternoon when I was walking around in shoes with the sole flapping off? They’re just material goods, I responded, objects, while music was completely different. This was the mind, for Christ’s sake. This is what we need, really, and I do mean really, and it’s important to prioritise it. Everyone prioritises. Everyone wants new jackets and new shoes and new cars and new houses and new caravans and new mountain cabins and new boats. But I don’t. I buy books and records because they say something about what life is about, what it is to be a human here on earth. Do you understand?
‘Yes, you’re probably right, in a way. But isn’t it terribly impractical to walk around with your soles coming off? And it doesn’t look very nice, either, does it.’
‘What do you want me to do? I haven’t got any money. I prioritised music on this occasion. ~ Karl Ove Knausg rd,
1036:I thought this kissing thing would make him step up. But I guess he just doesn’t care as much as I thought he did.” “He cares,” Emily says. I shake my head. “He doesn’t.” “He does. He told Logan. Logan told me.” My belly flutters. “Logan must be hearing things.” Emily snorts again. “I mean…” “I know what you meant,” Emily says, smiling. “Logan can be pretty intuitive about some things. And he feels certain that Sean wants you. Bad. And Sean said as much.” Friday bites her lip, then adds, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…” “What?” I ask. “You know how he got a new tattoo last week?” she asks. I didn’t know so I don’t answer. “What did he get?” I ask instead. She inhales, weighing her decision to tell me. Then she blurts out, “It’s a honeybee.” “Oh shit,” I say. “What?” Emily asks. “What did I miss?” “He calls me honey when he’s being all sweet.” Friday nods. “I blew it when I told him I just want to be friends.” “Logan ~ Tammy Falkner,
1037:IV.The wounded surgeon plies the steelThat questions the distempered part;Beneath the bleeding hands we feelThe sharp compassion of the healer's artResolving the enigma of the fever chart.Our only health is the diseaseIf we obey the dying nurseWhose constant care is not to pleaseBut to remind of our, and Adam's curse,And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.The whole earth is our hospitalEndowed by the ruined millionaire,Wherein, if we do well, we shallDie of the absolute paternal careThat will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.The chill ascends from feet to knees,The fever sings in mental wires.If to be warmed, then I must freezeAnd quake in frigid purgatorial firesOf which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.The dripping blood our only drink,The bloody flesh our only food:In spite of which we like to thinkThat we are sound, substantial flesh and bloodAgain, in spite of that, we call this Friday good. ~ T S Eliot,
1038:most people go to work every day just thinking of payday, and the money they will get from the work they are doing. They can hardly wait for Friday or Saturday, whatever day they receive their money and can take time off. They are working for the reward, and as a result they resist work. They try to avoid the action and it becomes more difficult, and they don’t do their best. They work so hard all week long, suffering the work, suffering the action, not because they like to, but because they feel they have to. They have to work because they have to pay the rent, because they have to support their family. They have all that frustration, and when they do receive their money they are unhappy. They have two days to rest, to do what they want to do, and what do they do? They try to escape. They get drunk because they don’t like themselves. They don’t like their life. There are many ways that we hurt ourselves when we don’t like who we are. ~ Anonymous,
1039:Beaver Moon - The Suicide of a Friend

When somewhere life
breaks like a pane of glass,
and from every direction casual
voices are bringing you the news,
you say: I should have known.
You say: I should have been aware. That last Friday he looked
so ill, like an old mountain-climber
lost on the white trails, listening
to the ice breaking upward, under
his worn-out shoes. You say: I heard rumors of trouble, but after all
we all have that. You say:
What could I have done? and you go
with the rest, to bury him. That night, you turn in your bed
to watch the moon rise, and once more
see what a small coin it is
against the darkness, and how everything else
is a mystery, and you know
nothing at all except
the moonlight is beautiful-
white rivers running together
along the bare boughs of the trees- and somewhere, for someone, life
is becoming moment by moment
unbearable. ~ Mary Oliver,
1040:Çağ ve Nesil (M. Fethullah Gulen) - Your Highlight on Location 1417-1423 | Added on Friday, April 25, 2014 1:08:16 AM Ah, aceleci insan! Sabırsızlık gösteren sadece sensin. Sensin, eşya arasındaki tertibe riayet etmeyen! Sensin, yükselirken mesafelere tahammülü olmayan ve tırmanmada birkaç merdiveni birden atlamak isteyen! Sensin, sebepleri gözetmeden netice bekleyen! Sensin, olmayacak kuruntulara gömülerek hayâlden sırça saraylar kuran! Sonra da yalancı vehmin ve aldatıcı ümniyelerin altında tükenip giden! Sensin, düşünmeden konuşan, konuştuklarına pişmanlık duyan ve birbirini takip eden pişmanlıklardan ders almayan, uslanmayan! Bir bilsen; bu halinle, ne kadar sevimsiz ve ne kadar uğursuzsun..! Keşke, her biri beliğ bir hatip ve her biri bir dil olan çevrendeki hâdiselerden ders alarak, eşyâ arasında bulunan tertibe riayet etmeyi; sebep ve neticelerin hakkını gözetmeyi ve hayâlinle değil; imanın, azmin ve iradenle var olmayı bilseydin...! ~ Anonymous,
1041:a temporary solution to the city’s sectarian bloodletting. Now they were a permanent feature of its geography—indeed, their number, length, and scale had actually increased since the signing of the Good Friday accords. On Springfield Road the barricade was a transparent green fence about ten meters in height. But on Cupar Way, a particularly tense part of the Ardoyne, it was a Berlin Wall–like structure topped by razor wire. Residents on both sides had covered it in murals. One likened it to the separation fence between Israel and the West Bank. “Does this look like peace to you?” asked Keller. “No,” answered Gabriel. “It looks like home.” Finally, at half past one, Keller turned into Stratford Gardens. Number 8, like its neighbors, was a two-level redbrick house with a white door and a single window on each floor. Weeds flourished in the forecourt; a green rubbish bin lay toppled by the wind. Keller pulled to the curb and switched off the engine. ~ Daniel Silva,
1042:Emily walks up behind him and threads her hand into his hair. She gently yanks, tilting his head back and looking into his eyes. “Are you seriously laughing at the pregnant chick?” she asks. He holds up his hands as though he’s surrendering to the cops. “Not me,” he says. She kisses him quickly on the forehead and shoves his cheek gently, and he makes room for her on the couch. She drops down beside him and sits back, blowing out a heavy breath. Sam lays a hand on her belly. “How’s my niece doing in there?” he asks. He leans down and talks to her belly, and she giggles, shoving him away with a hand to the side of his face. “She’s fine. Still cooking.” She lays a hand on her basketball-sized belly and smiles. Friday introduces Cody and Garrett, and Emily helps herself to some pizza. “You want some water?” Sam asks. “Yes, but I don’t want to get up,” she says. She bats her lashes at him. He groans, but he gets to his feet and goes to get her a drink. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1043:Right inside the front door in what must be the living room, who should be standing at a circular saw cutting planks but George Davenport. She let out a breath. Well, avoiding him wasn’t going to work. She’d tried to give him a wide berth at the wedding party on Friday night, but he’d singled her out, complimented her, made small talk and even kissed the back of her hand! There seemed to be only two options to deal with the man. Face him head-on or leave town. And there he stood, his white hair, which was not terribly thick, askew and spiking, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, covered with sawdust. His face was tan—but hadn’t he said he’d come from Seattle? Cloudy, dreary Seattle? Despite herself, she noticed his shoulders were broad, his butt was solid and his legs were long. What was a man his age doing with broad shoulders and a solid butt? She wondered what he’d look like without a shirt and was immediately appalled that she would even think that! The ~ Robyn Carr,
1044:With industrialization has come a general depreciation of work. As the price of work has gone up, the value of it has gone down, until it is so depressed that people simply do not want to do it anymore. We can say without exaggeration that the present national ambition of the United States is unemployment. People live for quitting time, for weekends, for vacations, and for retirement; moreover, this ambition seems to be classless, as true in the executive suites as on the assembly lines. One works not because the work is necessary, valuable, useful to a desirable end, or because one loves to do it, but only to be able to quit- a condition that a saner time would regard as infernal, a condemnation. This is explained, of course, by the dullness of the work, by the loss of responsibility for, or credit for, or knowledge of the thing made. What can be the status of the working small farmer in a nation whose motto is a sigh of relief: "Thank God it's Friday? ~ Wendell Berry,
1045:I get up, and Sky sits down in my chair. Matt sits at her feet and takes the beer that Garrett passes to him. I sit down at the end of the couch by Friday and press my shoulder against her leg. I look up at her, and she looks down, appearing somewhat startled. “You okay?” I ask quietly. She nods. As long as she’s all right, I’m all right. She’s kicked off those four-inch heels she wears, but she’s still wearing the fishnet stockings. I slide my hand around the back of her ankle and tickle the inside of it with the tips of my fingers. Her toes jerk, but she doesn’t move her foot away. She spreads her thighs about an inch and presses more tightly against my shoulder, and I can feel the air around her move as she takes in a deep breath. So that’s what it’s like… Now I get how Logan, Pete, and Matt felt when they met the women they’d spend the rest of their lives with. Because I’d rather sit here and touch her ankle than I would fuck any other woman in the world. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1046:Judd returned during the last hour of my Friday shift. Without seeing him coming as I wiped a table, I knew something was up because two large burly men flinched.
Turning, I found Judd moving fast towards me. Before I could speak, his hands cupped my face and his lips were on mine.
Murmuring at the deepening kiss, I tossed aside the wash towel and wrapped my arms around his waist. He felt like perfection.
Judd pulled away and stated to speak then his gaze focused on the two men watching us and smiling. His dark stare killed their enthusiasm and they returned to eating.
“Back less than a minute and you’re already losing me tips,” I teased, causing Judd to smile grudging. “You taste like peppermint.”
“I slept for shit and chewing gum keeps me alert.”
Caressing his lips, I couldn’t stop grinning. “You’re so fucking beautiful and you’re mine. How did that happen?”
Judd finally gave me a great smile. “I laid eyed on you and was done for. ~ Bijou Hunter,
1047:he was always so brave. So resilient, I suppose—that seems to be the word du jour. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel things—many’s the time I saw him weep—but he dealt with his disappointment, with his hardship and grief; he picked himself up and went on, every time. And not like a mad person who refuses to recognize adversity, but like someone who accepts that life is inherently unfair. That the only truly fair thing about it is the randomness of its unfairness.” She topped up their glasses. “I’m telling you all this not because I feel like a stroll down memory lane or because I like to tell my young friends sad stories on sunny Friday evenings; I just— I wanted you to understand. I wanted you to see what a balm love is. What it is to share one’s life, to really share it, so that very little matters outside the certainty of its walls. Because the world is very noisy, Elodie, and although life is filled with joy and wonder, there’s evil and sorrow and injustice, too. ~ Kate Morton,
1048:Miranda, wait up!”
Miranda walked faster. As a group of kids jostled her to one side, a hand closed around her elbow, steering her over to the wall and away from the Friday-afternoon stampede.
“You passed your locker,” a voice said, and she found herself looking up into kind, brown eyes. Gage pointed in the opposite direction from where she’s been going. “Or…maybe you knew that.”
“Look,” Miranda answered irritably. “I just want to get home, okay?” Then, as Gage quickly stepped back, she took a deep breath and started over. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for how I acted before. I’m having a terrible life right now.”
“I understand. I’ve had a terrible life myself more than once.”
“Yeah, well…you’ve probably never felt like throwing up in the middle of class.”
Gage considered this a moment. “No…but Roo threw up on me once in second grade.”
She noticed his dimples now, as he smiled. A totally melt-your-heart smile, shy but sincere. ~ Richie Tankersley Cusick,
1049:When did all this happen?” Vaughn asked.

“We met for drinks last Friday to discuss a criminal matter related to Sterling. Things progressed from there.”

“Is that right?” Vaughn looked at him slyly. “Just how far did they progress?”

“Still not comfortable talking about Brooke this way,” Huxley interjected.

Cade held back a smile, grateful for the excuse to change the subject. For whatever reason, he didn’t feel like engaging in locker room talk about Brooke. “Huxley’s right. Try to keep it classy, Vaughn.”

Vaughn studied him for a moment. Seven years they’d been best friends, and they knew each other well. “You like her.”

Cade took a nonchalant sip of his beer. “Just watch the game.”

“Evading the question,” Huxley said under his breath to Vaughn. “I think we got our answer, Agent Roberts.”

“We sure did, Agent Huxley,” Vaughn said.

Cade shook his head.

He really needed to get some non-FBI friends. ~ Julie James,
1050:Stormy, tell me about where you were when John F. Kennedy died.”
“It was a Friday. I was baking a pineapple upside-down cake for my bridge club. I put it in the oven and then I saw the news and forgot all about the cake and nearly burned the house down. We had to have the kitchen repainted because of all the soot.” She fusses with her hair. “He was a saint, that man. A prince. If I’d met him in my heyday, we really could’ve had some fun. You know, I flirted with a Kennedy once at an airport. He sidled up to me at the bar and bought me a very dry gin martini. Airports used to be so very much more glamorous. People got dressed up to travel. Young people on airplanes these days, they wear those horrible sheepskin boots and pajama pants and it’s an eyesore. I wouldn’t go out for the mail dressed like that.”
“Which Kennedy?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. He had the Kennedy chin, anyway.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Stormy and her escapades. ~ Jenny Han,
1051:Blue Bottle wanted to help customers find coffee they’d love. But coffee beans all look alike, so photos wouldn’t be helpful. To find useful solutions, the team did Lightning Demos of websites selling everything from clothes to wine, looking for ways to describe sensory details such as flavor, aroma, and texture. In the end, it was a chocolate-bar wrapper that provided the most useful idea. Tcho is a chocolate manufacturer in Berkeley, California. Printed on the wrapper of every Tcho bar is a simple flavor wheel with just six words: Bright, Fruity, Floral, Earthy, Nutty, and Chocolatey. When Blue Bottle looked at that wheel, they got inspired, and when we sketched, someone repurposed the idea as a simple flavor vocabulary for describing Blue Bottle’s coffee beans: In Friday’s test, and later, at the new online store, customers loved the simple descriptions. It’s a prime example of finding inspiration outside your domain (and yet another reason to be grateful for chocolate). ~ Jake Knapp,
1052:Sometimes, when I’m bored, I can’t help but think what my life would be like if I hadn’t written the book. Monday, I would’ve played bridge. And tomorrow
night, I’d be going to the League meeting and turning in the newsletter. Then on Friday night, Stuart would take me to dinner and we’d stay out late and I’d
be tired when I got up for my tennis game on Saturday. Tired and content and . . . frustrated.
Because Hilly would’ve called her maid a thief that afternoon, and I would’ve just sat there and listened to it. And Elizabeth would’ve grabbed her child’s
arm too hard and I would’ve looked away, like I didn’t see it. And I’d be engaged to Stuart and I wouldn’t wear short dresses, only short hair, or consider
doing anything risky like write a book about colored housekeepers, too afraid he’d disapprove. And while I’d never lie and tell myself I actually changed
the minds of people like Hilly and Elizabeth, at least I don’t have to pretend I agree with them anymore. ~ Kathryn Stockett,
1053:Jacqueline,

If you want to do, then do. What’s stopping you?

So I’m kind, huh? Never heard that before. People usually think I’m a pretentious a-hole. I must admit, I tend to encourage that estimation. So please promise to keep your opinion to yourself. Reputations can be ruined so easily, you know. ;)

LM

PS – Do the worksheet. Before Friday. I’m giving you a very serious look through this screen. DO THE WORKSHEET. If you have problems with any of the material, let me know.

Landon,

What’s stopping me? Well, I’ve blown the chance to go to a serious music school. And I’m stuck in a state that doesn’t always foster the arts (something I’ll probably spend my entire teaching career fighting). It seems impossible to go out now and “do.” I guess I should rethink that.

Your secret geniality is safe. My lips are sealed.

JW

PS – I’m DOING the worksheet, but I’m giving you a very petulant look through my screen. Slave driver. Sheesh. ~ Tammara Webber,
1054:West Broadway. It was all that I’d felt looking at those Parisian doors. And at that moment I realized that those changes, with all their agony, awkwardness, and confusion, were the defining fact of my life, and for the first time I knew not only that I really was alive, that I really was studying and observing, but that I had long been alive—even back in Baltimore. I had always been alive. I was always translating. I arrived in Paris. I checked in to a hotel in the 6th arrondissement. I had no understanding of the local history at all. I did not think much about Baldwin or Wright. I had not read Sartre nor Camus, and if I walked past Café de Flore or Les Deux Magots I did not, then, take any particular note. None of that mattered. It was Friday, and what mattered were the streets thronged with people in amazing configurations. Teenagers together in cafés. Schoolchildren kicking a soccer ball on the street, backpacks to the side. Older couples in long coats, billowing scarves, and blazers. ~ Ta Nehisi Coates,
1055:Listen, Daniel.” She could hear the tension in her voice. “I—I made a mistake. I’ve been torturing myself with this all weekend. The last thing I wanted to do was put you on the spot or make you feel uncomfortable or like you had to—” “Yes.” “—Step in and save the day, and I never wanted you to feel—” “Yes, Jade.” “—Taken advantage of, because our friendship means—” Jade heard his words belatedly. She frowned, taking the pause to breathe because somehow she’d forgotten to do that. “What?” she asked. “I said yes.” His lips twitched a little as his eyes caught hers. “This makes three times now.” Her breath caught as she stared into his eyes, wondering if she misunderstood. If wishful thinking misconstrued his words. Had she asked a question while she’d been rambling? “Yes?” He hiked a brow. “It was a yes or no question, right?” Now she was really confused. Maybe she had asked something. She reviewed her words, but it was all a blur. “The proposition? Friday? Ringing a bell?” “You mean . . . yes? ~ Denise Hunter,
1056:Nor did the inquiry ever delve into why the Lusitania wasn’t diverted to the safer North Channel route, and why no naval escort was provided. Indeed, these are the great lingering questions of the Lusitania affair: Why, given all the information possessed by the Admiralty about U-20; given the Admiralty’s past willingness to provide escorts to inbound ships or divert them away from trouble; given that the ship carried a vital cargo of rifle ammunition and artillery shells; given that Room 40’s intelligence prompted the obsessive tracking and protection of HMS Orion; given that U-20 had sunk three vessels in the Lusitania’s path; given Cunard chairman Booth’s panicked Friday morning visit to the navy’s Queenstown office; given that the new and safer North Channel route was available; and given that passengers and crew alike had expected to be convoyed to Liverpool by the Royal Navy—the question remains, why was the ship left on its own, with a proven killer of men and ships dead ahead in its path? ~ Erik Larson,
1057:I spent the last Friday of summer vacation spreading hot, sticky tar across the roof of George Washington High. My companions were Dopey, Toothless, and Joe, the brain surgeons in charge of building maintenance. At least they were getting paid. I was working forty feet above the ground, breathing in sulfur fumes from Satan's vomitorium, for free.

Character building, my father said.

Mandatory community service, the judge said. Court-ordered restitution for the Foul Deed. He nailed me with the bill for the damage I had done, which meant I had to sell my car and bust my hump at a landscaping company all summer. Oh, and he gave me six months of meetings with a probation officer who thought I was a waste of human flesh.

Still, it was better than jail.

I pushed the mop back and forth, trying to coat the seams evenly. We didn't want any rain getting into the building and destroying the classrooms. Didn't want to hurt the school. No, sir, we sure didn't. ~ Laurie Halse Anderson,
1058:Nor did the inquiry ever delve into why the Lusitania wasn’t diverted to the safer North Channel route, and why no naval escort was provided. Indeed, these are the great lingering questions of the Lusitania affair: Why, given all the information possessed by the Admiralty about U-20; given the Admiralty’s past willingness to provide escorts to inbound ships or divert them away from trouble; given that the ship carried a vital cargo of rifle ammunition and artillery shells; given that Room 40’s intelligence prompted the obsessive tracking and protection of the HMS Orion; given that U-20 had sunk three vessels in the Lusitania’s path; given Cunard chairman Booth’s panicked Friday morning visit to the navy’s Queenstown office; given that the new and safer North Channel route was available; and given that passengers and crew alike had expected to be convoyed to Liverpool by the Royal Navy—the question remains, why was the ship left on its own, with a proven killer of men and ships dead ahead in its path? ~ Erik Larson,
1059:What the fuck are you waiting for?” he asks. He leans forward. I have all of his attention. “I’m waiting for her to commit,” I admit. He sits back. “Oh,” he says. “I’m just not sure she’s going to be here forever.” I shrug. “That’s all.” “I think you’re right.” My gaze jerks up. I didn’t expect him to agree with me. I expected him to reassure me. “What do you mean?” “What are your intentions?” he asks. “I want my fucking ring on her finger and my baby growing inside her.” Damn, I just shocked myself. And I might have to pick Logan up off the floor. He chokes on a cashew. He clears his throat and says, “Then you need to buy a fucking ring and get on one fucking knee.” “It’s too soon.” I look toward the bedroom to be sure the door is closed. “If it’s too soon for a ring, it’s too soon to fuck her.” “Says the guy who got his girlfriend pregnant.” “But we didn’t get married because we were lazy. It wasn’t because we didn’t want to be married. If Friday doesn’t want to get married, then you need to reevaluate. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1060:Can I ask you one thing before you go?” the clerk said. Her short friend watched me over the edge of her glasses.
“Sure.”
“Are you and Morgan going to the movies again anytime soon?”
I swear every person in that room leaned closer.
“Uh…”
“Mr. Newman is gonna be showing the cows The Sound of Music next Friday,” Marge said. Then I’ll be damned if she didn’t grin.
What the hell did I say? Because they sure were waiting for me to say something. “We’ll see.”
Marge patted me on the arm. “Well, you just let us know.”
I faced some scary people in my life, had guns shoved in my face, seen the results of a disgruntled colleague's handiwork, and never ran. Apparently a room full of Durstrand locals could do what bullets had failed at.
I set the box of bottles on the floor on the passenger side of the truck and cranked it up. Everyone in the post office watched me out the window. Even the two mail clerks had squeezed up front. About half of them waved.
With my face on fire, I fled the parking lot. ~ Adrienne Wilder,
1061:Jacob!” she calls over my shoulder. “It’s time to go.” Jacob runs over, and he stops at my feet. He looks up at me and smiles. He holds up a purple piece of chalk. “Do you want to keep the purple?” he asks. “It’s my favorite color.” I take it from him and squat down. “Thank you so much,” I say. I desperately want to hug him. But I am afraid to. Suddenly, Jacob launches himself at me and wraps his arms around my neck. I fall back gently onto my butt, and we roll to the ground. I can’t keep from laughing as he hugs me. I wrap my arms around him and bend my head so I can smell his hair. He has that little-boy smell that reminds me of the outdoors and purple shampoo. Finally, he squeaks and starts to squirm, and I realize I’ve held him too long so I let him go. It wasn’t nearly long enough, though. Not even close. He steps back and wraps his arms around Jill’s legs. “Can Friday come over and play with me one day?” he asks. Jill nods. “Call me,” I say. They walk off together hand in hand, and I watch them until they disappear from sight. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1062:his unhappiness was our fault. My mother and I got on his nerves. It was because of us he had a job he couldn’t stand. Everything we did was irritating. He particularly didn’t enjoy being around me, not that he often was: in the mornings, as I got ready for school, he sat puffy-eyed and silent over his coffee with the Wall Street Journal in front of him, his bathrobe open and his hair standing up in cowlicks, and sometimes he was so shaky that the cup sloshed as he brought it to his mouth. Warily he eyed me when I came in, nostrils flaring if I made too much noise with the silverware or the cereal bowl. Apart from this daily awkwardness, I didn’t see him much. He didn’t eat dinner with us or attend school functions; he didn’t play with me or talk to me a lot when he was at home; in fact, he was seldom home at all until after my bedtime, and some days—paydays, especially, every other Friday—he didn’t come clattering in until three or four in the morning: banging the door, dropping his briefcase, crashing and bumping around so erratically that ~ Donna Tartt,
1063:So, you, Mister I Am Jealous, don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t sleep with.” She looks directly into my eyes in the mirror. “So, I can sleep with Garrett. I can sleep with Cody.” She throws up her hands. “Hell, I can sleep with both of them at the same time, if I want.” She glares at me. “And you don’t get to have any say-so about it.” She walks toward me. “You can’t say a word because you didn’t want it.” She gestures toward the front of her body. “You said no to all this, so you don’t get to have an opinion.” “I didn’t say no,” I mumble. “You kissed me and then you tried to take it back!” she yells. Okay, I like Friday yelling. I like it so much more than Friday crying. “I didn’t try to take it back!” I slap my palm against the wall, but she just looks at my hand, smirks, and rolls her eyes. “I just… Never mind.” “Just what?” she asks. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over and done with.” “Yep,” she says, letting her lips pop on the P. “Over. Done.” She dusts her hands together. “So you don’t get to go all Neanderthal when someone else kisses me. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1064:with Mark, it will be me.” Jack could have pushed back, but nothing in Tucker’s voice even hinted that the matter was up for debate. “Then we’ll need two days for prep.” “That’s fine.” The extra day was to talk him out of it, not to prep. But Jack let it be for now. “All right, then. See you Wednesday morning.” CHAPTER 15 At 10:00 a.m. Friday morning, Mark Towson was seated at the end of a long rectangular table in Peabody Hall. His father was at his side. They were in one of the oldest buildings on campus, a restored redbrick gem in the heart of the university’s historic district. Peabody was originally Teacher’s College, and it was still home to the College of Education when Mark’s great grandparents had met at the University of Florida. It was now the Office of the Dean of Students, including Student Conduct & Conflict Resolution—the site of Mark’s disciplinary hearing. “Just try to relax,” his father said. They were alone in a room that was much smaller than Mark had expected. Lying awake all night, he’d envisioned something on the order ~ James Grippando,
1065:The next time believers tell you that 'separation of church and state' does not appear in our founding document, tell them to stop using the word 'trinity.' The word 'trinity' appears nowhere in the bible. Neither does Rapture, or Second Coming, or Original Sin. If they are still unfazed (or unphrased), by this, then add Omniscience, Omnipresence, Supernatural,Transcendence, Afterlife, Deity, Divinity, Theology, Monotheism, Missionary, Immaculate Conception, Christmas, Christianity, Evangelical, Fundamentalist, Methodist, Catholic, Pope, Cardinal, Catechism, Purgatory, Penance, Transubstantiation, Excommunication, Dogma, Chastity, Unpardonable Sin, Infallibility, Inerrancy, Incarnation, Epiphany, Sermon, Eucharist, the Lord's Prayer, Good Friday, Doubting Thomas, Advent, Sunday School, Dead Sea, Golden Rule, Moral, Morality, Ethics, Patriotism, Education, Atheism, Apostasy, Conservative (Liberal is in), Capital Punishment, Monogamy, Abortion, Pornography, Homosexual, Lesbian, Fairness, Logic, Republic, Democracy, Capitalism, Funeral, Decalogue, or Bible. ~ Dan Barker,
1066:When girls like me, who are relatively smart and pretty, who have something to say, and who have their own points of view, spend every Friday night home alone watching reality TV, this is because all of the guys they might potentially have dated are out with Adventure Barbie.
You know who she is—that girl with the perfectly tousled hair, long legs, and no fat anywhere because she doesn’t eat. She wears super-high heels, which she can walk in perfectly, but she also comes equipped with hiking boots. A guy who finds himself an A.B. is pleased to find out that she is equally at home zip-lining and fine dining. She will go with him to his kickboxing gym and impress all the guys there, and then she will go home and change into a little black dress and five-inch heels. A.B. does not exist in nature; she is her own creation. And no regular girl can match her. A regular girl’s face betrays her panic when she is asked to go rock climbing or cliff diving. A regular girl looks like a drowned rat after an afternoon of white-water rafting. But not Adventure Barbie. ~ J J Howard,
1067:Some literary recommendations: James Salter’s erotic masterpiece, A Sport and a Pastime; Anais Nin’s collections of short stories Delta of Venus and Little Birds; the erotic novels Emanuelle by Emanuelle Arsan and Story of O by Pauline Réage; Harold Brodkey’s sexual saga “Innocence”—perhaps the greatest depiction of a session of cunnilingus ever penned; novels by Jerzy Kosinski such as Passion Play and Cockpit; Henry Miller’s Under the Roofs of Paris and Quiet Days in Clichy; My Secret Life by Anonymous and The Pure and the Impure by Colette; Nancy Friday’s anthology of fantasies, Secret Garden (filled with the correspondence of real people’s fantasies); stories from The Mammoth Book of Erotica or one of the many erotic anthologies edited by Susie Bright. For those with a taste for poetry, try Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) by Charles Baudelaire or Flesh Unlimited by Guillaume Apollinaire. And for those who like comic books (kinky ones, that is), try the extra-hot works of writer/illustrator Eric Stanton, who specializes in female-domination fantasies. ~ Ian Kerner,
1068:But,” says he again, “if God much stronger, much might as the wicked devil, why God no kill the devil, so make him no more do wicked?”  I was strangely surprised at this question; and, after all, though I was now an old man, yet I was but a young doctor, and ill qualified for a casuist or a solver of difficulties; and at first I could not tell what to say; so I pretended not to hear him, and asked him what he said; but he was too earnest for an answer to forget his question, so that he repeated it in the very same broken words as above.  By this time I had recovered myself a little, and I said, “God will at last punish him severely; he is reserved for the judgment, and is to be cast into the bottomless pit, to dwell with everlasting fire.”  This did not satisfy Friday; but he returns upon me, repeating my words, “‘Reserve at last!’ me no understand—but why not kill the devil now; not kill great ago?”  “You may as well ask me,” said I, “why God does not kill you or me, when we do wicked things here that offend Him—we are preserved to repent and be pardoned.”  ~ Daniel Defoe,
1069:Suddenly the door opens and Pete rushes in. He’s all smiles and he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cigar made of bubble gum. “We’re pregnant!” he yells. Friday grins and runs to him. He catches her against him and he swings her around. “So happy for you two,” she says and she kisses Pete’s cheek. “Is Reagan with you?” She looks over his shoulder. “Nah, she’s at home puking her guts out.” He laughs. “Nasty stuff, that morning sickness.” “And you left her alone while she’s sick?” Friday slugs him on the arm. “Actually, she threw me out.” He starts to mock her voice. “If you don’t get the fuck out of my face, I’m going to drop-kick you into the middle of next week.” He laughs. “She probably even meant it. Usually when she’s pissed at me, she threatens my balls. So I’m pretty sure she didn’t want me around watching her heave. Plus, I wanted to come and check on Josh. Is he here?” Friday points toward the rear of the shop and Pete goes in that direction. “I can’t believe he was allowed to breed,” I say quietly. “He’s going to make a wonderful father. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1070:CAPT. J. W. SIMMONS, master of the steamship Pensacola, had just as little regard for weather as the Louisiana’s Captain Halsey. He was a veteran of eight hundred trips across the Gulf and commanded a staunch and sturdy ship, a 1,069-ton steel-hulled screw-driven steam freighter built twelve years earlier in West Hartlepool, England, and now owned by the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Friday morning the ship was docked at the north end of 34th Street, in the company of scores of other ships, including the big Mallory liner Alamo, at 2,237 tons, and the usual large complement of British ships, which on Friday included the Comino, Hilarius, Kendal Castle, Mexican, Norna, Red Cross, Taunton, and the stately Roma in from Boston with its Captain Storms. As the Pensacola’s twenty-one-man crew readied the ship for its voyage to the city of Pensacola on Florida’s Gulf Coast, two men came aboard as Captain Simmons’s personal guests: a harbor pilot named R. T. Carroll and Galveston’s Pilot Commissioner J. M. O. Menard, from one of the city’s oldest families. At ~ Erik Larson,
1071: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 ~ A G Riddle,
1072:They never thought about their age, was a common reply; they had once been adolescents, then they were thirty, fifty, sixty, and never gave it a thought, so why should they do so now? Some of them were very restricted, finding it hard to walk or move, and yet there was nowhere they wanted to go. Others were absentminded, confused, or forgetful, but this worried their carers and relatives more than it did them. Catherine Hope insisted that the residents of the second and third levels remain active, and it was Irina’s job to keep them interested, entertained, and connected. “However old one is, we need a goal in our lives. It’s the best cure for many ills,” Cathy insisted. In her case, the goal had always been to help others, and her accident had not altered this in the slightest. On Friday mornings, Irina used to accompany the most active residents on their street protests, to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. She also took part in the vigils for noble causes and in the knitting club; all the women who could wield a pair of needles (apart from Alma Belasco) were knitting ~ Isabel Allende,
1073:Hey,” I say. “I want to take you somewhere special with me.” “Where?” she asks over the rush of the water. “My dad used to take me to this old movie theater. It’s closed down now, but it’s my favorite place in the whole world. We would have to break in, but the last time I did it, the projector still worked. We would just have to turn it on.” She sticks her head out of the curtain. “I’ve never heard you say anything nice about your dad before.” I shrug. “It’s just a movie theater.” “No, it’s not,” she calls back. “I guess we could go one day. Is it the one with the old ticket booth out front.” “Yes.” “I’d like to go there.” My heart warms. “Good.” Her voice jerks me out of my thoughts. “Can you pass me a towel?” she asks. I open the cabinet and get out the biggest and fluffiest one I can find. It must be hers, because none of what I have is this nice. She reaches around the curtain, her skinny little tatted arm waving impatiently at me. God, she makes me laugh. That’s the best thing about Friday. She makes me laugh. I don’t know why, but just seeing her can get me out of a funk. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1074:Hey,” I say. “I want to take you somewhere special with me.” “Where?” she asks over the rush of the water. “My dad used to take me to this old movie theater. It’s closed down now, but it’s my favorite place in the whole world. We would have to break in, but the last time I did it, the projector still worked. We would just have to turn it on.” She sticks her head out of the curtain. “I’ve never heard you say anything nice about your dad before.” I shrug. “It’s just a movie theater.” “No, it’s not,” she calls back. ���I guess we could go one day. Is it the one with the old ticket booth out front.” “Yes.” “I’d like to go there.” My heart warms. “Good.” Her voice jerks me out of my thoughts. “Can you pass me a towel?” she asks. I open the cabinet and get out the biggest and fluffiest one I can find. It must be hers, because none of what I have is this nice. She reaches around the curtain, her skinny little tatted arm waving impatiently at me. God, she makes me laugh. That’s the best thing about Friday. She makes me laugh. I don’t know why, but just seeing her can get me out of a funk. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1075:I will keep the baby born on Friday,” the mom wept to the monk, “but I am giving the Saturday one to you. Saturday babies are stubborn. They don’t listen. I have three more children at home. I can only take one more. I can only have ones who are well behaved.” “I understand.” The monk nodded kindly then added, to Rosie’s shock, “This baby is mine now.” “Thank you,” the mom wept, clasping his hand to her forehead. “Thank you, thank you.” The monk dipped a bundle of twigs in a pan of water and sprayed it over both babies and their mother. He said a great many things Rosie did not understand, which caused the mother to cry even harder and to which K merely nodded along. Then the monk told the mother, “I have blessed this baby and spoken with him. He will be a good baby and well behaved always. I wonder if you would take care of him for me? I promise he will be a good boy.” “Yes, oh yes,” the mother sobbed. “Thank you, thank you. I would be honored to take care of him for you. We will take him into our family as our own.” Dispelling fear, Rosie thought. Choosing peace and calm instead of battle. ~ Laurie Frankel,
1076:We do not believe in evil anymore, only evil acts that can be explained away by the science of the mind. There is no evil and to believe in it is to fall prey to superstition, like checking beneath the bed at night or being afraid of the dark. But there are those for whom we have no easy answers, who do evil because that is their nature, because they are evil. Johnny Friday and others like him prey on those who live on the periphery of society, on those who have lost their way. It is easy to get lost in the darkness on the edge of modern life, and once we are lost and alone, there are things waiting for us there. Our ancestors were not wrong in their superstitions: there is reason to fear the dark. And just as a trail could be followed from a bog in Denmark to a swamp in the South, so I came to believe that evil, too, could be traced throughout the life of our race. There was a tradition of evil that ran beneath all human existence like the sewers beneath a city, that continued on even after one of its constituent parts was destroyed, because it was simply one small part of a greater, darker whole. ~ Anonymous,
1077:Airbus Group Ventures business to be led by Tim Dombrowski, a former partner of technology venture capital powerhouse Andreessen Horowitz. The unit’s mandate is to “invest in promising, disruptive and innovative business opportunities generated around the globe,” Airbus said on Friday. Paul Eremenko, who was director of engineering at Google’s secretive Advanced Technology and Projects organization and also worked for the Pentagon’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency technology incubator, will be chief executive of Airbus Group Silicon Valley technology and business innovation center, the company said. “Silicon Valley serves as a unique hub for technology breakthroughs and we see huge opportunities to learn from, and partner with the many players based there,” Airbus Chief Executive Tom Enders said in a statement. Mr. Enders has become concerned that newcomers to the industry may turn into formidable rivals to the European aerospace giant along with more traditional competitors such as Boeing Co. That’s already happening in space where entrepreneur Elon Musk’s space company, Space Exploration ~ Anonymous,
1078:Two things that weren’t even on the agenda survived every upheaval that followed. General Akhtar remained a general until the time he died, and all God’s names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula, which Sufis shouted in their hashish sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationery, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers’ prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz-show hosts, from children’s storybooks, from lovers’ songs, from court orders, from telephone operators’ greetings, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas. ~ Mohammed Hanif,
1079:PATRICK HENRY HIGH SCHOOL  Department of Social Studies   SPECIAL NOTICE to all students Course 410    (elective senior seminar) Advanced Survival, instr. Dr. Matson, 1712-A MWF   1. There will be no class Friday the 14th. 2. Twenty-Four Hour Notice is hereby given of final examination in Solo Survival. Students will present themselves for physical check at 0900 Saturday in the dispensary of Templeton Gate and will start passing through the gate at 1000, using three-minute intervals by lot. 3. TEST CONDITIONS: a) ANY planet, ANY climate, ANY terrain; b) NO rules, ALL weapons, ANY equipment; c) TEAMING IS PERMITTED but teams will not be allowed to pass through the gate in company; d) TEST DURATION is not less than forty-eight hours, not more than ten days. 4. Dr. Matson will be available for advice and consultation until 1700 Friday. 5. Test may be postponed only on recommendation of examining physician, but any student may withdraw from the course without administrative penalty up until 1000 Saturday. 6. Good luck and long life to you all!   (s) B. P. Matson, Sc.D.    Approved: J. R. Roerich, for the Board ~ Robert A Heinlein,
1080:As a result, anecdotes abound in the tech world about scientists, entrepreneurs, and inventors who study and train here but move to Silicon Valley or Austin or North Carolina, lured by climate and lifestyle and a more freewheeling atmosphere. Technology companies like Microsoft, Google, and Amazon have branch offices in Cambridge, but are headquartered on the West Coast. To compete on a global scale, Bostonians need to claim their place in the global conversation. Friday marks a step in that direction. At a press conference at the Ragon Institute, The Boston Globe will join Harvard University, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and MGH in announcing HUBweek, a week-long festival of discussions and creative problem-solving scheduled for Oct. 3 to 10 of next year. It’s a collaborative effort to bring big ideas out from behind institutional walls. To draw participants from all over the nation, and the world, all four co-hosts are creating programming that will focus on game-changing science, technology, engineering, and art. The week will feature some central events, kicking off with a master class at Fenway Park. ~ Anonymous,
1081:Wow wow wow is all I can say! Remember how I always buy lunchtime Scratch-Off ticket? Have I said? Maybe did not say? Well, every Friday, to reward self for good week, I stop at store near home, treat self to Butterfinger, plus Scratch-Off ticket. Sometimes, if hard week, two Butterfingers. Sometimes, if very hard week, three Butterfingers. But, if three Butterfingers, no Scratch-Off. But Friday won ten grand!! On Scratch-Off! Dropped both Butterfingers, stood there holding dime used to scratch, mouth hanging open. Kind of reeled into magazine rack. Guy at register took ticket, read ticket, said, Winner! Guy righted magazine rack, shook my hand.

Raced home on foot, forgetting car. Raced back for car. Halfway back, thought, What the heck, raced home on foot. Pam raced out, said, Where is car? Showed her Scratch-Off ticket. She stood stunned in yard.
Are we rich now? Thomas said, racing out, dragging Ferber by collar.
Not rich, Pam said.
Richer, I said.
Richer, Pam said. Damn.
All began dancing around yard, Ferber looking witless at sudden dancing, then doing dance of own, by chasing own tail. ~ George Saunders,
1082:Holidays: Imagine if the great holidays and seasons of the Christian year were redesigned to emphasize love. Advent would be the season of preparing our hearts to receive God’s love. Epiphany would train us to keep our eyes open for expressions of compassion in our daily lives. Lent would be an honest self-examination of our maturity in love and a renewal of our commitment to grow in it. Instead of giving up chocolate or coffee for Lent, we would stop criticizing or gossiping about or interrupting others. Maundy Thursday would refocus us on the great and new commandment; Good Friday would present the suffering of crucifixion as the suffering of love; Holy Saturday would allow us to lament and grieve the lack of love in our lives and world; and Easter would celebrate the revolutionary power of death-defying love. Pentecost could be an “altar call” to be filled with the Spirit of love, and “ordinary time” could be “extraordinary time” if it involved challenges to celebrate and express love in new ways—to new people, to ourselves, to the earth, and to God—including time to tell stories about our experiences of doing so. ~ Brian D McLaren,
1083:When you wake up on Monday morning, don’t accept those negative thoughts that come knocking on your door, saying, It will be a hard day and a long week. Traffic will be bad. I have so much work to do. I just need to make it through the Monday morning blues. Don’t buy into those thoughts.
Instead, say, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve already answered the door and almighty God, the Creator of the universe, has sent me a hand delivery of joy. I know this will be a great day!”
Decide that for you, there are no Monday morning blues. Instead, choose the Monday morning dos by saying, “I do have a smile. I do have joy. I do have God’s favor. I do have victory.”
Yes, I know some days are more difficult than others. But if you program your mind in a positive way, you won’t have to drag through certain days just hoping to get to Friday so you can finally enjoy life.
Faith is always in the present. Your attitude should be: I’m excited to be alive at this moment. I’m excited to be breathing today. I’m excited about my family, my health, and my opportunities. I have plenty of reasons to be happy right now. ~ Joel Osteen,
1084:Bryan gaped, as though that was more than he'd been expecting. "Oh. Okay. Well, um, there's a silent film festival downtown next week. Do you think you'd want to go?"
I shook my head. "No, I don't think so. I respect it as an art form but really don't get much out of watching them."
"Huh. Okay." He smoothed his hair back again, and I could almost see him groping for thoughts. Why on earth was he asking me about silent films? "What about Starships 30? It opens Friday. Do you want to see that?"
" I don't really like sci-fi either," I said. It was true, I found it completely implausible.
Bryan looked ready to rip that shaggy hair out. "Is there any movie out there you want to see?"
I ran through a mental list of current entertainment. "No. Not really." The bell rang, and with a shake of his head, Bryan slunk back to his desk. "That was weird," I muttered. "He has bad taste in movies." Glancing beside me, I was startled to see Julia with her head down on the desk while she shook with silent laughter. "What?"
"That," she gasped. "That was hilarious."
"What?" I said again. "Why?"
"Sydney, he was asking you out! ~ Richelle Mead,
1085:I just turned thirty and only now am I starting to appreciate all the things I used to think were boring. You know Will? Will Moore, the American, built like a brick wall?”
She nodded.
“I don’t know if you saw yesterday when you stopped by, but he and I live together now. And keep this between you and me, but most of the time we’d both prefer to stay in and play Scrabble than go out clubbing with the rest of the squad,” I said and winked.
Then I tried not to grimace because I’d just winked at her.
Why the hell am I winking?
She gave a light chuckle, “Yeah, I think I guessed that from the episode outside your neighbor’s apartment.”
I didn’t let her comment faze me, instead I plastered on a carefree smile. “I’ll have you know women all over the country would be queuing up to catch a glimpse of me in my PJs. You should count yourself lucky.”
“Oh really?” she challenged. “Who are these women? The same ones who go to Daniel O’Donnell concerts and play bingo on a Friday night?”
I glared at her playfully. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I don’t know why any man would sleep naked when they could be wearing a pair of flannel jimjams. ~ L H Cosway,
1086:I’ll sleep with you, though. On my terms.” “I don’t like to share,” he says. “Neither do I.” “I won’t share,” he clarifies. “Neither will I.” He smiles. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” I shake my head. “Probably not.” “I have a feeling we could be really good together.” “You always keep your promises, right?” He nods. “I try to.” “Promise me that you won’t break my heart.” He heaves a sigh. “Friday,” he says. “Paul,” I say, mocking his tone. “You’d have to hand me your heart before I could break it.” I nod. That’s true. “Okay.” “But if you ever do trust me enough to give it to me, I promise not to harm it. Is that what you want to hear?” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know why this is an issue when you just plan to use me for sex.” He chuckles then raises a hand. “I volunteer as tribute!” he cries quietly. I laugh. The bad thing is that if anyone could get me to hand my heart over, it’s him. Because I’ve had him in my head for so long that I don’t even know where to compartmentalize him anymore. “Want to be my girlfriend?” he teases. I shake my head. “Let’s just start with roommates.” He nods. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1087:The rules about communion at Friday mass, for example, made absolutely no sense. We’d be in there for an hour of kneeling, standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, sitting, and by the end of it I’d be starving, but I was never allowed to take communion, because I wasn’t Catholic. The other kids could eat Jesus’s body and drink Jesus’s blood, but I couldn’t. And Jesus’s blood was grape juice. I loved grape juice. Grape juice and crackers—what more could a kid want? And they wouldn’t let me have any. I’d argue with the nuns and the priest all the time. “Only Catholics can eat Jesus’s body and drink Jesus’s blood, right?” “Yes.” “But Jesus wasn’t Catholic.” “No.” “Jesus was Jewish.” “Well, yes.” “So you’re telling me that if Jesus walked into your church right now, Jesus would not be allowed to have the body and blood of Jesus?” “Well…uh…um…” They never had a satisfactory reply. One morning before mass I decided, I’m going to get me some Jesus blood and Jesus body. I snuck behind the altar and I drank the entire bottle of grape juice and I ate the entire bag of Eucharist to make up for all the other times that I couldn’t. In ~ Trevor Noah,
1088:Some thoughts on heaven? I have this theory that heaven is different for everyone. It has to be, or it wouldn’t be heaven. My grandmother’s heaven? In her heaven she doesn’t have to share the remote with anyone, and it is Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune on all the time, with nary a rerun ever, and the old lady always wins the big money and a trip to Europe to tour a castle or somewhere warm but not too hot with nice churches. In her heaven your knees don’t hurt and your back doesn’t hurt and you get to be whatever age was your favourite age to be and you still have all your teeth and there are bingo games right after dinner and raspberry hard candies and no one ever has to do the dishes. In my gran’s heaven, you can still have yourself a proper smoke in the living room and it doesn’t ruin the new paint job and the lawn never gets too long and the foxes don’t chase the birds off the birdfeeder. In her heaven, a nice bit of cheese won’t give you the bad stomach and real men don’t beat their wives or fuck their children, and every day is payday, and the Friday of a long weekend. Floors wax themselves, but you still get to hang the laundry, but only if you feel like it. ~ Ivan E Coyote,
1089:he grabs the edge of my chair, falls to his knees, and rolls me into him. With one gentle hand on each of my knees, he parts my thighs and wiggles until we’re chest to chest. My breath stalls. He’s an inch from my face when he speaks, and his breath becomes mine. “Because you’re all I can think about. I wake up with you on my mind and go to sleep with you in my dreams. I wouldn’t be having these intense thoughts about you if I were in love with anybody else. I’m not that kind of guy.” He kisses the end of my nose. “I know you already know this about me. I’m a stand-up man, Friday, and I’m loyal.” “I want to tell you I feel the same,” I say. I close my eyes, and he startles me when he places a kiss on each of my eyelids in turn. “What’s stopping you?” “That guy I was with yesterday,” I say. I put a hand on his chest to push him back, but I don’t want him to go anywhere. He leans back on his heels, but he leaves his hands on my knees. I close my legs, because without him there, I just feel…empty. “Is he your boyfriend?” “No.” “Then why was he kissing you?” “So, I could make you jealous,” I blurt out. I cover my face with my hand because I’m mortified to admit that. “Well, fuck. It worked. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1090:doesn't matter to the universe, it should matter one hell of a lot to YOU. In fact, it should matter to you more than it currently does. If you knew how small you are and how short a time you have to do what you can, you wouldn't waste time watching five fucking hours of TV a day. You wouldn't waste time doing a job you hate. You wouldn't waste the little time you have dealing with assholes, feeling sorry for yourself, or being timid about the things you'd really like to do. I'm 35, and it dawned on me just recently that it's not at all long before I'll be forty. And forty is FUCKING OLD in the mind of a guy with the mentality and sense of humor of a teenager. I mean, hell, you can make an argument for 30 being young despite the fact that the MTV crowd says different, but forty-something is what your grandmother was. When I had this epiphany, a succession of uncomfortable and incredibly obvious realizations followed. If I can turn 40, I can turn 50. If I can turn 50, I can turn 60. Once, I was a kid and everyone else was old. The tables will turn. I'll be the guy that kids look at and see as old. Me. Fucking ME. Me, who was once out cruising on Friday nights, staying up until dawn. Me, ~ Johnny B Truant,
1091:Whenever I hurt myself, my mother says
it is the universe’s way of telling me to
slow down. She also tells me to put some
coconut oil on it. It doesn’t matter what it
is. She often hides stones underneath my
pillow when I come home for the weekend.
The stones are a formula for sweet dreams
and clarity. I dig them out from the streets,
she tells me what each one is for. My throat
hurts, so she grinds black pepper into a
spoonful of honey, makes me eat the entire
thing. My mother knows how to tie knots
like a ship captain, but doesn’t know how
I got that sailor mouth. She falls asleep
in front of the TV only until I turn it off,
shouts, I was watching that! The sourdough
she bakes on Friday is older than I am.
She sneaks it back and forth across the country
when she flies by putting the starter in small
containers next to a bag of carrots.
They think it’s ranch dressing, she giggles.
She makes tea by hand. Nettles, slippery elm,
turmeric, cinnamon- my mother is a recipe
for warm throats and belly laughs. Once
she fell off of a ladder when I was three.
She says all she was worried about was
my face as I watched her fall. ~ Sarah Kay,
1092:Oh Jesus, you think I’m letting you come over and pester me all the time because you’re the only available man in my age group!” He lifted one black bushy brow. “But am I?” “That’s so irrelevant! Chasing a good-looking thirty-year-old was never beneath me!” She made him laugh. That was the linchpin—she always made him laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. Not that there are many of those, either.” “Walt, for God’s sake, I have my own transportation if Virgin River isn’t amusing enough for me.” She stalked over to him, put her arms on his shoulders, got up on her toes and laid a lip-lock on him that shocked his eyebrows up high and his eyes round. But she kept at him until he finally put his big arms around her slim body, pulled her hard against him, let his lips open, opened hers and experienced, for the first time since they met almost three months ago, a wholly passionate, wet, deep kiss. It was fantastic. Delicious. And long. When he finally relaxed his arms a bit, she pulled back and gave him a whack in the chest. “Now stop being a fool or you’re going to mess this up. I’ll come to dinner Friday night. You cook. I’ll bring wine.” “Okay, fine,” he said a little breathlessly. “Dinner. With the family. ~ Robyn Carr,
1093:Despite our earnest efforts, we couldn't climb all the way up to God. So what did God do? In an amazing act of condescension, on Good Friday, God climbed down to us, became one with us. The story of divine condescension begins on Christmas and ends on Good Friday. We thought, if there is to be business between us and God, we must somehow get up to God. Then God came down, down to the level of the cross, all the way down to the depths of hell. He who knew not sin took on our sin so that we might be free of it. God still stoops, in your life and mine, condescends. “Are you able to drink the cup that I am to drink?” he asked his disciples, before his way up Golgotha. Our answer is an obvious, “No!” His cup is not only the cup of crucifixion and death, it is the bloody, bloody cup that one must drink if one is going to get mixed up in us. Any God who would wander into the human condition, any God who has this thirst to pursue us, had better not be too put off by pain, for that's the way we tend to treat our saviors. Any God who tries to love us had better be ready to die for it. As Chesterton writes, “Any man who preaches real love is bound to beget hate … Real love has always ended in bloodshed. ~ William H Willimon,
1094:I've never been lonely. I've been in a room -- I've felt suicidal. I've been depressed. I've felt awful -- awful beyond all -- but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me...or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I've never been bothered with because I've always had this terrible itch for solitude. It's being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I'll quote Ibsen, "The strongest men are the most alone." I've never thought, "Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I'll feel good." No, that won't help. You know the typical crowd, "Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?" Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I've never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn't want to hide in factories. That's all. Sorry for all the millions, but I've never been lonely. I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have. Let's drink more wine! ~ Charles Bukowski,
1095:all-purpose flour 3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa 1 1/4 cups packed brown sugar 2/3 cup melted butter 3 eggs 1 15oz can pumpkin 3 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt 3 teaspoons cinnamon 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice ========== Cupcakes (Cupcake And Frosting Recipes) (Winlet, Sara) - Your Highlight on Location 89-100 | Added on Friday, October 24, 2014 5:00:30 PM 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg 1/8 teaspoon ground cloves 2/3 cup granulated sugar 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1/3 cup sour cream 1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips Chocolate Ganache Frosting (see frosting section) Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. In a medium bowl, combine flour, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon, ginger, allspice, nutmeg, and cloves, then set aside. In a large mixing bowl, cream butter, brown sugar and granulated sugar. Beat until light and fluffy. Add eggs, pumpkin, and vanilla and beat for about 1 minute. Add sour cream, scrape down sides of bowl, then add flour mixture, and mix lightly until just combined. Fold in chocolate chips. Spoon batter into muffin liners until each is 2/3 full. Bake for 18 to ========== Cupcakes (Cupcake And Frosting Recipes) (Winlet, ~ Anonymous,
1096:I thought of calling this piece “In Memoriam,” because “in memoriam” has always suggested a place to me—Memoriam, Oklahoma, say, or Memoriam, Tennessee—and because, to my tinker’s brain, “in memoriam,” sounds like “in memory am.” Which I am, now more than ever. Lost, basically, wandering that ancestral home, all polished wood and anecdote, wishing that I could unload it somehow, knowing I never will. Like it or not, I have an investment in Memoriam now. My father’s casket between the potted palms is the cornerstone. Welcome home, kid.

It’s an odd, slightly ghostly predicament. Lacking brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, with my mother’s memory having long ago lost any trace of me, I find myself the sole surviving owner of ten thousand names, stories, jokes, associations—that time the raccoon reached up through the knothole in the cabin floor when I was four; those Friday nights when the three of us would watch “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”; that evening, a memorable night in 1966, when my dad, with his professorial air and his Czech accent and his horn-rims, put on my mother’s shoulder-length blond wig on a dare and went out to pick up the pizza—that mean nothing, except that they were the soil of our lives. ~ Mark Slouka,
1097:Pessimism is a towering skyscraper eighty stories high in the suburbs of the soul at the end of a long avenue with waste ground on either side and a few poorly-stocked little shops. Several ultra-fast staircases give access to the building, running up from the cellars to the roof-gardens. The comfort of this place leaves nothing to be desired and only the greatest luxury is acceptable, but every Friday the residents gather on the ground floor to read from a bible bound in the skin of a blind man. The psalmic words they intone rise up through the pipes, sigh in the stoves and sweep the chimneys coated inside with black grease which leaves dirt on the skin. Water runs constantly in the bathrooms and the showers beat down on the numbered bodies, peppering them with sand. On Sundays the bed linen unrolls by itself and nobody makes love. For this tower block, like an obscure phallus scraping the vulva of the sky, is usually a hive of sexual activity. The most beautiful woman lives there, but no-one has ever known her. It is said, that dressed in furs and feathers, she keeps herself shut away in a first-floor apartment as if in a white safe. Her windows are scissors which cut short both shadow and breath. Her name is AURORA. ~ Michel Leiris,
1098:Not long after I first learned that I was sick, in the dim time of travel, multiple doctors, and endless tests, when it seemed that I might be in danger of dying very soon, I began to meet every Friday afternoon with the pastor at the church just around the corner from where my wife and I lived. I think that he, like anyone whose faith is healthy, actively craved instances in which that faith might be tested. So we argued for an hour every Friday, though that verb is completely wrong for the complex, respectful, difficult interactions we had. Nothing was ever settled. In fact my friend—for we became close friends—seemed to me mulishly orthodox at times, just as I seemed to him, I know, either boneheadedly literal when I focused on scripture or woozily mystical when I didn’t. And yet those hours and the time afterward, when, strangely enough, I didn’t so much think about all that we had discussed as feel myself freed from such thoughts, are among the happiest hours of my life. Grief was not suspended or banished, but entered and answered. Answered not by theology, and not by my own attempts to imaginatively circumvent theology, but by the depth and integrity and essential innocence of the communion occurring between two people. * ~ Christian Wiman,
1099:So at my old school,” he said. “There was this kid on the baseball team. People thought, I don’t know. They saw that he went to some website or something.” ... “They made it impossible for him to play. Every day, the found another way to mess with him. Then one Friday after school, they locked him in the storage closet.” He winced, as if remembering and I knew. I knew then. “All night long and the whole next day. A tiny, dark, disgusting airless space. His parents thought he was at the away game and someone told the coaches he was sick, so no one even looked for him. No one knew he was trapped in there.” His chest was heaving and I was remembering how he told me he didn’t used to have claustrophobia and now he did. “He was really good too, probably the best player on the team or could have been. And he didn’t even do anything. The guy just went to these sites and someone saw. Do you get it? Do you get what it would mean for me? The assistant captain? I want to be captain next year so maybe I can graduate early. No scholarship. No nothing. These guys aren’t” - he made finger quotes - “evolved. They’re not from Northern California. They don’t do all-day sits or draw pictures.” The dagger went straight in. “It’s brutal in a locker room. ~ Jandy Nelson,
1100:I reach out and pull Friday into my lap, and she settles her head against my chest. She nestles into a spot, snuggling with me, and then she tilts her head back and looks up at me. “Wait!” Sam says, lifting his head. “What?” I ask. I force myself to look up at him. He motions from Friday to me and back. “Are you guys a thing now?” I grin and look down at her. She worries her lower lip with her teeth. “Are we a thing?” I ask her. “We’re a thing,” she whispers to me. My heart trips a beat. I press my lips to her forehead and linger there, and she makes a soft noise. It’s almost like a purr, and I find that I really, really like it. I tip her face up and press my lips to hers. “God,” Sam complains, “it’s so fucking weird watching you two be a thing. You make me want to throw up.” I smack his leg. “Watch your mouth,” I say. I move my eyes toward Emily’s parents, but her dad just shakes his head and laughs. He likes us a lot more than he used to. “Sorry,” Sam grumbles. “Kids,” Mrs. Madison says, commiserating with me. “What can you do? Mine ran away from home, fell in love, and made a wonderful life for herself.” “They’re happy,” I say. Friday yawns, and I feel her hot breath through my shirt. I sit up a little so I can draw her even closer. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1101:Olives
"Dead people don't like olives,"
I told my partners in eighth grade
dancing class, who never listened
as we fox-trotted, one-two, one-two.
The dead people I often consulted
nodded their skulls in unison
while I flung my black velvet cape
over my shoulders and glowered
from deep-set, burning eyes,
walking the city streets, alone at fifteen,
crazy for cheerleaders and poems.
At Hamden High football games, girls
in short pleated skirts
pranced and kicked, and I longed
for their memorable thighs.
They were friendly—poets were mascots—
but never listened when I told them
that dead people didn't like olives.
Instead the poet, wearing his cape,
continued to prowl in solitude
intoning inscrutable stanzas
as halfbacks and tackles
made out, Friday nights after football,
on sofas in dark-walled rec rooms
with magnanimous cheerleaders.
But, decades later, when the dead
have stopped blathering
about olives, obese halfbacks wheeze
upstairs to sleep beside cheerleaders
waiting for hip replacements,
while a lascivious, doddering poet,
his burning eyes deep-set
in wrinkles, cavorts with their daughters.
17
~ Donald Hall,
1102:I have to call your mom,” Stephen said. “You don’t have to do that,” I insisted, my voice mellowing as I returned, almost instantly, to my old self. Manic episodes can fade away as quickly as they arise. “I don’t want her to worry.” Mom was a worrier by nature, and I had tried to spare her the full story of what was happening to me so far. “I have to,” he insisted and coaxed her home number out of me. He stepped into the hallway and waited two interminably long rings before Allen, my stepfather, picked up the phone. “Hello,” he said groggily in his thick Bronx accent. “Allen, it’s Stephen. I’m at the hospital. Susannah had a seizure, but she’s doing fine.” In the background, my mom shouted, “Allen, what is it?” “She’s going to be okay. They’re discharging her,” Stephen continued. Despite my mom’s rising panic, Allen maintained his composure, telling Stephen to go back home and sleep. They would come in the morning. When he hung up the phone, my mom and Allen looked at each other. It was Friday the Thirteenth. My mom felt the foreboding, and she began to cry uncontrollably, certain that something was seriously wrong. It was the first and last time she would allow herself to completely succumb to her emotions in the frightening months that followed. ~ Susannah Cahalan,
1103:Good Friday
O, SAD and solemn holy day,
O, bitterest of bitter hours!
Behold He staggers on His way
Beneath the cross that saps His powers.
O, see, they goad Him with their thongs,
And mock Him as He falters there,
For us, for us He bears these wrongs
And goes the crown of thorns to wear.
No word of bitterness He speaks,
No look of hatred mars His face,
The scoffers spit upon His cheeks
And taunt Him in the market place;
And now upon the cross He 's nailed,
'I thirst,' He mutters, that is all;
But still He is to be assailed,
His lips must taste the cup of gall.
Once more His lips are seen to move,
O, holy sentence uttered there!
What more His love could better prove
Than these few words borne on the air:
'Father, forgive them,' thus He prayed,
And doubt you that His love was true?
Still patient, gentle, unafraid,
'Forgive, they know not what they do."
For us the crown of thorns He wore
With patience man has never known;
For us the cruel cross He bore
With meekness man has never shown.
For us He lived, for us He died,
O, sad and solemn holy day,
Renouncing self and earthly pride
That we might know the better way.
~ Edgar Albert Guest,
1104:It is because of this sea between us. The earth has never, up to now, separated us. But, ever since yesterday, there has been something in this nonetheless real, perfectly Atlantic, salty, slightly rough sea that has cast a spell on me. And every time I think about Promethea, I see her crossing this great expanse by boat and soon, alas, a storm comes up, my memory clouds over, in a flash there are shipwrecks, I cannot even cry out, my mouth is full of saltwater sobs. I am flooded with vague, deceptive recollections, I am drowning in my imagination in tears borrowed from the most familiar tragedies, I wish I had never read certain books whose poison is working in me. Has this Friday, perhaps, thrown a spell on me? But spells only work if you catch them. I have caught the Tragic illness. If only Promethea would make me some tea I know I would find some relief. But that is exactly what is impossible. And so, today, I am sinning.
I am sinking beneath reality. I am weighted down with literature. That is my fate. Yet I had the presence of mind to start this parenthesis, the only healthy moment in these damp, feverish hours.
All this to try to come back to the surface of our book...
Phone me quickly, Promethea, get me out of this parenthesis fast!) ~ H l ne Cixous,
1105:The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture.
He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon.
It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared.
On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
1106:Einstein preferred to believe that "God does not play dice with the cosmos."
It may be that Einstein and the Book of Genesis are right. A system left to itself may evolve in the direction of randomness. On the the other hand, our world may not be a system left to itself. There may in fact be a creative impulse acting on it, the Spirit of God hovering over the dark waters, operating over the course of millennia to bring order out of chaos, It may yet come to pass that, as "Friday afternoon" of the world's evolution ticks towards the Great Sabbath which is the End of Days, the impact of random evil will be diminished.
Or it may be that God has finished His work of creating eons ago, and left the rest to us. Residual chaos, chance and mischance, things happening for no reason, will continue to be with us, the kind of evil that Milton Steinberg has called "the still unremoved scaffolding of the edifice of God's creativity." In that case, we will simply learn to live with it, sustained and comforted by the knowledge that earthquakes and the accidents, like the murder and the robbery, are not the will of God, but represents that aspect of reality which stands independent of His will, and which angers and saddens God even as it angers and saddens us. ~ Harold S Kushner,
1107:There is a feeling that I had Friday night after the homecoming game that I don't know if I will ever be able to describe except to say that it is warm. Sam and Patrick drove me to the party that night, and I sat in the middle of Sam's pickup truck. Sam loves her pick up truck because I think it reminds her of her dad.The feeling I had happened when Sam told Patrick to find a station on the radio. And kept getting commercials. And commercials. And a really bad song about love that had the word "baby" in it. And then more commercials. And finally he found this really amazing song about this boy, and we all got quiet.
Sam tapped her hand on the steering wheel. Patrick held his hand outside the car and made air waves. And I just sat between them. After the song finished I said something.
"I feel infinite"
And Sam and Patrick looked at me like I said the greatest thing they ever heard. Because the song was the greatest and we all paid attention to it.Five minutes of a lifetime were truly spent,and we felt young in a good way. I have since bought the record, and I would tell you what it is, but truthfully, it's not the same unless you're driving to your first real part, and you're sitting in the middle seat of a pickup with two nice people when it starts to rain. ~ Stephen Chbosky,
1108:I never order fish on Monday, unless I'm eating at Le Bernardin — a four-star restaurant where I know they are buying their fish directly from the source. I know how old most seafood is on Monday — about four to five days old! You walk into a nice two-star place in Tribeca on a sleepy Monday evening and you see they're running a delicious sounding special of Yellowfin Tuna, Braised Fennel, Confit Tomatoes and a Saffron Sauce. Why not go for it? Here are the two words that should leap out at you when you navigate the menu: 'Monday' and 'Special'. Here's how it works: the chef of this fine restaurant orders his fish on Thursday for delivery Friday morning. He's ordering a pretty good amount of it, too, as he's not getting another delivery until Monday morning. All right, some seafood purveyors make Saturday deliveries, but the market is closed Friday night. It's the same fish from Thursday! The chef is hoping to sell the bulk of that fish — your tuna — on Friday and Saturday nights, when he assumes it will be busy. He's assuming also that if he has a little left on Sunday, he can unload the rest of it then, as seafood salad for brunch, or as a special. Monday? It's merchandizing night, when whatever is left over from the weekend is used up, and hopefully sold for money. ~ Anthony Bourdain,
1109:I get up and go to check on Friday and Hayley, but I stumble to a stop when I turn the corner into Hayley’s room. They’re both asleep on the bed on their stomachs with an open book in front of them. Friday has changed into her pajamas and it looks as though she was reading to Hayley when they both fell asleep. But what kills me is that their noses are turned toward one another, so close they’re sharing breaths, and my daughter’s hand is tucked into Friday’s. I take a mental picture, because I never, ever want to forget what this feels like. Click! Click! Click! I cement it in my head, because my heart is so happy it’s ready to burst, and I don’t want to let this moment go. I don’t wake them up. Instead, I pick up some of the toys Hayley has left lying around the room. I put her dolls on the top shelf, and her trucks and matchbox cars go in the bucket at the foot of her bed. I laugh when I see they built a big house out of building blocks and they put one of her male actions figures in there with Barbie. I look closer. Are their faces pressed together? It looks almost like they’re kissing. Leave it to Friday… Friday sat and played with my daughter for two hours, and then she read to her and she fell asleep on her bed. I want to see this every night for the rest of my life. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1110:Women have complained, justly, about the behavior of “macho” men. But despite their he-man pretensions and their captivation by masculine heroes of sports, war, and the Old West, most men are now entirely accustomed to obeying and currying the favor of their bosses. Because of this, of course, they hate their jobs — they mutter, “Thank God it’s Friday” and “Pretty good for Monday”— but they do as they are told. They are more compliant than most housewives have been. Their characters combine feudal submissiveness with modern helplessness. They have accepted almost without protest, and often with relief, their dispossession of any usable property and, with that, their loss of economic independence and their consequent subordination to bosses. They have submitted to the destruction of the household economy and thus of the household, to the loss of home employment and self-employment, to the disintegration of their families and communities, to the desecration and pillage of their country, and they have continued abjectly to believe, obey, and vote for the people who have most eagerly abetted this ruin and who have most profited from it. These men, moreover, are helpless to do anything for themselves or anyone else without money, and so for money they do whatever they are told. ~ Wendell Berry,
1111:Well, you’ve already fucked up the atmosphere,” he says. “What are you going to do about it?” “Nothing,” I say. “I’m going to do nothing.” Friday has been a part of our circle for four years. But almost all of that time, I thought she was a lesbian. The five minutes when I didn’t is when the trouble started. “It didn’t look like nothing when we got here. You were kissing her eyelids and she didn’t seem too put out by it.” “She’s not in the right position for what I want,” I say. I can’t tell him about her being pregnant. It’s not my story to tell. He grins. “Well, what position did you want her in?” “Shut up,” I grouse. “If she’s in the wrong position, flip her the fuck over.” He throws up his hands. “Hell, turn her upside down if you have to.” “It’s not that easy.” His gaze softens. “Nothing worth having is easy to get.” If anyone would know, it’s Matt. He battled cancer and thought he would never get married or have a kid, and now he has three with twins on the way. He fought, and he won. “Is she worth having?” Matt asks. “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Do you want to find out?” “I don’t know.” I drag a hand down my face. “I never took you for being a quitter.” I heave in a breath. “I’ve never quit anything on purpose. But this fight might be more than I want to take on. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1112:Here, let me do it,” Peter says, coming up close behind me.
I jerk away from him. “No no, I’ll do it,” I say, and he shakes his head and tries to take the measuring cup from me, but I won’t let go, and flour poufs out of the cup and into the air. It dusts us both. Peter starts cracking up and I let out an outraged shriek. “Peter!”
He’s laughing too hard to speak.
I cross my arms. “I’d better still have enough flour.”
“You look like a grandma,” he says, still laughing.
“Well, you look like a grandpa,” I counter. I dump the flour in my mixing bowl back into the flour canister.
“Actually, you’re really a lot like my granny,” Peter says. “You hate cussing. You like to bake. You stay at home on Friday nights. Wow, I’m dating my granny. Gross.”
I start measuring again. One, two. “I don’t stay home every Friday night.” Three.
“I’ve never seen you out. You don’t go to parties. We used to hang out back in the day. Why’d you stop hanging out?”
Four. “I…I don’t know. Middle school was different.” What does he want me to say? That Genevieve decided I wasn’t cool enough so I got left behind? Why is he so clueless?
“I always wondered why you stopped hanging out with us.”
Was I on five or six? “Peter! You made me lose my count again!”
“I have that effect on women. ~ Jenny Han,
1113:Logan shoulders his way past me and glares at her. “I’m not leaving again,” he says to her. She nods. “I know.” “No matter what you say,” he goes on. “I just needed to do something. I wanted it to be a surprise.” She holds her hand out to him. “I meant to do it later, but time got away from me, and then I realized that I hadn’t done it yet, and I was almost out of time. And so Friday helped me with it.” She motions for him to take her hand again. “But first we had to wash that stupid basketball off.” A grin tugs at the corners of my lips when she lifts her hospital gown and I see that the ball is gone. She’s wearing a pair of Logan’s boxer shorts for now, but her belly is huge and she looks like the timer on her chicken has popped. Across her belly are the words, “My name is Catherine. And I’m my daddy’s girl.” “You finally picked a name?” Logan asks. He puts his hand on her belly and draws out the letters. It’s made like his tattoo that says, “My name is Emily.” It’s the one he got when he found out her real name. “That name was your favorite, right?” she asks. I know it’s more than just his favorite. Catherine was our mom’s name. He nods, and I see him swallow really hard. “Kit,” he says. “Kit,” she repeats. Her voice cracks. There’s so much history between them with regard to that nickname. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1114:With the heady scent of yeast in the air, it quickly becomes clear that Langer's hasn't changed at all. The black-and-white-checked linoleum floor, the tin ceiling, the heavy brass cash register, all still here. The curved-front glass cases with their wood counter, filled with the same offerings: the butter cookies of various shapes and toppings, four kinds of rugelach, mandel bread, black-and-white cookies, and brilliant-yellow smiley face cookies. Cupcakes, chocolate or vanilla, with either chocolate or vanilla frosting piled on thick. Brownies, with or without nuts. Cheesecake squares. Coconut macaroons. Four kinds of Danish. The foil loaf pans of the bread pudding made from the day-old challahs. And on the glass shelves behind the counter, the breads. Challahs, round with raisins and braided either plain or with sesame. Rye, with and without caraway seeds. Onion kuchen, sort of strange almost-pizza-like bread that my dad loves, and the smaller, puffier onion rolls that I prefer. Cloverleaf rolls. Babkas. The wood-topped cafe tables with their white chairs, still filled with the little gossipy ladies from the neighborhood, who come in for their mandel bread and rugelach, for their Friday challah and Sunday babka, and take a moment to share a Danish or apple dumpling and brag about grandchildren. ~ Stacey Ballis,
1115:Come to my house right now, and I’ll let you sneak up to my room. I’ll be a sitting duck for you if it means I can see you again.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t want to win like that. When I get your name, I want to have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you fair and square. My first ever Assassins win can’t be tainted.” I pause. “And besides, your house is a safe zone.”
Peter lets out an aggravated sigh. “Are you at least coming to my lacrosse game on Friday?”
His lacrosse game! That’s the perfect place to take him out. I try to keep my voice calm and even as I say, “I can’t come. My dad has a date, and he needs me to watch Kitty.” A lie, but Peter doesn’t know that.
“Well, can’t you bring her? She’s been asking to go to one of my games.”
I think fast. “No, because she has a piano lesson after school.”
“Since when does Kitty play the piano?”
“Recently, in fact. She heard from our neighbor that it helps with training puppies; it calms them down.” I bite my lip. Will he buy it? I hurry to add, “I promise I’ll be at the next game no matter what.”
Peter groans, this time even louder. “You’re killing me, Covey.”
Soon, my dear Peter.
I will surprise him at the game; I’ll get all decked out in our school colors; I’ll even paint his jersey number on my face. He’ll be so happy to see me, he won’t suspect a thing! ~ Jenny Han,
1116:I came to love the way Morrie lit up when I entered the room. He did this for many people, I know, but it was his special talent to make each visitor feel that the smile was unique.
“Ahhhh, it’s my buddy,” he would say when he saw me, in that foggy, high-pitched voice. And it didn’t stop with the greeting. When Morrie was with you, he was really with you. He looked you straight in the eye, and he listened as if you were the only person in the world. How much better would people get along if their first encounter each day were like this—instead of a grumble from a waitress or a bus driver or a boss?
“I believe in being fully present,” Morrie said. “That means you should be with the person you’re with. When I’m talking to you now, Mitch, I try to keep focused only on what is going on between us. I am not thinking about something we said last week. I am not thinking of what’s coming up this Friday. I am not thinking about doing another Koppel show, or about what medications I’m taking.
“I am talking to you. I am thinking about you.”
I remembered how he used to teach this idea in the Group Process class back at Brandeis. I had scoffed back then, thinking this was hardly a lesson plan for a university course. Learning to pay attention? How important could that be? I now know it is more important than almost everything they taught us in college. ~ Mitch Albom,
1117:There can be no question that Musk has mastered the art of getting the most out of his employees. Interview three dozen SpaceX engineers and each one of them will have picked up on a managerial nuance that Musk has used to get people to meet his deadlines. One example from Brogan: Where a typical manager may set the deadline for the employee, Musk guides his engineers into taking ownership of their own delivery dates. “He doesn’t say, ‘You have to do this by Friday at two P.M.,’” Brogan said. “He says, ‘I need the impossible done by Friday at two P.M. Can you do it?’ Then, when you say yes, you are not working hard because he told you to. You’re working hard for yourself. It’s a distinction you can feel. You have signed up to do your own work.” And by recruiting hundreds of bright, self-motivated people, SpaceX has maximized the power of the individual. One person putting in a sixteen-hour day ends up being much more effective than two people working eight-hour days together. The individual doesn’t have to hold meetings, reach a consensus, or bring other people up to speed on a project. He just keeps working and working and working. The ideal SpaceX employee is someone like Steve Davis, the director of advanced projects at SpaceX. “He’s been working sixteen hours a day every day for years,” Brogan said. “He gets more done than eleven people working together. ~ Ashlee Vance,
1118:Can one of you do a piercing?” Friday calls. Friday is really pretty in a Katy Perry kind of way. She has tattoos on her shoulders and across her back and up her legs. I know about the ones on her legs because I put them there. She has skulls and cross bones and turtles and some really weird shit. And she dresses all retro, like a pinup girl from the sixties. “What kind of piercing?” I ask. Every gaze in the place turns to the woman, and she flushes. “One of those piercings!” Friday yells dramatically. “Pete can do it,” Paul says. Reagan’s mouth falls open. She walks over close to me. “You are not doing a private piercing,” she hisses. I do them all the time, but I don’t even want to do them anymore. She cups her hand around my ear. “The only private places you’re touching are mine.” My heart swells. I like this. I like it a lot. “Sorry,” I say. “The little lady has spoken.” I lift my face, and she bends down to kiss me. Paul looks at Logan, but Emily signs something to him really quickly and he grins. He shakes his head. “Can’t do it,” he says. “Why not?” Paul blows out a heavy breath. “Because I want to have sex tonight,” Logan says. “And tomorrow night. And the night after.” Sam’s not here. He’s probably baking a cake somewhere. And we all know where Matt is. Paul throws down the pencil on the table where he was drawing a tattoo. “You guys are worthless,” he complains. “And pussy whipped. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1119:At one point I was climbing off the bus and I bumped into a woman in a crisp black blazer and pointy, witchy shoes. She had a bulky cell phone pressed against her ear and a black bag with gold Prada lettering hooked around her wrist. I was a long ways off from worshiping at the Céline, Chloé, or Goyard thrones, but I certainly recognized Prada. “Sorry,” I said, and took a step away from her. She nodded at me briskly but never stopped speaking into her phone, “The samples need to be there by Friday.” As her heels snapped away on the pavement, I thought, There is no way that woman can ever get hurt. She had more important things to worry about than whether or not she would have to eat lunch alone. The samples had to arrive by Friday. And as I thought about all the other things that must make up her busy, important life, the cocktail parties and the sessions with the personal trainer and the shopping for crisp, Egyptian cotton sheets, there it started, my concrete and skyscraper wanderlust. I saw how there was a protection in success, and success was defined by threatening the minion on the other end of a cell phone, expensive pumps terrorizing the city, people stepping out of your way simply because you looked like you had more important places to be than they did. Somewhere along the way, a man got tangled up in this definition too. I just had to get to that, I decided, and no one could hurt me again. ~ Jessica Knoll,
1120:You’re a little bit whipped,” Sam says from behind me. I turn around and scowl at him. “I am not.” “Yes, you are. I think it’s cute.” He grins at me as he balances himself in the doorway, dangling from the overhang like a monkey. “You have a crush.” “I do not have a crush,” I say. “Oh, you totally have a crush,” he sings out. I can’t let him tease me like that, so I chase him out of Matt’s old room and down the hallway into the living room. He jumps over the back of the couch, and I go over it after him. I catch him around the waist and knock him to the floor. He’s wiry and quick, and I don’t remember him being quite as strong as he is now, but I pin him to the floor anyway. I must be getting old because it’s harder to hold him down than it used to be. A lot harder. Sam’s a collegiate athlete, and he’s even being scouted by a couple of pro teams, so he’s in peak physical shape all the time. Unlike me. Thankfully, I have size on my side. A knock sounds at the door. I yell, “Come in!” without letting Sam up. He grunts and shoves at me, but I sit on him. The door opens and a man walks in carrying a box. I freeze, because he looks familiar. “Get off me, you big fucker,” Sam says. The man raises his brow at us and looks back at Friday, who is dragging a suitcase. I let Sam up, and he swipes the hair back from his brow. He’s sweating. I’m not. But I also wasn’t the one trying to scramble up from the floor. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1121:Holy Saturday is the name that is given to that 24-hour period nestled between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, between crucifixion and resurrection. It is a day that speaks of the absence of God and is as much a part of the Christian experience as the day before and the day after. It is the moment when we experience the depth of Christ’s cry on the cross, the moment when we feel abandoned by God and utterly alone in the world. This day is never as far from us as we would wish, for there are times when we all are unsettled by the feeling that we have been abandoned and that everything we believe may be nothing more than empty words and hopeless dreams. This is the horror of the cross, not the blood and suffering of an innocent, but the removal of God. Holy Saturday ridicules the idea that the feeling of God’s absence is reserved for those who are irreligious, for in reality it is only the religious individual who can really know this absence. This is analogous to the experience of waiting for one whom we love in a café. The later they are, the more we experience their absence. Our beloved is absent to everyone in the room but we are the only one who feels it. Who among us does not find ourselves dwelling, from time to time, or perhaps at all times, in the space of Holy Saturday? Yet this day is rarely spoken of and the experience is often seen as one to be avoided or merely tolerated rather than embraced. ~ Peter Rollins,
1122:Suddenly, he hooks an arm around me and drags me to lie on top of him. I rest on my elbows on his chest. “I don’t like the idea of you fucking them.” “I didn’t fuck them,” I say. I move like I’m going to get up. “I’m jealous as hell, Friday, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. So, go and play house with them. Leave me out of it.” “They’re gay,” I blurt out. I really wanted him to come to the knowledge by himself so he would understand. “What?” “They’re a couple. I’m their surrogate.” I lift my fist and knock playfully on his forehead. “Earth to Paul,” I say. “Are you still in there?” “They’re a couple?” he asks quietly. “Yes.” His arms tighten around me, and then he flips us over until he’s hovering over me. He brushes my hair back from my face. Then he does something I never would have expected. He chuckles. It’s a deep belly laugh, and he buries his face in my neck, his body rocking, he’s laughing so hard. “They’re married,” I say. “And they wanted a baby.” I point down toward my belly. “I wasn’t using my uterus for anything, so I told them they could borrow it.” I lay my palm on the side of his face and bring his blue eyes to meet mine. “Now can you stop being so jealous and come and have dinner with us?” “You never slept with them?” he asks. His eyes search my face, like he’s looking for the meaning of life. I shake my head. “I don’t think they’re into vaginas,” I say. “And I kind of have a vagina. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1123:I don’t think Kashmiriyat is dead, nor is Sufism. If we don’t support the idea of Kashmiriyat or the Sufi tradition, it will fade out eventually, because radicalism is increasing. Sheikh Saheb was said to be a pure Musalman but he kept the Jamaat-e-Islami at bay, telling them they were not going to meddle in political life. After him, Farooq was the same way and in fact more aggressive about it, saying that they should close down all the Jamaat schools and that if Delhi funded the state, it would set up its own schools. But he did not get that much support. This is getting compromised. If you don’t do anything about Kashmir, then more and more Wahhabism will come in, as petro-dollars, etc., with their mosques growing and the lectures from their mosques increasing. A couple of years ago I was leaving Srinagar on a Friday and I was startled. Every road I passed had a loudspeaker blaring for the jumme ka namaaz. This never happened earlier. To my surprise, one of the breeding grounds of the fast-spreading radicalism is the Srinagar jail. A Kashmiri who was detained twice under the Public Security Act told me that the atmosphere of radicalism was so suffocating that you felt that you were in a jail inside a jail. So long as the likes of Masarat Alam and Qasim Fakhtoo are given free rein radicalism will grow. While Pakistan remains a factor in Kashmir, the real danger is that radicalism will end up as the lasting political legacy of Kashmir. ~ A S Dulat,
1124:I miss the way he used to kiss my shoulder whenever it was bare and he was nearby. I miss how he cleared his throat before he took a sip of water and scratched his left arm with his right hand when he was nervous. I miss how he tucked my hair behind my ear when it came loose and took my temperature when I was sick or when he was bored. I miss his glasses on my nightstand. I miss watching him take Sunday afternoon naps on my couch, with the newspaper resting on his stomach like a blanket. How his hands stayed clasped, fingers intertwined, while he slept. I miss the cadence of his speech and the stupidity of his puns. I miss playing doctor when we made love, and even when we didn't. I miss his smell, like fresh laundry and honey (because of his shampoo) at his place. Fresh laundry and coconut (because of my shampoo) at mine. I miss that he used to force me to listen to French rap and would sing along in a horrible accent. I miss that he always said "I love you" when he hung up the phone with his sister, never shy or embarassed, regardless of who else was around. I miss that his ideal Friday night included a DVD, eating Chinese food right out of the carton, and cuddling on top of my duvet cover. I miss that he reread books from his childhood and then from mine. I miss that he was the only man that I have ever farted on, and with, freely. I miss that he understood that the holidays were hard for me and that he wanted me to never feel lonely. ~ Julie Buxbaum,
1125:Why is she mad at you?” She’s all innocence and wonder. “What makes you think she’s mad at me?” I narrow my eyes at her. “She looked like she was going to cry.” Fuck. She did. I pick up my phone and call Matt. “Hey,” I say. “What the fuck do you want?” he replies. But he has that playful tone in his voice that’s all Matt. “Hayley wants to come over and touch Sky’s belly.” “Oh,” he says. He puts his hand over the phone and says something to someone. “Bring her over. Sky’s belly will be waiting.” I wait a beat. “What’s wrong?” he says. “I think I messed up.” “Friday?” “Yeah.” “Bad?” “Yeah.” “You want us to watch Hayley so you can go talk Friday down off the ledge?” “I just want to climb up with her and hold her hand.” I scrub my palm down my face. “How far away are you?” “Five minutes.” He hangs up on me. I hate it when he does that; I taught him better manners. I look down at Hayley. “You want to go touch Matt and Sky’s babies? See if they’re kicking?” She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re despecting.” I sputter. “I’m what?” “Despecting. Making me think about one thing when I want to think about another. Like why Friday is crying.” I scratch my head. “Despecting?” “Despecting,” she says again. She puts her hands up like she’s blocking karate chops. “Despecting.” “Oh, deflecting!” I laugh. “Yeah, I’m deflecting. That okay with you?” “Do I still get to go see Sky’s belly?” I nod, and she grins. Apparently, deflecting is okay as long as Matt’s babies are involved. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1126:17.2 One evening I was to meet Marilyn up at her mother's apartment for our ritual Friday night dinner. On my way up to the Bronx, when I got off at the 175th Street station, I decided to stop in and see what sort of sexual activity was going on in the subway john there. I'd never gone into that one before, perhaps because I usually came there with Marilyn.
I pushed into the yellow-tiled space, with its dim, caged light-bulbs. There was only one guy at the urinal, a tall workman in greens and scuffed orange construction boots-- which had, only in the last year or so, become standard wear for the nation's laborers. I stood a stall away from him, and we glanced at each other. When I smiled, he turned toward me.
I reached for his penis.
Holding it, I realized something was wrong with it, but, for the moment, couldn't quite figure what. For its thickness and harness it was too short. It ended in a kind of flat stump, like a sawed-off dowel, without the collar or taper of glans, making me think he was uncircumcised. Only there was no cuff of skin.
That's when he said, a little hoarsely, "That's what there is. If you want it, it's yours. But that's it." And I realized that, either from medical procedure or something else, the first inch or so had been amputated.
He came very fast.
I wanted to talk with him afterward, but he zipped up once we were finished and hurried away. I never saw him again, though I looked for him. But the image stayed, unsettlingly, for a while. ~ Samuel R Delany,
1127:The writer encountered a Muslim woman once in a narrow street of a predominantly Hindu town, in the quarter inhabited by moneylenders. The feeling he had was that she was coming in search of a loan. She wore the burkha, that unhygienic head-to-toe covering that turns a woman into a walking symbol of inefficient civic refuse collection and leaves you without even an impression of her eyes behind the slits she watches the gay world through, tempted but not tempting; a garment in all probability inflaming to her passions but chilling to her expectations of having them satisfied. Pity her for the titillation she must suffer. After she had passed there was a smell of Chanel No. 5, which suggested that she needed money because she liked expensive things. Perhaps she had a rebellious spirit, or laboured under a confusion of ideas and intentions. On the other hand she may merely have been submissive to her husband, drenching herself for his private delight with a scent she did not realize was also one of public invitation – and passed that day through the street of the moneylenders only because it was a short cut to the mosque. It was a Friday, and it is written in the Koran: ‘Believers, when the call is made for prayer on Friday, hasten to the remembrance of Allah and leave off all business. That would be best for you, if you but knew it. Then, when the prayers are ended, disperse and go in quest of Allah’s bounty.’ Perhaps, when the service was over, it was her intention to return by the way she had come. ~ Paul Scott,
1128:opportunity. The bizarre codes on the pages she’d sorted for Randy suddenly made sense. They must have been the files that kept track of where the bank had stashed millions of dollars. Jim wanted the money out, and so did the Covellis. The Mob was somehow involved with the bank’s dealings, and Carmichael worked for them. Being a bartender was just a facade. Beatrice hadn’t known him at all. But Tony and Max had known him, she realized. Tony was a police detective; he was the one who told her about the Covellis in the first place. He must have known. Every word Carmichael might have overheard at the bar replayed in her mind—her conversations with Tony about snooping around the bank, the missing safe deposits, the missing master key. Maybe Tony had wanted Carmichael to hear. The old man pointed the gun at Teddy in her head. Maybe the Covellis would bring down the bank if law enforcement failed. No one, not even Tony, suspected that she and Max had the power to do anything but run. Max was right. They all underestimated women like them. Beatrice stepped out from behind the curtain with the keys in her hand and crept toward the vault. CHAPTER 72 Friday, August 28, 1998 A black-and-white photograph of two women looked up from Box 547 in the yellow glow of the detective’s flashlight. They were smiling. The glass in the silver picture frame was cracked. Iris picked it up and handed it to Detective McDonnell. Underneath it she found a brown leather book and a candle. That was it. “What the hell is this?” Iris ~ D M Pulley,
1129:Prologue To Faulkener
A TRAGEDY BY WILLIAM GODWIN, 1807.
An author who has given you all delight
Furnished the tale our stage presents to-night.
Some of our earliest tears he taught to steal
Down our young cheeks, and forced us first to feel.
To solitary shores whole years confined,
Who has not read how pensive Crusoe pined?
Who, now grown old, that did not once admire
His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire,
The stick, due-notched, that told each tedious day
That in the lonely island wore away?
Who has not shuddered, where he stands aghast
At sight of human footsteps in the waste?
Or joyed not, when his trembling hands unbind
Thee, Friday, gentlest of the savage kind?
The genius who conceived that magic tale
Was skilled by native pathos to prevail.
His stories, though rough-drawn and framed in haste,
Had that which pleased our homely grandsires' taste.
His was a various pen, that freely roved
Into all subjects, was in most approved.
Whate'er the theme, his ready Muse obeyedLove, courtship, politics, religion, tradeGifted alike to shine in every sphere,
Novelist, historian, poet, pamphleteer.
In some blest interval of party-strife,
He drew a striking sketch from private life,
Whose moving scenes of intricate distress
We try to-night in a dramatic dress:
A real story of domestic woe,
That asks no aid from music, verse, or show,
106
But trusts to truth, to Nature, and Defoe.
~ Charles Lamb,
1130:From New Numbers
Friday. Wet dusk.
Three blind men outside an Indian restaurant.
They shout at each other.
They have been drinking.
While sticks wave in the doorway.
The place is almost empty.
They feel about the tables.
Two patrons draw their curries back.
They find a table near the door.
They telescope their sticks and wait.
Their order is: two eggs and chips, one curry.
Their chins are up.
Their mouths are open.
One drums the laminated calico.
Their plates arrive.
The taller of the egg men reads his chips.
He learns their number and their average size.
The other one eats furiously.
He who chose curry, stirs it, looking upwards.
Shots of the Himalayas line the walls.
The rapid eater finishes and listens to the first.
He hears a fork enter a chip.
He hears the chip approach and disappear
forever into his companions mouth.
And as its mastication starts
his fork moves out
and spears the cluster of remaining chips
securing two.
He eats them both.
Yolk coagulates on his lapel.
40
The one with curry yawns.
None of them have removed their overcoats.
The masticator's fork returns,
touches the plate, lifts half an inch, dips in,
lifts, hesitates, swings to and fro,
then stabs the gobbler in his face.
All three get to their feet.
The curry man supplies the waiter with his purse.
Their sticks expand.
Outside
they start to shout obscene remarks.
~ Christopher Logue,
1131:Once upon a time, there was Candy and Dan. Things were very hot that year. All the wax was melting in the trees. He would climb balconies, climb everywhere, do anything for her, oh Danny boy. Thousands of birds, the tiniest birds, adorned her hair. Everything was gold. One night the bed caught fire. He was handsome and a very good criminal. We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars. It was the afternoon of extravagant delight. Danny the daredevil. Candy went missing. The days last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks. I want to try it your way this time. You came into my life really fast and I liked it. We squelched in the mud of our joy. I was wet-thighed with surrender. Then there was a gap in things and the whole earth tilted. This is the business. This, is what we're after. With you inside me comes the hatch of death. And perhaps I'll simply never sleep again. The monster in the pool. We are a proper family now with cats and chickens and runner beans. Everywhere I looked. And sometimes I hate you. Friday -- I didn't mean that, mother of the blueness. Angel of the storm. Remember me in my opaqueness. You pointed at the sky, that one called Sirius or dog star, but on here on earth. Fly away sun. Ha ha fucking ha you are so funny Dan. A vase of flowers by the bed. My bare blue knees at dawn. These ruffled sheets and you are gone and I am going to. I broke your head on the back of the bed but the baby he died in the morning. I gave him a name. His name was Thomas. Poor little god. His heart pounds like a voodoo drum. ~ Luke Davies,
1132:A FAIR IMPRESSION of the pace of Roosevelt’s candidacy for Mayor may be gained by following him through one night of his campaign—Friday, 29 October.44 At 8:00 P.M., having snatched a hasty dinner near headquarters, he takes a hansom to the Grand Opera House, on Twenty-third Street and Eighth Avenue, for the first of five scheduled addresses in various parts of the city. His audience is worshipful, shabby, and exclusively black. (One of the more interesting features of the campaign has been Roosevelt’s evident appeal to, and fondness for, the black voter.) He begins by admitting that his campaign planners had not allowed for “this magnificent meeting” of colored citizens. “For the first time, therefore, since the opening of the campaign I have begun to take matters a little in my own hands!” Laughter and applause. “I like to speak to an audience of colored people,” Roosevelt says simply, “for that is only another way of saying that I am speaking to an audience of Republicans.” More applause. He reminds his listeners that he has “always stood up for the colored race,” and tells them about the time he put a black man in the chair of the Chicago Convention. Apologizing for his tight schedule, he winds up rapidly, and dashes out of the hall to a standing ovation.45 A carriage is waiting outside; the driver plies his whip; by 8:30 Roosevelt is at Concordia Hall, on Twenty-eighth Street and Avenue A. Here he shouts at a thousand well-scrubbed immigrants, “Do you want a radical reformer?” “YES WE DO!” comes the reply.46 ~ Edmund Morris,
1133:Two things that weren’t even on the agenda survived every upheaval that followed. General Akhtar remained a general until the time he died, and all God’s names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula, which Sufis shouted in their hashish sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationery, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers’ prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz-show hosts, from children’s storybooks, from lovers’ songs, from court orders, from telephone operators’ greetings, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas. In the name of God, God was exiled from the land and replaced by the one and only Allah who, General Zia convinced himself, spoke only through him. But today, eleven years later, Allah was sending him signs that all pointed to a place so dark, so final, that General Zia wished he could muster up some doubts about the Book. He knew if you didn’t have Jonah’s optimism, the belly of the whale was your final resting place. ~ Mohammed Hanif,
1134:This twinned twinkle was delightful but not completely satisfying; or rather it only sharpened my appetite for other tidbits of light and shade, and I walked on in a state of raw awareness that seemed to transform the whole of my being into one big eyeball rolling in the world's socket.

Through peacocked lashes I saw the dazzling diamond reflection of the low sun on the round back of a parked automobile. To all kinds of things a vivid pictorial sense had been restored by the sponge of the thaw. Water in overlapping festoons flowed down one sloping street and turned gracefully into another. With ever so slight a note of meretricious appeal, narrow passages between buildings revealed treasures of brick and purple. I remarked for the first time the humble fluting - last echoes of grooves on the shafts of columns - ornamenting a garbage can, and I also saw the rippling upon its lid - circles diverging from a fantastically ancient center. Erect, dark-headed shapes of dead snow (left by the blades of a bulldozer last Friday) were lined up like rudimentary penguins along the curbs, above the brilliant vibration of live gutters.

I walked up, and I walked down, and I walked straight into a delicately dying sky, and finally the sequence of observed and observant things brought me, at my usual eating time, to a street so distant from my usual eating place that I decided to try a restaurant which stood on the fringe of the town. Night had fallen without sound or ceremony when I came out again. ("The Vane Sisters") ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
1135:so often I get optimistic and explain the best method of learning to write to students. I don’t believe any of them has ever tried it, but I will explain it to you now. After all, you may be the exception. When I read about this method, it was attributed to Benjamin Franklin, who invented and discovered so much. Certainly I did not invent it. But I did it, and it worked. That is more than can be said for most creative writing classes. Find a very short story by a writer you admire. Read it over and over until you understand everything in it. Then read it over a lot more. Here’s the key part. You must do this. Put it away where you cannot get at it. You will have to find a way to do it that works for you. Mail the story to a friend and ask him to keep it for you, or whatever. I left the story I had studied in my desk on Friday. Having no weekend access to the building in which I worked, I could not get to it until Monday morning. When you cannot see it again, write it yourself. You know who the characters are. You know what happens. You write it. Make it as good as you can. Compare your story to the original, when you have access to the original again. Is your version longer? Shorter? Why? Read both versions out loud. There will be places where you had trouble. Now you can see how the author handled those problems. If you want to learn to write fiction, and are among those rare people willing to work at it, you might want to use the little story you have just finished as one of your models. It’s about the right length.     P ~ Gene Wolfe,
1136:Friday, January 30 God Has a Plan For I know the thoughts and plans that I have for you, says the Lord, thoughts and plans for welfare and peace and not for evil, to give you hope in your final outcome. JEREMIAH 29:11 AMP When Jeremiah wrote this, Israel was already in captivity in Babylon. Things looked pretty bleak, and many held no hope of returning to the land God had given them generations before under Joshua’s leadership. It was because they refused to listen to the prophets, telling them to repent of their sin of consistently turning away from God’s plan and living the way they wanted to, that they were in this predicament. After the majority of the Jews were taken to Babylon, Jeremiah wrote them a letter telling them to accept where they were. Since they were going to be there the full seventy years God had predicted, they were to settle down, build houses, establish communities, plant gardens, marry, die, celebrate their special days—in other words, live life to the fullest while they were there. The sooner they accepted God’s punishment, the sooner they could begin living again. The letter concluded with a reminder that God had not forgotten them. He still had plans for His people. Good plans, not evil. He wanted to give them hope that this punishment wasn’t for forever. God still has a plan for each one of His children. They are still plans for peace and good, hope-filled plans. Father, thank You for the thoughts and plans You have for each of Your children. Help us to live life to the fullest in the hope of those plans. ~ Various,
1137:Okay. Fine. Why are you disappointed in me, Cletus?”

“Because I provided means and opportunity. All you had to do was exploit the situation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“On Friday? With the blankets and coffee? You think that was all by accident? That was arranged.”

“Arranged?” I blinked at him while he tore off another piece of his doughnut. It smelled like it was strawberry flavored.

“Yes. Arranged.”

Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms and examined Cletus. I decided he was odd. “You’re odd.”

“Yes. I am. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you fumbled my pass. If we’re going to make this thing happen with Jethro, I need you to bring your A-game.”

“This is about Jethro?” I sat up straighter.

“Of course. What’d you think I was talking about?” Apparently I wasn’t catching on quickly enough because he sighed loudly and rolled his eyes with great effect. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I said quickly, leaning forward at full attention. “Yes. I want your help.”

“Fine then. We need to coordinate our attack.” Cletus punctuated this statement by popping the remainder of the first doughnut in his mouth.

“Good. Yes. Attack synchronization.” My phone rang as he chewed. I glanced at the screen, saw it was Marta, and sent it to voicemail.

Marta called back immediately, earning me a severe frown from Cletus.

“You should get that.” He gestured to my phone. “You get that and I’ll ruminate while eating this other doughnut. ~ Penny Reid,
1138:Okay. Fine. Why are you disappointed in me, Cletus?”

“Because I provided means and opportunity. All you had to do was exploit the situation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“On Friday? With the blankets and coffee? You think that was all by accident? That was arranged.”

“Arranged?” I blinked at him while he tore off another piece of his doughnut. It smelled like it was strawberry flavored.

“Yes. Arranged.”

Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms and examined Cletus. I decided he was odd. “You’re odd.”

“Yes. I am. But that doesn’t negate the fact that you fumbled my pass. If we’re going to make this thing happen with Jethro, I need you to bring your A-game.”

“This is about Jethro?” I sat up straighter.

“Of course. What��d you think I was talking about?” Apparently I wasn’t catching on quickly enough because he sighed loudly and rolled his eyes with great effect. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I said quickly, leaning forward at full attention. “Yes. I want your help.”

“Fine then. We need to coordinate our attack.” Cletus punctuated this statement by popping the remainder of the first doughnut in his mouth.

“Good. Yes. Attack synchronization.” My phone rang as he chewed. I glanced at the screen, saw it was Marta, and sent it to voicemail.

Marta called back immediately, earning me a severe frown from Cletus.

“You should get that.” He gestured to my phone. “You get that and I’ll ruminate while eating this other doughnut. ~ Penny Reid,
1139:Caddy came home on Friday evening. Perfectly Harmless Patrick brought her in his battered old car...

"Crikey, Caddy!" said Indigo, and he disappeared upstairs to tell Rose.

Eve murmured, "Sweet," rather doubtfully.

Sarah said, not doubtfully at all, "Horrendous! The worst yet. Rock bottom."

"He had a very difficult childhood," said Caddy....

"Who didn't?" asked Saffron unsympathetically. "Gosh, he's ancient, Caddy! Look, he's going bald! All that long trailing stuff is just a disguise!"

"If I was going bald," said Sarah, "I would face the fact and have it all shaved off."

"Well, I thought Mummy would like him," said Caddy defensively. "...Anyway, I can always take him back."

"I think you're going to have to, Caddy darling," said Eve... "Hello, Rose darling! Come in and see what Caddy has brought home to show us!"

She escaped, and Rose, who had already heard the news from Indigo, glanced at Patrick and began laughing.

"See?" said Sarah. "Rose knows! Absolutely rock bottom! You cannot be serious, Caddy!"

"Oh, stop looking at him!" said Caddy, uncomfortably. "I'll find something to cover him up with in a minute!"

"How long are you leaving him there for?" asked Rose.

"Just until Sunday," said Caddy, trying to sound casual.

"Till Sunday!" repeated Saffron. "So is Micheal dumped?"

"Of course he isn't!" said Caddy indignantly. "I've never dumped anyone!"

"Start!" said Saffron. "Otherwise they just pile up, taking up the sofas... ~ Hilary McKay,
1140:She bought me betta fish when I was six, after I kept telling her the same story, every day, about the tanks we had in my class at school, the betta fish, red and purple and blue and green, swimming lazily in the tanks, flashing brilliant and then dull. She came home with one on a Sunday, after she'd been out all weekend. I hadn't seen her since Friday, since she told Mam she was going to the store to buy some milk and some sugar and didn't come back. When she came back, her skin was dry and flaking at the corners of her mouth, her hair stuck out in a bushy halo, and she smelled like wet hay. The fish was green, the color of pine needles, and he had stripes down his tail the color of red mud. I called him Bubby Bubbles, since he blew bubbles all day, and when I leaned over his tank, I could hear him crunching on the fish food Leonie had brought home in a sample-size bag. I imagined even then that one day I could lean over his bowl, and instead of crunching, little words would pop out the bubbles that fizzed up to the surface. Big face. Light. And love. But when the sample size of fish food ran out, and I asked Leonie to buy me more, she said she would, and then forgot, again and again, until old day she said: Give him sold old bread. I figured he couldn't crunch like needed on some old bread, so I kept bugging her about it, and Bubby got skinnier and skinnier, his bubbles smaller and smaller, until I walked into the kitchen one day and he was floating on top of the water, his eyes white, a slimy scrim like fat, no voice in his bubbles.

Leonie kill things. ~ Jesmyn Ward,
1141:Is that him?” Matt asks from right beside my shoulder. His chin is almost resting on my shirt, and I don’t try to move him away. “You know?” I ask. He nods. “I’ve always known.” “What?” The breath that I was holding escapes me in a rush. “Friday and I used to spend a lot of time alone together in the shop.” He shrugs. “We talked.” “About that?” I can’t believe she told him. “When Pete did her tattoo,” he says. He looks at me sheepishly. “We both knew. We didn’t and still don’t know details, but we knew she had a kid.” “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” I’m irked. I can’t help it. He shrugs. “Wasn’t my story to tell.” I wish someone had fucking told me. “You were so busy trying to get into her pants that you didn’t really get to know her. Not the real her.” “That’s not true,” I sputter. “Yes, it is.” “No, it’s not.” “Yes. It. Is.” He glares at me. “You saw the glam girl that everyone else sees.” “There’s so much more to her than just that.” “You were fucking Kelly, so you didn’t really have room for anyone else.” He’s right. I scrub a hand down my face. He’s so right. “Okay,” I say. “He’s cute,” Matt says. He nods toward the audience. “Her son. He looks like her.” “He’s a lot like her. In a lot of ways.” “Is he the reason she stopped talking to you?” Matt asks. “Sort of.” I scratch my head. “You think she’ll talk to you today?” “I’m not going to give her a choice.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Good.” He looks at me for a minute, blinking those blue eyes at me. “Anything worth having is worth fighting for.” I fake a punch to his shoulder. “I’m coming out swinging,” I say. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1142:I was afraid of you. I know that’s not what you expect to hear from someone like me. I’m the kid from West End—I must be tough, I must be a thug, I must have a gun in my home, I must be in a gang…I bet he’s killed someone, I bet his brother’s in prison. You can see why I was afraid. I was so afraid that I would get here, and that’s all you would see—a picture in your heads that was so far from the truth, but too impossible to overcome.” “I was afraid of discrimination. Of intolerance. Of ignorance. I remember the meetings the admissions board held when I was in junior high, the ones about getting rid of the scholarship program because it exposed good kids to at-risk youth. At. Risk. Youth. That phrase…it’s too small. It’s pejorative. It’s not entirely wrong. Growing up in West End made me. That risk…it toughened me up. It made me fast. It made me fight. When I was a kid, I remember hiding on the floor of my room on Friday nights so stray bullets wouldn’t harm me. I hated my home. I loved it. I would never choose it for someone—never wish for my child to feel the fear I did. I could never imagine growing up somewhere else. That fear made me. That fear is the reason I stand up here; the reason I pushed myself to learn, to question, to try—to argue. That fear was balanced out by faith.” ““You made me, too. You lifted me. You pushed me. You believed in me. You saw the boy from West End. I surprised you. But you—you surprised me, too“When I was afraid, you challenged me. And now, I dare you. I defy you to be great. Do not just be tradition—break tradition. As only you can. ~ Ginger Scott,
1143:Want to know the coolest thing about the coming? Not that the One who played marbles with the stars gave it up to play marbles with marbles. Or that the One who hung the galaxies gave it up to hang doorjambs to the displeasure of a cranky client who wanted everything yesterday but couldn't pay until tomorrow.
Not that he, in an instant, went from needing nothing to needing air, food, a tub of hot water and salts for his tired feet, and, more than anything, needing somebody - anybody - who was more concerned about where he would spend eternity rather than where he would spend Friday's paycheck.
Or that he resisted the urge to fry the two=bit, self-appointed hall monitors of holiness who dared suggest that he was doing the work of the devil.
Not that he kept his cool while the dozen best friends he ever had felt the heat and got out of the kitchen. Or that he gave no command to the angels who begged, "Just give us the nod, Lord. One word and these demons will be deviled eggs."
Not that he refused to defend himself when blamed for every sin of every slut and sailor since Adam. Or that he stood silent as a million guilty verdicts echoed in the tribunal of heaven and the giver of light was left in the chill of a sinner's night.
Not even that after three days in a dark hole he stepped into the Easter sunrise with a smile and a swagger and a question for lowly Lucifer - "Is that your best punch?"
That was cool, incredibly cool.
But want to know the coolest thing about the One who gave up the crown of heaven for a crown of thorns?
He did it for you. Just for you. ~ Max Lucado,
1144:It shouldn't make any difference, but Friday and Saturday nights are the worst. They're the worst because the loneliness is magnified. The best you can do is hope that there is someone else like you out there, but if there is, you will never meet this person because she doesn't get out either.
So, you're left with your thoughts, and your thoughts are living people in your brain who call and hang up and lounge around like armed security guards who happen to be beautiful. In between these thoughts, you think about what's going on out there. The girl of your dreams is being ravaged by a man who doesn't have a care in the world. Just to hear her voice would make you happy for a week, but he gets to spend the day and night with her and thinks nothing of it. (…), there are boyfriends and girlfriends, people in love, wide awake. They hang out. They hang out. They hang out. They do nothing worthwhile except each other. Friends, friends, friends. Fiends. Inside jokes. There are so many stupid conversations going on right now. You could be having a meaningful conversation with a taxi driver. You could talk to him about how Travis Bickle's taxi was a metaphor for loneliness. (…) You have a gray tint on your contact lenses. But you have your work. They don't have that. They are cowards. Everyone seems so afraid to be alone. It takes strength to lie there alone and take it. They just want to copulate, and that's their biggest concern of the night. You want a tragedy. An assassination. A massacre. An earthquake. A city falling to the ground. Something to get the people on TV to be on the same page as you. ~ Joey Goebel,
1145:However, the Bleeding Hearts were kind hearts; and when they saw the little fellow cheerily limping about with a good-humoured face, doing no harm, drawing no knives, committing no outrageous immoralities, living chiefly on farinaceous and milk diet, and playing with Mrs Plornish's children of an evening, they began to think that although he could never hope to be an Englishman, still it would be hard to visit that affliction on his head. They began to accommodate themselves to his level, calling him 'Mr Baptist,' but treating him like a baby, and laughing immoderately at his lively gestures and his childish English—more, because he didn't mind it, and laughed too. They spoke to him in very loud voices as if he were stone deaf. They constructed sentences, by way of teaching him the language in its purity, such as were addressed by the savages to Captain Cook, or by Friday to Robinson Crusoe. Mrs Plornish was particularly ingenious in this art; and attained so much celebrity for saying 'Me ope you leg well soon,' that it was considered in the Yard but a very short remove indeed from speaking Italian. Even Mrs Plornish herself began to think that she had a natural call towards that language. As he became more popular, household objects were brought into requisition for his instruction in a copious vocabulary; and whenever he appeared in the Yard ladies would fly out at their doors crying 'Mr Baptist—tea-pot!' 'Mr Baptist—dust-pan!' 'Mr Baptist—flour-dredger!' 'Mr Baptist—coffee-biggin!' At the same time exhibiting those articles, and penetrating him with a sense of the appalling difficulties of the Anglo-Saxon tongue. ~ Charles Dickens,
1146:Remember what I told you, Nerissa.  Spare no expense when it comes to dressing her.  I want her out of those hideous colors and fabrics she's in now, and into something that will show her coloring to greatest advantage." "Silks, satins, velvets?" "Yes, and the finest, most expensive ones Madame has."  Lucien's enigmatic black eyes had gleamed with sly delight before he'd turned away and, his forefinger tapping his lips once, twice, continued on.  "And dramatic colors only — no pastels for that girl, no more washed out yellows and wretched browns that only make her look sallow and ill.  She's no English rose and shouldn't be dressed like one.  No, I want her in blazing scarlet, brilliant turquoise, emerald green, magenta — loud, startling hues that will flatter her exotic coloring and make every man at the ball unable to take his eyes off her."  He'd given a dangerous little smile.  "Especially Charles . . ." Nerissa had returned his grin.  "Especially Charles." "Just take care, my dear, that he does not learn of the purchases you'll make for the girl at Madame Perrot's.  Let him think the shopping trip is for you, and that Amy is along as . . . as training to be a lady's maid.  Ah, yes.  That will throw him off the scent quite nicely, I think — as well as make him seriously begin to question, if he has not already, whether he wants her to be a lady's maid or his lady."  He had grinned then, as delighted with his machinations as he must've been when he'd brought Gareth and Juliet together.  "It is imperative that he is, shall we say, pleasantly surprised when he sees his little friend at Friday night's ball . . ." Even ~ Danelle Harmon,
1147:Can one of you do a piercing?” Friday calls. Friday is really pretty in a Katy Perry kind of way. She has tattoos on her shoulders and across her back and up her legs. I know about the ones on her legs because I put them there. She has skulls and cross bones and turtles and some really weird shit. And she dresses all retro, like a pinup girl from the sixties. “What kind of piercing?” I ask. Every gaze in the place turns to the woman, and she flushes. “One of those piercings!” Friday yells dramatically. “Pete can do it,” Paul says. Reagan’s mouth falls open. She walks over close to me. “You are not doing a private piercing,” she hisses. I do them all the time, but I don’t even want to do them anymore. She cups her hand around my ear. “The only private places you’re touching are mine.” My heart swells. I like this. I like it a lot. “Sorry,” I say. “The little lady has spoken.” I lift my face, and she bends down to kiss me. Paul looks at Logan, but Emily signs something to him really quickly and he grins. He shakes his head. “Can’t do it,” he says. “Why not?” Paul blows out a heavy breath. “Because I want to have sex tonight,” Logan says. “And tomorrow night. And the night after.” Sam’s not here. He’s probably baking a cake somewhere. And we all know where Matt is. Paul throws down the pencil on the table where he was drawing a tattoo. “You guys are worthless,” he complains. “And pussy whipped.” I’m happy to be pussy whipped. Logan walks over and high-fives me, and Emily grins at Reagan. “Thanks for taking one for the team,” I say to Paul. It won’t be hard on him. The girl is gorgeous. “The things I have to do so you guys can have sex. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1148:She threw back her head and laughed, and Char laughed, too, as he placed his hand on her lower back.

I felt the warmth and weight of his hand as strongly as if I were the one in the booth right now, not Pippa. How many times had Char touched me in exactly that same way? And it always made me relax, because it was the most certain reassurance you will be coming home with me tonight.

Pippa would be going home with Char tonight. I could see it as clearly as either of them up there could. Maybe even more so, because I knew how to read a crowd. And I could read them both perfectly.

I felt my stomach flip, but it wasn’t because of Char. Not really. It was because I could pinpoint exactly how I had lost him. I knew because it was the same way I lost everyone.

Pete had offered me my own Friday night party, and I had accepted. I had been too precocious. Again. Again and again and again.

I had always thought that if I just did something extraordinary enough, then people would like me. But that wasn’t true. You will drive away everyone by being extraordinary. You will drive away your classmates and your friends, and tonight you will drive away Char. But you, you never learn your lesson. The world embraces ordinary. The world will never embrace you.

Of course Char wanted Pippa. It was so clear to me now: why he ended things with me, why he would keep Pippa around and around, no matter how much he didn’t care about her. He wanted a girl he could mold just the way he wanted. And me? No one can mold me. I know because I’ve tried.

So I turned and ran. I left them all behind, and I ran the whole way home. ~ Leila Sales,
1149:The bartender is Irish. Jumped a student visa about ten years ago but nothing for him to worry about. The cook, though, is Mexican. Some poor bastard at ten dollars an hour—and probably has to wash the dishes, too. La Migra take notice of his immigration status—they catch sight of his bowl cut on the way home to Queens and he’ll have a problem. He looks different than the Irish and the Canadians—and he’s got Lou Dobbs calling specifically for his head every night on the radio. (You notice, by the way, that you never hear Dobbs wringing his hands over our border to the North. Maybe the “white” in Great White North makes that particular “alien superhighway” more palatable.) The cook at the Irish bar, meanwhile, has the added difficulty of predators waiting by the subway exit for him (and any other Mexican cooks or dishwashers) when he comes home on Friday payday. He’s invariably cashed his check at a check-cashing store; he’s relatively small—and is unlikely to call the cops. The perfect victim. The guy serving my drinks, on the other hand, as most English-speaking illegal aliens, has been smartly gaming the system for years, a time-honored process everybody at the INS is fully familiar with: a couple of continuing education classes now and again (while working off the books) to get those student visas. Extensions. A work visa. A “farm” visa. Weekend across the border and repeat. Articulate, well-connected friends—the type of guys who own, for instance, lots of Irish bars—who can write letters of support lauding your invaluable and “specialized” skills, unavailable from homegrown bartenders. And nobody’s looking anyway. But I digress… ~ Anthony Bourdain,
1150:Of the Poet’s Youth"

When the man behind the counter said, “You pay
by the orifice,” what could we do but purchase them all?

Ah, Sandy, vou were clearly the deluxe doll, modish and pert
in your plastic nurse whites, official hostess to our halcyon days,

where you bobbed in the doorway of our dishabille apartment,
a block downwind from the stockyards. Holding court on

the corroded balcony, K. and I passed hash brownies, collecting
change for the building’s monthly pool to predict which balcony

would fall off next. That’s when K. was fucking M. and M. was
fucking J., and even B. and I threw down once on the glass-speckled

lawn, adrift in the headlights of his El Camino. Those were immortal
times, Sandy! Coke wasn’t addictive yet, condoms prevented herpes

and men were only a form of practice for the Russian novel
we foolishly hoped our lives would become. Now it’s a Friday night,

sixteen years from there. Don’t the best characters know better
than to live too long? My estranged husband house-sits for a spoiled
cockatoo while saving to buy his own place. My lover’s gone back
to his gin and the farm-team fiancée he keeps in New York.

What else to do but read Frank O’Hara to my tired three-year-old?
When I put him to bed, he mutters “more sorry” as he turns into sleep.

Tonight, I find you in a box I once marked “The Past.” Well,
therapy’s good for some things, Sandy, but who’d want to forgive

a girl like that? Frank says Destroy yourself if you don’t know!
Deflated, you’re simply the smile that surrounds a hole.
I don’t know anything. ~ Erin Belieu,
1151:In 1846 Easter fell on the same date in the Latin and Greek Orthodox calendars, so the holy shrines were much more crowded than usual, and the mood was very tense. The two religious communities had long been arguing about who should have first right to carry out their Good Friday rituals on the altar of Calvary inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the spot where the cross of Jesus was supposed to have been inserted in the rock. During recent years the rivalry between the Latins and the Greeks had reached such fever pitch that Mehmet Pasha, the Ottoman governor of Jerusalem, had been forced to position soldiers inside and outside the church to preserve order. But even this had not prevented fights from breaking out. On this Good Friday the Latin priests arrived with their white linen altar-cloth to find that the Greeks had got there first with their silk embroidered cloth. The Catholics demanded to see the Greeks’ firman, their decree from the Sultan in Constantinople, empowering them to place their silk cloth on the altar first. The Greeks demanded to see the Latins’ firman allowing them to remove it. A fight broke out between the priests, who were quickly joined by monks and pilgrims on either side. Soon the whole church was a battlefield. The rival groups of worshippers fought not only with their fists, but with crucifixes, candlesticks, chalices, lamps and incense-burners, and even bits of wood which they tore from the sacred shrines. The fighting continued with knives and pistols smuggled into the Holy Sepulchre by worshippers of either side. By the time the church was cleared by Mehmet Pasha’s guards, more than forty people lay dead on the floor.1 ~ Orlando Figes,
1152:Saving Lives and Protecting Rights in Translation It is said that life and death are under the power of language. —Hélène Cixous, French author and philosopher Lifeline The phone rings, jolting me to attention. It’s almost midnight on a Friday night. I didn’t want to work the late shift, but the need for my work never sleeps. Most of the calls I get at this late hour are from emergency dispatchers for police, fire, and ambulance. They often consist of misdials, hang-ups, and other nonemergencies. I’ve been working since early this morning, and I’m just not in the mood tonight to hear someone complain about a neighbor’s television being turned up too loud. But someone has got to take the call. I pick up before it rings a second time. “Interpreter three nine four zero speaking, how may I help you?” The dispatcher wastes no time with pleasantries. “Find out what’s wrong,” he barks in English. He didn’t ask me to confirm the address, so I assume he must already have police officers headed to the scene. I ask the Spanish speaker how we can help. I wait for a response. Silence. I ask the question again. No answer, but I can hear that there’s someone on the line. We wait, but we don’t hear any response. It’s probably just another child playing with the phone, accidentally dialing 911. I imagine the little guy looking curiously at the phone and pressing the buttons, then staring at it as a voice comes out of the other end. This happens all the time. I turn up the volume on my headset, just in case it might help me pick up the scolding words of a parent in the background. Then suddenly, I hear a timid female voice speaking so quietly that I can barely make out the words. “Me va a matar,” she whispers. ~ Nataly Kelly,
1153:He takes my hand and grips it tightly. He holds it so long that our palms get sweaty and stick together. I extricate mine and pull back. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t get close enough to you,” he says. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking toward where Hayley is climbing on the monkey bars. I scratch my head. “I don’t think we can get much closer than we were last night.” He shakes his head. “Sex is easy. It’s the rest of it that’s difficult.” I look at his profile because he’s still not looking at me. I pretend to make light of his comment and scoff. “I wouldn’t say that I made sex easy.” His gaze suddenly jerks to mine. “We didn’t have sex.” I hold up one finger and grin. “I distinctly remember—” But he cuts me off. “I remember it, too. I remember telling you that I loved you and you telling me you felt the same way. And we made mad, passionate love. Crazy good love like I have never had before. And then we did it again. And then we pulled my daughter into bed with us and that was the best fucking part about the whole thing.” He turns to face me. “I want a family, Friday. Not just a fuck. Tail is easy to come by. You, on the other hand…” He lets his voice trail off. “You’re one of a fucking kind, and I want you to be mine so badly I can taste it. And I’ll still be tasting it next week, next year, and every day following that.” “I’m with you,” I say hesitantly. I don’t know how much more of a commitment I can offer him. I’ve already offered more than I ever thought I would be able to offer anyone. He leans over and hovers over my lips. “I love you so fucking much,” he says. “Just remember that.” He stares into my eyes for a minute, and then he goes to Hayley and races her to the sliding board. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1154:He takes my hand and grips it tightly. He holds it so long that our palms get sweaty and stick together. I extricate mine and pull back. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t get close enough to you,” he says. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking toward where Hayley is climbing on the monkey bars. I scratch my head. “I don’t think we can get much closer than we were last night.” He shakes his head. “Sex is easy. It’s the rest of it that’s difficult.” I look at his profile because he’s still not looking at me. I pretend to make light of his comment and scoff. “I wouldn’t say that I made sex easy.” His gaze suddenly jerks to mine. “We didn’t have sex.” I hold up one finger and grin. “I distinctly remember—” But he cuts me off. “I remember it, too. I remember telling you that I loved you and you telling me you felt the same way. And we made mad, passionate love. Crazy good love like I have never had before. And then we did it again. And then we pulled my daughter into bed with us and that was the best fucking part about the whole thing.” He turns to face me. “I want a family, Friday. Not just a fuck. Tail is easy to come by. You, on the other hand…” He lets his voice trail off. “You’re one of a fucking kind, and I want you to be mine so badly I can taste it. And I’ll still be tasting it next week, next year, and every day following that.” “I’m with you,” I say hesitantly. I don’t know how much more of a commitment I can offer him. I���ve already offered more than I ever thought I would be able to offer anyone. He leans over and hovers over my lips. “I love you so fucking much,” he says. “Just remember that.” He stares into my eyes for a minute, and then he goes to Hayley and races her to the sliding board. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1155:At times I can certainly see a subject clearly and distinctly, think my way through it, great sweeping thoughts that I can scarcely grasp but which all at once give me an intense feeling of importance. Yet when I try to write them down they shrivel into nothing, and that's why I lack the courage to commit them to paper - in case I become too disillusioned with the fatuous little as they that emerges. But let me impress just one thing upon you, sister. Wash your hands of all attempts to embody those great, sweeping thoughts. The smallest, most fatuous little essay is worth more than the flood of grandiose ideas in which you like to wallow. Of course you must hold on to your forebodings and your intuitions. They are the sources upon which you draw, but be careful not to drown in them. Just organise things a little, exercise some mental hygiene. Your imagination and your emotions are like a vast ocean from which you wrest small pieces of land that may well be flooded again. The ocean is wide and elemental, but what matter are the small pieces of land you reclaim from it. The subject right before you is more important than those prodigious thoughts of Tolstoy and Napoleon that occurred to you in the middle of last night, and the lesson you gave that keen young girl and Friday night is more important than all your vague philosophizing. Never forget that. Don't overestimate your own intensity; it may give you the impression that you were cut out for greater things than the so-called men in the street, who's inner life is a closed book to you. In fact, you're no more than a weakling and a non-entity adrift and tossed by the waves. Keep your eyes fixed on the mainland and don't flounder helplessly in the ocean. ~ Etty Hillesum,
1156:August 25, 1991 Dear friend, I am writing to you because she said you listen and understand and didn’t try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have. Please don’t try to figure out who she is because then you might figure out who I am, and I really don’t want you to do that. I will call people by different names or generic names because I don’t want you to find me. I didn’t enclose a return address for the same reason. I mean nothing bad by this. Honest. I just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn’t try to sleep with people even if they could have. I need to know that these people exist. I think you of all people would understand that because I think you of all people are alive and appreciate what that means. At least I hope you do because other people look to you for strength and friendship and it’s that simple. At least that’s what I’ve heard. So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be. I try to think of my family as a reason for me being this way, especially after my friend Michael stopped going to school one day last spring and we heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice on the loudspeaker. “Boys and girls, I regret to inform you that one of our students has passed on. We will hold a memorial service for Michael Dobson during assembly this Friday.” I don’t know how news travels around school and why it is very often right. Maybe it was in the lunchroom. It’s hard to remember. But Dave with the awkward glasses told us that Michael killed himself. His mom played bridge with one of Michael’s neighbors and they heard the gunshot. I don’t really remember much of what happened after that ~ Stephen Chbosky,
1157:The church has never lacked valiant men. On August 15, 1714, the Romanian king Constantin Brincoveanu died a martyr’s death. During the twenty-five years of his reign, he had been a valiant defender of the Christian world against Islam. On Good Friday in 1714, he and his whole household were arrested by the Turkish sultan’s men and taken to Constantinople, where they were put in the notorious Yedikule prison. On his sixtieth birthday, King Brincoveanu was sentenced to death together with his four sons. Before the executioner raised his axe, the sultan said, “I will pardon you if you tell me where the wealth of your country is and if you will deny the Christian faith and convert to Islam.” King Brincoveanu replied: “I will never abandon the Christian faith. I was born in it, have lived in it, and will die in it. I have filled my country with churches, monasteries and hospitals. I will not worship in your mosques, neither I nor my children.” Then he turned to his sons and said: “My beloved, be strong in faith. We have lost all things. Let us not lose our souls as well.” The sultan ordered that the sons should die first. Young Constantin prayed and quietly put his head on the block. As he was beheaded, his father sighed and said, “God, Your will be done.” The next two sons followed. Then Matthew, who was only sixteen, wavered at the sight of the blood and hid himself near his mother. “Follow your brothers,” urged King Brincovaneau. “Do not deny Christ.” The youngster put his head on the block and said to the executioner, “Strike.” The king followed them. Kneeling, he prayed with many tears: “God, accept our sacrifice. For the blood of our martyrdom, I desire that the Romanian principates remain Christian. Amen. ~ Richard Wurmbrand,
1158:Pathways toward a New Shabbat Do 1. Stay at home. Spend quality time with family and real friends. 2. Celebrate with others: at the table, in the synagogue, with friends or community. 3. Study or read something that will edify, challenge, or make you grow. 4. Be alone. Take some time for yourself. Check in with yourself. Review your week. Ask yourself where you are in your life. 5. Mark the beginning and end of this sacred time by lighting candles and making kiddush on Friday night and saying havdalah on Saturday night. Don’t 6. Don’t do anything you have to do for your work life. This includes obligatory reading, homework for kids (even without writing!), unwanted social obligations, and preparing for work as well as doing your job itself. 7. Don’t spend money. Separate completely from the commercial culture that surrounds us so much. This includes doing business of all sorts. No calls to the broker, no following up on ads, no paying of bills. It can all wait. 8. Don’t use the computer. Turn off the iPhone or smartphone or whatever device has replaced it by the time you read this. Live and breathe for a day without checking messages. Declare your freedom from this new master of our minds and our time. Find the time for face-to-face conversations with people around you, without Facebook. 9. Don’t travel. Avoid especially commercial travel and places like airports, hotel check-ins, and similar depersonalizing encounters. Stay free of situations in which people are likely to tell you to “have a nice day” (Shabbat already is a nice day, thank you). 10. Don’t rely on commercial or canned video entertainment, including the TV as well as the computer screen. Discover what there is to do in life when you are not being entertained. ~ Arthur Green,
1159:The industrial world of pipelines relies heavily on push. Consumers are accessed through specific marketing and communication channels that the business owns or pays for. In a world of scarcity, options were limited, and getting heard often sufficed to get marketers and their messages in front of consumers. In this environment, the traditional advertising and public relations industries focused almost solely on awareness creation—the classic technique for “pushing” a product or service into the consciousness of a potential customer. This model of marketing breaks down in the networked world, where access to marketing and communication channels is democratized—as illustrated, for example, by the viral global popularity of YouTube videos such as PSY’s “Gangnam Style” and Rebecca Black’s “Friday.” In this world of abundance—where both products and the messages about them are virtually unlimited—people are more distracted, as an endless array of competing options is only a click or a swipe away. Thus, creating awareness alone doesn’t drive adoption and usage, and pushing goods and services toward customers is no longer the key to success. Instead, those goods and services must be designed to be so attractive that they naturally pull customers into their orbit. Furthermore, for a platform business, user commitment and active usage, not sign-ups or acquisitions, are the true indicators of customer adoption. That’s why platforms must attract users by structuring incentives for participation—preferably incentives that are organically connected to the interactions made possible by the platform. Traditionally, the marketing function was divorced from the product. In network businesses, marketing needs to be baked into the platform. ~ Geoffrey G Parker,
1160:Hell, you knew she had baggage. Layers. You told me you wanted to find out everything about her. Find out why she doesn’t have a family. Find out why she’s all alone in New York. Find out why she’s living in Pete’s spare room until tomorrow.” I spin to face him. “She’s living with Pete and Reagan?” I didn’t know about that. “Why?” He shrugs. “She had to move out of the dorm after graduation. They had an empty room. But Reagan’s parents are coming to stay for two weeks, so she’s going somewhere else.” “Where?” I ask quickly. He shrugs. “Does it matter?” But he’s grinning. Fuck yeah, it matters. “Is she going to stay with one of the douchebags?” “What douchebags?” Matt scratches his head. “Never mind,” I say. Hope swells within me. I shouldn’t let it, but it does. I get out a piece of paper and write on it in magic marker: ROOM FOR RENT PRICE NEGOTIABLE ONLY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BOMBSHELLS NEED APPLY PREFERABLY ONES NAMED FRIDAY I walk out of the back room and go to the bulletin board. I stick a thumbtack in the “advertisement” and walk away. I hear a snicker from behind me and turn to grin at Logan. You’re a d-o-o-f-u-s, he signs, fingerspelling the last word because there’s no sign for something so stupid. I know, I sign back. He looks a little worried for me, but I don’t care. I can’t get where I want to go if I don’t take a first step. Regardless of whether or not she’s pregnant, she needs a place to stay and I have two empty rooms. And she’s family, for Christ’s sake. I’ve never wanted to eat out a member of my family, though. I scratch my head. I should probably stop thinking like that. I whistle to myself as I walk to my office. I have some paperwork to do before my first appointment arrives. And I need to give Friday time to find my ad. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1161:I like to watch Peter when he doesn’t know I’m looking. I like to admire the straight line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. There’s an openness to his face, an innocence--a certain kind of niceness. It’s the niceness that touches my heart the most.
It’s Friday night at Gabe Rivera’s house after the lacrosse game. Our school won, so everyone is in very fine spirits, Peter most of all, because he scored the winning shot. He’s across the room playing poker with some of the guys from his team; he is sitting with his chair tipped back, his back against the wall. His hair is still wet from showering after the game. I’m on the couch with my friends Lucas Krapf and Pammy Subkoff, and they’re flipping through the latest issue of Teen Vogue, debating whether or not Pammy should get bangs.
“What do you think, Lara Jean?” Pammy asks, running her fingers through her carrot-colored hair. Pammy is a new friend--I’ve gotten to know her because she dates Peter’s good friend Darrell. She has a face like a doll, round as a cake pan, and freckles dust her face and shoulders like sprinkles.
“Um, I think bangs are a very big commitment and not to be decided on a whim. Depending on how fast your hair grows, you could be growing them out for a year or more. But if you’re serious, I think you should wait till fall, because it’ll be summer before you know it, and bangs in the summer can be sort of sticky and sweaty and annoying…” My eyes drift back to Peter, and he looks up and sees me looking at him, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. I just smile and shake my head.
“So don’t get bangs?”
My phone buzzes in my purse. It’s Peter.

Do you want to go?

No.

Then why were you staring at me?

Because I felt like it. ~ Jenny Han,
1162:Peace cannot require Palestinians to acquiesce to the denial of what was done to them. Neither can it require Israeli Jews to view their own presence in Palestine as illegitimate or to change their belief in their right to live there because of ancient historical and spiritual ties. Peace, rather, must be based on how we act toward each other now. It is unacceptable for a Palestinian to draw on his history of oppression and suffering to justify harming innocent Israeli civilians. It is equally unacceptable for an Israeli to invoke his belief in an ancient covenant between God and Abraham to justify bulldozing the home and seizing the land of a Palestinian farmer. The 1998 Good Friday Agreement, which proposes a political framework for a resolution to the conflict in Ireland, and which was overwhelmingly endorsed in referendums, sets out two principles from which Palestinians and Israelis could learn. First “[i]t is recognized that victims have a right to remember as well as to contribute to a changed society.” Second, whatever political arrangements are freely and democratically chosen for the governance of Northern Ireland, the power of the government “shall be exercised with rigorous impartiality on behalf of all the people in the diversity of their identities and traditions and shall be founded on the principles of full respect for, and equality of civil, political, social, and cultural rights, of freedom from discrimination for all citizens, and of parity of esteem and of just and equal treatment for the identity, ethos, and aspirations of both communities.” Northern Ireland is still a long way from achieving this ideal, but life has vastly improved since the worst days of “the Troubles” and it is a paradise on earth compared to Palestine/Israel. ~ Ali Abunimah,
1163:tossed in a prison to wait on deportation. Now this. Now we’re supposed to somehow push it all aside and hustle back to law school for our last semester, which will be followed by two months in hell studying for the bar exam, so we can do something to make a little money and start repayment, which, actually, is far more impossible than it seems, and it seems awfully damned impossible at the moment. Yes, Zola dear, I’m tired. Aren’t you?” “I’m beyond exhausted,” she said. “That makes three of us,” Todd added. They slowed and passed through the small town of Boyce. When it was behind them, Mark asked, “Are you guys really going to class on Monday? I’m not.” “That’s either the second or the third time you’ve said that,” Zola said. “If you don’t go to class, then what are your plans?” “I have no plans. My status will be day to day.” “Okay, but what are you going to do when the law school starts calling?” Todd asked. “I won’t take their calls.” “Okay, so they’ll put you on inactive status and notify your loan sharks and they’ll be out for blood.” “What if they can’t find me? What if I change phone numbers and move to another apartment? It would be easy to get lost in a city of two million people.” “I’m listening,” Todd said. “So, you start hiding. What about work and income and those little challenges?” “I’ve been thinking about that,” Mark said and took a long swig. “Maybe I’ll get a job tending bar, for cash, of course. Maybe wait tables. Or maybe I’ll become a DUI specialist like that sleazeball we met last Friday at the city jail. What was his name?” “Darrell Cromley,” Zola said. “I’ll bet Darrell nets a hundred grand a year hustling DUIs. All cash.” “But you don’t have a license,” Zola said. “Did we ask Darrell to show us his license? Of course not. He said he was a lawyer. ~ John Grisham,
1164:I’ve just been thinking it would be a lot of fun to live in a defunct shopping mall!
Totally abandoned,
Yet still frozen in time,
Bright white lights shining,
Artificial turquoise fountains spewing out clear water,
Eerie eighties elevator music drifting by…
Dancing erratically, shouting to the top,
Because it’s sad to see these places die.
They’re a testament to the hubris of modern America, which is dying in and of itself.
Let’s face it. We know we can’t compete with
Online shopping
And
Made-in-China products
And
eBay
And
Amazon.

Those of us who spent our
High school
And college days
Being wage slaves to these dying malls,
We’ll be old and nostalgic someday,
Telling our grandkids about these wonderful buildings!
They housed sets of trendy clothes
Which nobody was rich enough to afford
Or thin enough to fit in.
We’ll tell them about the first time
We were almost trampled in a
Black Friday stampede.
The first time we saw a kid
Vomit in the ugly rainbow ball pit
At the children’s play area,
Dumped by babysitters to grow up there,
Spending their childhood draped in neon.
The first time eating greasy pad-thai
And hamburgers
At the food court.
The first time falling in love
In the dark movie theatre
That charges too much for stale popcorn.
Holding hands in the sunlit rays
Of the dusty projector…
Totally lost in moments.
What is the meaning of this voyage?

Our grandkids,
Who will probably have Smartphones
Surgically implanted to their brains
And identical glass condominiums by then,
They’ll gasp in shock and say,
“Wow, that sounds SO cool!”
And we’ll sigh and say,
“Meh… it was nothing special. ~ Rebecca McNutt,
1165:She told everything as quickly as she could, stringing sentences together the way she had when she was a little girl. By the end of the tale,she found herself defending her mother,angry at the world that made it necessary for her to explain.Impulsively, she grabbed a curry comb and began to brush Red Star's coat vigorously.She brushed for a long time,and tears began to blur her vision.She tried to resign herself to what seemed to be happening.Then a hand covered hers and squeezed affectionately. Mac took the curry comb away,and bent to kiss the back of her hand.
"So,Miss King,will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the social next Friday evening at the Congregational Church?"
Miss King embarrassed herself by saying yes! so loudly that the dozing horse in the stall next to Red Star jumped and kicked the side of his stall in fright.The two young people laughed, and MacKenzie lifted LisBeth into the air and swung her around in his arms.
Sick with apprehension,Jesse had been unable to remain alone for long.She returned to the kitchen to help Augustus with meal preparations, praying earnestly for LisBeth and MacKenzie while she worked.When the two young people burst through the kitchen door together,their happy smiles told the older women all they needed to know.
LisBeth was sobered when she saw her Mother. "Mother,I..."
Jesse held up a hand to stop her. "It's all right,LisBeth. I'm glad everything turned out.I've been praying for you both."
"Mother,all four of us know about Papa. Would you tell me a story about him while we make supper?"
The culprit never came forward, but at some time that evening, the first book-burning in the State of Nebraska took place. Francis Day's Memoirs of the Savage West found its way into Augusta's cook stove. ~ Stephanie Grace Whitson,
1166:I slap the paper down on his desk and hold my flat palm over it. “What the fuck is this?” He looks down at it. “That was a perfectly good invitation, until somebody fucked it up with hearts,” he growls. I look down at it. “I kind of like the hearts,” I admit. “Next time, I’ll use hearts,” he says. He smiles. “You’re looking for a roommate?” I ask. I toy with my lip piercing until his gaze lands there, and then I force myself to stop. “Since when?” “Since I found out you’re homeless,” he says. “I’m not homeless,” I protest. “Where are you living after today?” he asks. I’m not at all sure about that, but he doesn’t need to know it. “Shut up,” I say instead. He pushes the paper toward me. “I have an extra room. You need a place to stay. Let’s not make it more than it is, okay?” “That’s all you’d expect?” I ask, hating how quiet my voice suddenly gets. “You could be pregnant, Friday,” he says. “What else would I want from you?” My breath catches. He is so right. I have been looking at this like it’s all about us, but it’s not. It’s all about this baby I have to protect for nine months, a baby he’s now fully aware of, even if he’s not aware of the details. “How much?” I ask. “How much can you afford?” he asks. He knows full well how much money I make; he pays me. But he isn’t aware of the money I make doing commissioned portraits and other artwork. He waves a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about what it costs,” he says. “Pay me whatever you can. The room is just sitting there empty. And if you live with me, I won’t have to worry about you being homeless.” I snort. “Like you’d worry anyway.” His brow rises. “I worry. I worry about you all the fucking time. But if you live with me, I won’t have to. So take pity on me and just take the fucking room, dammit.” “Okay.” He looks surprised. “Okay?” “Yes.” He grins. “Okay. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1167:HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED RETURNS ‘In a brief statement on Friday night, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned to this country and is once more active. ‘“It is with great regret that I must confirm that the wizard styling himself Lord – well, you know who I mean – is alive and among us again,” said Fudge, looking tired and flustered as he addressed reporters. “It is with almost equal regret that we report the mass revolt of the Dementors of Azkaban, who have shown themselves averse to continuing in the Ministry’s employ. We believe the Dementors are currently taking direction from Lord – Thingy. ‘“We urge the magical population to remain vigilant. The Ministry is currently publishing guides to elementary home and personal defence which will be delivered free to all wizarding homes within the coming month.” ‘The Minister’s statement was met with dismay and alarm from the wizarding community, which as recently as last Wednesday was receiving Ministry assurances that there was “no truth whatsoever in these persistent rumours that You-Know-Who is operating amongst us once more”. ‘Details of the events that led to the Ministry turnaround are still hazy, though it is believed that He Who Must Not Be Named and a select band of followers (known as Death Eaters) gained entry to the Ministry of Magic itself on Thursday evening. ‘Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, has so far been unavailable for comment. He has insisted over the past year that You-Know-Who is not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but is recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile, the “Boy Who Lived” – ~ J K Rowling,
1168:So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn't make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I'm the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart - perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I'm in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn't that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn't that the simple magic phrase?

So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man - the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you've made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine.

And then you run into Nick Dunne on Seventh Avenue as you're buying diced cantaloupe, and pow, you are known, you are recognised, the both of you. You both find the exact same things worth remembering. (Just one olive, though). You have the same rhythm. Click. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it's so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life. It's finally arrived. ~ Gillian Flynn,
1169:We were in the middle of a game of cards when I noticed a figure out of the corner of my eye. It was Maxon, standing at the open door, looking amused. As our eyes met, I could see that his expression was clearly asking what in the world I was doing. I stood, smiling, and walked over to him.
"Oh, sweet Lord," Anne muttered as she realized the prince was at the door. She immediately swept the cards into a sewing basket and stood, Mary and Lucy following suit.
"Ladies," Maxon said.
"Your Majesty," she said with a curtsy. "Such an honor, sir."
"For me as well," he answered with a smile.
The maids looked back and forth to one another, flattered. We were all silent for a moment, not quite sure what to do.
Mary suddenly piped up. "We were just leaving."
"Yes! That's right," Lucy added. "We were-uh-just..." She looked to Anne for help.
"Going to finish Lady America's dress for Friday," Anna concluded.
"That's right," Mary said. "Only two days left.
They slowly circled us to get out of the room, huge smiles plastered on their faces.
"Wouldn't want to keep you from your work," Maxon said, following them with his eyes, completely fascinated with their behavior.
Once in the hall, they gave awkwardly mistimed curtsies and walked away at a feverish pace. Immediately after they rounded the corner, Lucy's giggles echoed down the corridor, followed by Anne's intense hushing.
"Quite a group you have," Maxon said, walking into my room, surveying the space.
"They keep me on my toes," I answered with a smile.
"It's clear they have affection for you. That's hard to find." He stopped looking at my room and faced me. "This isn't what I imagined your room would look like."
I raised an arm and let it fall. "It's not really my room, is it? It belongs to you, and I just happen to be borrowing it. ~ Kiera Cass,
1170:Damn,” he grunts. A grin tugs at the corners of my lips. “Something wrong?” I ask. “I like it when you kiss me, but I don’t like it when you use your kisses to evade my questions,” he says quietly. He squeezes me in a gentle hug. “I wasn’t evading,” I choke out. But I swallow hard trying to get past the lump in my throat. “Yes, you were. And I don’t hate it.” He chuckles softly. “I might even understand it, if you’d let me in. But don’t use my feelings for you as a smoke screen for what’s really going on between us, okay?” He squeezes me again. “What’s going on between us?” I ask, my voice cracking only slightly. “I’m getting to know you,” he says, very matter-of-factly. He tips my face up with the gentlest of touches. “I want to know you,” he says directly. “Everything.” I shake my head. “You wouldn’t like what you find out.” He would hate me. Family is everything to him and I gave mine away. “Try me,” he says. I hold on to his waist—he still has his arm around me—as the subway comes to a stop. He looks down at me for a second too long, long enough for me to see his brow furrow and the little vee form between his eyebrows. “What are you hiding?” he asks. “Everything,” I whisper. But I say it more to remind myself than to tell him anything he doesn’t know. I’m hiding everything. I pull him out the door and into the station, and we race to the top of the steps. “Friday,” he calls when I’m a few steps in front of him. “You have to at least give me a chance.” I pretend like his voice gets caught on the wind, but it doesn’t. It sinks deep inside my heart, and hope blooms. Hope blooms in a place where no light has lived in a really long time. I thought it was difficult being on the subway and having Paul ask me so many questions, but that was nothing compared to the memories that swamp me when we walk into the maternity ward. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1171:On the morning of November 22nd, a Friday, it became clear the gap between living and dying was closing. Realizing that Aldous [Huxley] might not survive the day, Laura [Huxley's wife] sent a telegram to his son, Matthew, urging him to come at once. At ten in the morning, an almost inaudible Aldous asked for paper and scribbled "If I go" and then some directions about his will. It was his first admission that he might die ...

Around noon he asked for a pad of paper and scribbled

LSD-try it
intermuscular
100mm

In a letter circulated to Aldous's friends, Laura Huxley described what followed: 'You know very well the uneasiness in the medical mind about this drug. But no 'authority', not even an army of authorities, could have stopped me then. I went into Aldous's room with the vial of LSD and prepared a syringe. The doctor asked me if I wanted him to give the shot- maybe because he saw that my hands were trembling. His asking me that made me conscious of my hands, and I said, 'No, I must do this.'

An hour later she gave Huxley a second 100mm. Then she began to talk, bending close to his ear, whispering, 'light and free you let go, darling; forward and up. You are going forward and up; you are going toward the light. Willingly and consciously you are going, willingly and consciously, and you are doing this beautifully — you are going toward the light — you are going toward a greater love … You are going toward Maria's [Huxley's first wife, who had died many years earlier] love with my love. You are going toward a greater love than you have ever known. You are going toward the best, the greatest love, and it is easy, it is so easy, and you are doing it so beautifully.'

All struggle ceased. The breathing became slower and slower and slower until, 'like a piece of music just finishing so gently in sempre piu piano, dolcamente,' at twenty past five in the afternoon, Aldous Huxley died. ~ Jay Stevens,
1172:All the great groups that stood about the Cross represent in one way or another the great historical truth of the time; that the world could not save itself. Man could do no more. Rome and Jerusalem and Athens and everything else were going down like a sea turned into a slow cataract. Externally indeed the ancient world was still at its strongest; it is always at that moment that the inmost weakness begins. But in order to understand that weakness we must repeat what has been said more than once; that it was not the weakness of a thing originally weak. It was emphatically the strength of the world that was turned to weakness and the wisdom of the world that was turned to folly.

In this story of Good Friday it is the best things in the world that are at their worst. That is what really shows us the world at its worst. It was, for instance, the priests of a true monotheism and the soldiers of an international civilisation. Rome, the legend, founded upon fallen Troy and triumphant over fallen Carthage, had stood for a heroism which was the nearest that any pagan ever came to chivalry. Rome had defended the household gods and the human decencies against the ogres of Africa and the hermaphrodite monstrosities of Greece. But in the lightning flash of this incident, we see great Rome, the imperial republic, going downward under her Lucretian doom. Scepticism has eaten away even the confident sanity of the conquerors of the world. He who is enthroned to say what is justice can only ask:

‘What is truth?’ So in that drama which decided the whole fate of antiquity, one of the central figures is fixed in what seems the reverse of his true role. Rome was almost another name for responsibility. Yet he stands for ever as a sort of rocking statue of the irresponsible. Man could do no more. Even the practical had become the impracticable. Standing between the pillars of his own judgement-seat, a Roman had washed his hands of the world. ~ G K Chesterton,
1173:Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again." Catherine turned away her head, not knowing whether she might venture to laugh. "I see what you think of me," said he gravely -- "I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow."

My journal!"

Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings -- plain black shoes -- appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense."

Indeed I shall say no such thing."

Shall I tell you what you ought to say?"

If you please."

I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced by Mr. King; had a great deal of conversation with him -- seems a most extraordinary genius -- hope I may know more of him. That, madam, is what I wish you to say."

But, perhaps, I keep no journal."

Perhaps you are not sitting in this room, and I am not sitting by you. These are points in which a doubt is equally possible. Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenour of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal? My dear madam, I am not so ignorant of young ladies' ways as you wish to believe me; it is this delightful habit of journaling which largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies are so generally celebrated. Everybody allows that the talent of writing agreeable letters is peculiarly female. Nature may have done something, but I am sure it must be essentially assisted by the practice of keeping a journal. ~ Jane Austen,
1174:Pulling to a stop in front of Aly’s house, I take a deep breath. With a flick of my wrist, I cut the engine and listen to the silence. I’ve sat in this exact spot more times than I can count. In many ways, Aly’s house is like my sanctuary. A place I go when my own home feels like a graveyard. I glance up at the bedroom window of the girl who knows me better than anyone, the only person I let see me cry after Dad died. I won’t let this experiment take that or her away from me.
Tonight, I’m going to prove that Aly and I can go back to our normal, easy friendship.
Throwing open my door, I trudge up her sidewalk, plant my feet outside her front door, and ring the bell.
“Coming!”
I step back and see Aly stick her head out of her second-story window.
“No problem,” I call back up. “Take your time.”
More time to get my head on straight.
Aly disappears behind a film of yellow curtain, and I turn to look out at the quiet neighborhood. Up and down the street, the lights blink on, filling the air with a low hum that matches the thrumming of my nerves. Across the street, old Mr. Lawson sits at his usual perch under a gigantic American flag, drinking beer and mumbling to himself. Two little girls ride their bikes around the cul-de-sac, smiling and waving. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill Friday night. Except not.
I thrust my hands into my pockets, jiggling the loose change from my Taco Bell run earlier tonight, and grab my pack of Trident. I toss a stick into my mouth and chew furiously. Supposedly, the smell of peppermint can calm your nerves.
I grab a second stick and shove it in, too.
With the clacking sound of Aly’s shoes approaching the door behind me, I remind myself again about tonight’s mission. All I need is focus. I take another deep breath for good measure and rock back on my heels, ready to greet my best friend. She opens the door, wearing a black dress molded to her skin, and I let the air out in one big huff. ~ Rachel Harris,
1175:FUNDAMENTAL FIVE  MONDAY - The first exercise you will do is the push-up. Try and perform 3 sets and as many reps as you can in each set. It is fine here if you use a raised platform for the hands as we are just trying to get stronger here. The second exercise you will perform is the dip exercise. Here you can do either a ledge dip if your strength is not strong enough, or some triceps dips if your strength is at a decent level. Keep trying to work towards the goal of doing 10 perfect triceps dips. Thirdly you will perform 3 sets of squats. Concentrate on good form here and try and descend as low as you are able to. Your target is to be able to perform 25 perfect reps before moving on. You can also do conditioning exercises here as well if that is part of your goal. Note that this is not required, as our main focus is to build strength. TUESDAY - On this day you will aim to perform a pulling exercise, ideally the chin-up. If you are not strong enough to perform any chin-ups, work with the row until your strength increases. Again, you should be aiming for 3 sets of as many reps as you can do, until you can do 10 perfect reps. The second exercise should be your core exercise. This can be any of the easier variations, such as the plank, crunch, dish, or hanging leg raise. Remember, that the sole aim here is to work up to performing 10 perfect hanging knee raises. WEDNESDAY - This is a rest day, and you should ensure that you get plenty of good food and sleep on this day. THURSDAY - This should be the same as Mondays workout. FRIDAY - This should be the same as Tuesdays workout. SATURDAY / SUNDAY - These are both rest days, as in the beginning it is important for your body to have enough rest and to be able to recover properly from the workouts. This also leaves you totally fresh for the week ahead. As was said before, only once you can perform the five fundamental movements and their required number of repetitions, you should move on to the next program. ~ Ashley Kalym,
1176:Do you know anything
about silent films?”
“Sure,” I said. “The first ones were developed in the late
nineteenth century and sometimes had live musical
accompaniment, though it wasn’t until the 1920s that sound
become truly incorporated into films, eventually making
silent ones obsolete in cinema.”
Bryan gaped, as though that was more than he’d been
expecting. “Oh. Okay. Well, um, there’s a silent film festival
downtown next week. Do you think you’d want to go?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. I respect it as an
art form but really don’t get much out of watching them.”
“Huh. Okay.” He smoothed his hair back again, and I
could almost see him groping for thoughts. Why on earth
was he asking me about silent films? “What about Starship
30? It opens Friday. Do you want to see that?”
“I don’t really like sci-fi either,” I said. It was true, I found it
completely implausible.
Bryan looked ready to rip that shaggy hair out. “Is there
any movie out there you want to see?”
I ran through a mental list of current entertainment. “No.
Not really.” The bell rang, and with a shake of his head,
Bryan slunk back to his desk. “That was weird,” I muttered.
“He has bad taste in movies.” Glancing beside me, I was
startled to see Julia with her head down on her desk while
she shook with silent laughter. “What?”
“That,” she gasped. “That was hilarious.”
“What?” I said again. “Why?”
“Sydney, he was asking you out!”
I replayed the conversation. “No, he wasn’t. He was
asking me about cinema.”
She was laughing so hard that she had to wipe away a
tear. “So he could find out what you wanted to see and take
you out!”
“Well, why didn’t he just say that?”
“You are so adorably oblivious,” she said. “I hope I’m
around the day you actually notice someone is interested in
you.” I continued to be mystified, and she spent the rest of
class bursting out with spontaneous giggles. ~ Richelle Mead,
1177:Can I ask you something?” I say quietly. I try not to get into his personal business, but I can’t help it. “You can ask. I can’t promise I’ll answer.” “What’s going on with you and Friday?” He groans. “Nothing. Why? What did she tell you?” I try to play it off. “She didn’t tell me anything. There’s just, like, this undercurrent when you’re in a room together. What did you do to her?” “I kissed her,” he blurts out. I choke. “You kissed Friday?” I thump my fist against my chest, trying to restart my heart. “Well, we kind of kissed each other.” I grin. “How was it?” “Amazing,” he breathes. But then he realizes what he said, and he sobers. “I mean, it was okay.” He’s such a bad liar. “You should ask her out,” I say. He shakes his head. “I did. She told me no. She’s been telling me no for years.” “You know she’s not a lesbian, right?” I ask. He raises one brow. “No thanks to you, yes.” I chuckle. “Sorry about that.” “No you’re not.” But he’s grinning. “She’s got some issues,” he finally says. “I would love to know what they are.” “What kind of issues?” I ask. “I don’t know. The I-don’t-have-any-family kind. The girl is completely alone. You know she doesn’t even go home in the summer?” “Well, she didn’t get picked out of a cabbage patch.” I stay quiet for a minute because it looks like he’s thinking. “What happened when you kissed her?” “Sparks,” he says. “Fucking sparks.” He blows out a breath. “What about Kelly?” His gaze jerks up. “What about her?” “I’m guessing that Friday wouldn’t like kissing you when you’re still sleeping with Kelly. Was that the problem?” Getting information out of Paul is like pulling teeth. “I haven’t slept with Kelly since you and I talked about it that morning. Haven’t slept with anybody since I kissed Friday. I can’t get her off my fucking mind.” “So go for it.” He shakes his head. “She said no way. Her exact words were no fucking way, Paul, you stupid son of a bitch. Then she told me to go fuck myself.” That’s Friday for you. You have to love her. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1178:Shortly after, Paul took up the cry of liberty and declared all meats clean, every day holy, all places sacred and every act acceptable to God. The sacredness of times and places, a half-light necessary to the education of the race, passed away before the full sun of spiritual worship. The essential spirituality of worship remained the possession of the Church until it was slowly lost with the passing of the years. Then the natural legality of the fallen hearts of men began to introduce the old distinctions. The Church came to observe again days and seasons and times. Certain places were chosen and marked out as holy in a special sense. Differences were observed between one and another day or place or person, "The sacraments" were first two, then three, then four until with the triumph of Romanism they were fixed at seven. In all charity, and with no desire to reflect unkindly upon any Christian, however misled, I would point out that the Roman Catholic church represents today the sacred-secular heresy carried to its logical conclusion. Its deadliest effect is the complete cleavage it introduces between religion and life. Its teachers attempt to avoid this snare by many footnotes and multitudinous explanations, but the mind's instinct for logic is too strong. In practical living the cleavage is a fact. From this bondage reformers and puritans and mystics have labored to free us. Today the trend in conservative circles is back toward that bondage again. It is said that a horse after it has been led out of a burning building will sometimes by a strange obstinacy break loose from its rescuer and dash back into the building again to perish in the flame. By some such stubborn tendency toward error Fundamentalism in our day is moving back toward spiritual slavery. The observation of days and times is becoming more and more prominent among us. "Lent" and "holy week" and "good" Friday are words heard more and more frequently upon the lips of gospel Christians. We do not know when we are well off. ~ A W Tozer,
1179:Robinson Crusoe's Story
THE night was thick and hazy
When the 'Piccadilly Daisy'
Carried down the crew and captain in the sea;
And I think the water drowned 'em;
For they never, never found 'em,
And I know they didn't come ashore with me.
Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely
When I found myself the only
Population on this cultivated shore;
But I've made a little tavern
In a rocky little cavern,
And I sit and watch for people at the door.
I spent no time in looking
For a girl to do my cooking,
As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews;
But I had that fellow Friday,
Just to keep the tavern tidy,
And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.
I have a little garden
That I'm cultivating lard in,
As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;
For I live on toasted lizards,
Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,
And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.
The clothes I had were furry,
And it made me fret and worry
When I found the moths were eating off the hair;
And I had to scrape and sand 'em,
And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,
Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.
I sometimes seek diversion
In a family excursion
With the few domestic animals you see;
And we take along a carrot
As refreshment for the parrot,
And a little can of jungleberry tea.
Then we gather as we travel,
Bits of moss and dirty gravel,
And we chip off little specimens of stone;
And we carry home as prizes
Funny bugs, of handy sizes,
Just to give the day a scientific tone.
If the roads are wet and muddy
We remain at home and study,—
For the Goat is very clever at a sum,—
And the Dog, instead of fighting,
Studies ornamental writing,
While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.
We retire at eleven,
And we rise again at seven;
And I wish to call attention, as I close,
To the fact that all the scholars
Are correct about their collars,
And particular in turning out their toes.
~ Charles Edward Carryl,
1180:-1 PETER 5:3
Over and over I have attempted to be an example by doing rather than telling. I feel that God's great truths are "caught" and not always "taught." In the book of Deuteronomy, Moses (the author) says the following about God's commandments, statutes, and judgments: "You shall teach them diligently to your sons and shall talk of them when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way and when you lie down and when you rise up" (6:7). In other words, at all times we are to be examples.
It is amazing how much we can teach by example in every situation: at home, at the beach, while jogging, when resting, when eating-in every part of the day. It's amazing how often I catch our children and grandchildren imitating the values we exhibited in our home-something as little as a lighted candle to warm the heart, to a thank you when food is being served in a restaurant.
Little eyes are peering around to see how we
behave when we think no one is looking. Are we consistent with what we say we believe? If we talk calmness and patience, how do we respond when standing in a slow line at the market? How does our conversation go when there is a slowdown on Friday evening's freeway drive? Do we go by the rules on the freeway (having two people or more in the car while driving in the carpool lane, going the speed limit, and obeying all traffic signs)?
How can we show God's love? By helping people out when they are in need of assistance, even when it is not convenient. We can be good neighbors. Sending out thank you cards after receiving a gift shows our appreciation for the gift and the person. Being kind to animals and the environment when we go to the park for a campout or picnic shows good stewardship. We are continually setting some kind of example whether we know it or not.
PRAYER
Father God, let my life be an example to those around me, especially the little ones who are learning the ways of faith. May I exhibit proper conduct even when no one is around. I want to be obedient to Your guiding principles. Thank You for Your example. Amen. ~ Emilie Barnes,
1181:Sam whispers something to Emilio and then Emilio steps back and hitches his hip against the wall. He grins. Something is up. I just don’t know what. “So,” Sam says really loudly. Friday is holding her phone up and she has the video on. What’s going on? I glare at Sam, because apparently I’m the only one who’s not in on the joke. “What?” I ask him. Then he pulls a box from his pocket and drops down on one knee in front of me. I cover my mouth with my hand. He pops the top of the box and I see a great big diamond ring shining back at me. “So, you wanna?” he says. “Do I wanna…?” I repeat. My heart is in my throat. “Marry me, cupcake.” He stares up at me, blinking those beautiful blue eyes. “Now?” We’re about to leave. I jerk my thumb toward the airport. I can’t make any more words. He laughs and shakes his head. “Not right this second, but soon. We can make little cupcakes together. You can be my plus-one. Or it can just be me and you. But you and me is not negotiable. I kind of need you, cupcake. Have ever since I met you.” I look down at him. He adjusts his stance. “How much longer are you going to make me kneel here on my bad knee?” He grins at me. “Oh, God!” I cry. I help him up and then I hold out my hand. “P-put it on me. I w-wanna.” My hand is shaking in the air, and he takes it in his and slides the ring onto my finger. That’s when I realize it’s Emilio’s mother’s ring. I look at him and he shrugs and smiles. Then Sam picks me up and spins me around. I’m dizzy when he finally sets me down and I cling to him. Cameras snap all around us, and I bury my face in Sam’s chest. He laughs and holds me close. “You sure?” he asks me quietly, so only I can hear. “More sure than I have ever been of anything.” And I mean it. I really do. Emilio gives me one last hug. “Did you know about this?” I ask him. He shrugs. “He came to see me yesterday to ask me for permission.” “And?” “And he just asked you, didn’t he?” He chuckles. “He’s a good one.” Emilio brushes a lock of hair back from my forehead. “I wouldn’t let just anyone marry one of my daughters. Particularly not the first one I ever had.” My ~ Tammy Falkner,
1182:Unwashed and undernourished, having spent over four days on five different trains and four military jeeps, Alexander got off at Molotov on Friday, June 19, 1942. He arrived at noon and then sat on a wooden bench near the station. Alexander couldn’t bring himself to walk to Lazarevo. He could not bear the thought of her dying in Kobona, getting out of the collapsed city and then dying so close to salvation. He could not face it. And worse—he knew that he could not face himself if he found out that she did not make it. He could not face returning—returning to what? Alexander actually thought of getting on the next train and going back immediately. The courage to move forward was much more than the courage he needed to stand behind a Katyusha rocket launcher or a Zenith antiaircraft gun on Lake Ladoga and know that any of the Luftwaffe planes flying overhead could instantly bring about his death. He was not afraid of his own death. He was afraid of hers. The specter of her death took away his courage. If Tatiana was dead, it meant God was dead, and Alexander knew he could not survive an instant during war in a universe governed by chaos, not purpose. He would not live any longer than poor, hapless Grinkov, who had been cut down by a stray bullet as he headed back to the rear. War was the ultimate chaos, a pounding, soul-destroying snarl, ending in blown-apart men lying unburied on the cold earth. There was nothing more cosmically chaotic than war. But Tatiana was order. She was finite matter in infinite space. Tatiana was the standard-bearer for the flag of grace and valor that she carried forward with bounty and perfection in herself, the flag Alexander had followed sixteen hundred kilometers east to the Kama River, to the Ural Mountains, to Lazarevo. For two hours Alexander sat on the bench in unpaved, provincial, oak-lined Molotov. To go back was impossible. To go forward was unthinkable. Yet he had nowhere else to go. He crossed himself and stood up, gathering his belongings. When Alexander finally walked in the direction of Lazarevo, not knowing whether Tatiana was alive or dead, he felt he was a man walking to his own execution. ~ Paullina Simons,
1183:There are many things the Chinese do differently from Westerners. There’s the question of extra credit, for example. One time, Lulu came home and told me about a math test she’d just taken. She said she thought it had gone extremely well, which is why she didn’t feel the need to do the extra-credit problems.
I was speechless for a second, uncomprehending. “Why not?” I asked. “Why didn’t you do them?”
“I didn’t want to miss recess.”
A fundamental tenet of being Chinese is that you always do all of the extra credit all of the time.
“Why?” asked Lulu, when I explained this to her.
For me this was like asking why I should breathe.
“None of my friends do it,” Lulu added.
“That’s not true,” I said. “I’m 100% sure that Amy and Junno did the extra credit.” Amy and Junno were the Asian kids in Lulu’s class. And I was right about them; Lulu admitted it.
“But Rashad and Ian did the extra credit too, and they’re not Asian,” she added.
“Aha! So many of your friends did do the extra credit! And I didn’t say only Asians do extra credit. Anyone with good parents knows you have to do the extra credit. I’m in shock, Lulu. What will the teacher think of you? You went to recess instead of doing extra credit?” I was almost in tears. “Extra credit is not extra. It’s just credit. It’s what separates the good students from the bad students."
"Aww - recess is so fun," Lulu offered as her final sally. But after that, Lulu, like Sophia. always did the extra credit. Sometimes the girls got more points on extra credit than on the test itself - an absurdity that would never happen in China. Extra credit is one reason that Asian kids get such notoriously good grades in the United States.
Rote drilling is another. Once Sophia came in second on a multiplication speed test, which her fifth grade teacher administered every Friday. She lost to a Korean boy named Yoon-seok. Over the next week, I made Sophia do twenty practice tests (of 100 problems each) every night, with me clocking her with a stopwatch. After that, she came in first every time. Poor Yoon-seok. He went back to Korea with his family, but probably not because of the speed test. ~ Amy Chua,
1184:She knows she should feel excited about her acceptance to Emory and the promise of spring break. She should feel infinite and hopeful, like the growing earth around her. Like the sunlight, which stretches longer each day, asking for one more minute, one more oak tree to shimmer on. Like the late March mornings, which arrive carrying a gentle heat, rocking it back and forth over the pavement in the parking lot, letting it crawl forth over the grass and the tree roots, nurturing it while it is still nascent and tender, before it turns into swollen summer.
But while the whole earth prepares for spring, Hannah feels a great anxiety in her heart, for something dangerous has grown in her, something she never planted or even wanted to plant.
It’s there. She knows it’s there. If she’s truthful with herself, she’s probably known it all along. But now, as the days grow longer and the Garden District grows greener, she can actually see it. It has sprung up at last, and it refuses to be unseen.
She tells herself it’s passing. It’s temporary. It’s intensified only because she’s a senior and all of her emotions are heightened. It’s innocent. It’s typical for a girl her age. It’s no more or less of a feeling than everyone else has had at 17.
But deep down, deep below the topsoil of her heart, she knows it’s not.
Still, she pushes it down inside of her, buries it as far as it can go, suffocates it in the space between her stomach and her heart. She tells herself that she is stronger, that she can fight it, that she has control. That no one else has to know.
I can ignore it, she thinks. I can refuse to look at it. I can stomp on it every time it springs up within me.
So she lies to herself that everything is normal. That she is normal. She carries herself through the end of the school week by refusing to acknowledge it. By refusing to align her heart with the growing sunlight and the nurturing heat and the flowering plants and the tall, proud trees.
‘You alright?’ Baker asks, when Hannah says goodbye to her after school on Friday.
Hannah stomps, buries, suffocates, wishes for death. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m good. ~ Kelly Quindlen,
1185:I hung up the phone after saying good night to Marlboro Man, this isolated cowboy who hadn’t had the slightest probably picking up the phone to say “I miss you.” I shuddered at the thought of how long I’d gone without it. And judging from the electrical charges searing through every cell of my body, I realized just how fundamental a human need it really is.
It was as fundamental a human need, I would learn, as having a sense of direction in the dark. I suddenly realized I was lost on the long dirt road, more lost than I’d ever been before. The more twists and turns I took in my attempt to find my bearings, the worse my situation became. It was almost midnight, and it was cold, and each intersection looked like the same one repeating over and over. I found myself struck with an illogical and indescribable panic--the kind that causes you to truly believe you’ll never, ever escape from where you are, even though you almost always will. As I drove, I remembered every horror movie I’d ever watched that had taken place in a rural setting. Children of the Corn. The children of the corn were lurking out there in the tall grass, I just knew it. Friday the 13th. Sure, it had taken place at a summer camp, but the same thing could happen on a cattle ranch. And The Texas Chain Saw Massacre? Oh no. I was dead. Leatherface was coming--or even worse, his freaky, emaciated, misanthropic brother.
I kept driving for a while, then stopped on the side of the road. Shining my brights on the road in front of me, I watched out for Leatherface while dialing Marlboro Man on my car phone. My pulse was rapid out of sheer terror and embarrassment; my face was hot. Lost and helpless on a county road the same night I’d emotionally decompensated in his kitchen--this was not exactly the image I was dying to project to this new man in my life. But I had no other option, short of continuing to drive aimlessly down one generic road after another or parking on the side of the road and going to sleep, which really wasn’t an option at all, considering Norman Bates was likely wandering around the area. With Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. And Grendel. ~ Ree Drummond,
1186:But now that I’m sitting up, nausea hits me. I flop back onto the bed. “Go get Friday a can of ginger ale,” Paul says to Hayley. “Her tummy hurts.” Hayley runs out of the room and comes back with a cold can as Paul said. She opens it up, takes a sip, and hands it to me. She grins and wipes her hand across the back of her mouth. “What did I tell you about drinking out of people’s drinks?” “It’s just Friday,” she says. She blinks those blue eyes at me. I’m just Friday. I’m just Paul’s girlfriend, which makes me something serious in her life. It’s kind of scary, knowing I’m something to her. But in a good way, for the first time ever. “Is your tummy feeling better?” she asks. “Not yet.” She sits cross-legged in front of me. “Maybe you just need to go poop,” she says, looking at me very seriously. Paul falls back on the bed, clutching his gut as he laughs. He laughs until he has tears rolling out of his eyes. He wipes them and goes to get me some crackers, laughing all the way down the hall. Sam stops and pops his head into the room. I’m glad I’m wearing one of Paul’s really long T-shirts. Sam grins at me. “Maybe you should just give it a try,” he says, “just in case you need to poop.” I throw a pillow at his head. He ducks, and it flies over him. He mocks an affronted look. “You didn’t throw a pillow at Hayley.” I grab her toe and tug it. “Because I like her.” She grins at me and looks smugly at Sam. He scrunches up his face like he’s upset. “I like you, too,” Hayley says quietly when Sam steps out of the doorway. I could get used to this family thing. Paul comes back with a pack of crackers, opens them, and hands me one. I nibble the edge of it. He leans down and kisses my cheek. “Just so you know,” he says softly, “I’ve never had a woman sleep in my bed when Hayley’s here before.” My heart squeezes in my chest, and my belly flutters. I know this much about him. “So no matter what, don’t break her heart, okay?” he asks softly. His blue eyes stare into mine. “You cuddled with her daddy and with her, so that makes you special. Keep that in mind, no matter what.” There’s something almost ominous about his tone, but I have no idea what his reticence is about. I wish I did. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1187:Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud,
but I walked numbly through the park, round and round,
40 times for 4 hours
just wanting to make it through the day.

There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through
and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories,
but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk
tick tick tick
me not making a sound
and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind,
but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine.
This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways
but you can not let it.

I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use.
the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness,
thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire
and I don't want to hurt myself anymore.
I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all.
And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again.
It will always be spring again.
And there will always be a new day. ~ Charlotte Eriksson,
1188:And then there was the sad sign that a young woman working at a Tim Hortons in Lethbridge, Alberta, taped to the drive-through window in 2007. It read, “No Drunk Natives.”

Accusations of racism erupted, Tim Hortons assured everyone that their coffee shops were not centres for bigotry, but what was most interesting was the public response. For as many people who called in to radio shows or wrote letters to the Lethbridge Herald to voice their outrage over the sign, there were almost as many who expressed their support for the sentiment. The young woman who posted the sign said it had just been a joke.

Now, I’ll be the first to say that drunks are a problem. But I lived in Lethbridge for ten years, and I can tell you with as much neutrality as I can muster that there were many more White drunks stumbling out of the bars on Friday and Saturday nights than there were Native drunks. It’s just that in North America, White drunks tend to be invisible, whereas people of colour who drink to excess are not.

Actually, White drunks are not just invisible, they can also be amusing. Remember how much fun it was to watch Dean Martin, Red Skelton, W. C. Fields, John Wayne, John Barrymore, Ernie Kovacs, James Stewart, and Marilyn Monroe play drunks on the screen and sometimes in real life? Or Jodie Marsh, Paris Hilton, Cheryl Tweedy, Britney Spears, and the late Anna Nicole Smith, just to mention a few from my daughter’s generation. And let’s not forget some of our politicians and persons of power who control the fates of nations: Winston Churchill, John A. Macdonald, Boris Yeltsin, George Bush, Daniel Patrick Moynihan. Hard drinkers, every one.

The somewhat uncomfortable point I’m making is that we don’t seem to mind our White drunks.

They’re no big deal so long as they’re not driving. But if they are driving drunk, as have Canada’s coffee king Tim Horton, the ex-premier of Alberta Ralph Klein, actors Kiefer Sutherland and Mel Gibson, Super Bowl star Lawyer Milloy, or the Toronto Maple Leafs’ Mark Bell, we just hope that they don’t hurt themselves. Or others.

More to the point, they get to make their mistakes as individuals and not as representatives of an entire race. ~ Thomas King,
1189:MATHEMATICAL MIRACLE Some years ago, I heard a story which has been making the rounds in Midwest A.A. circles for years. I don’t have any names to back up this story, but I have heard it from many sources, and the circumstances sound believable. A man in a small Wisconsin city had been on the program for about three years and had enjoyed contented sobriety through that period. Then bad luck began to hit him in bunches. The firm for which he had worked for some fifteen years was sold; his particular job was phased out of existence, and the plant moved to another city. For several months, he struggled along at odd jobs while looking for a company that needed his specialized experience. Then another blow hit him. His wife was forced to enter a hospital for major surgery, and his company insurance had expired. At this point he cracked, and decided to go on an all-out binge. He didn’t want to stage this in the small city, where everyone knew his sobriety record. So he went to Chicago, checked in at a North Side hotel, and set forth on his project. It was Friday night, and the bars were filled with a swinging crowd. But he was in no mood for swinging—he just wanted to get quietly, miserably drunk. Finally, he found a basement bar on a quiet side street, practically deserted. He sat down on a bar stool and ordered a double bourbon on the rocks. The bartender said, “Yes, sir,” and reached for a bottle. Then the bartender stopped in his tracks, took a long, hard look at the customer, leaned over the bar, and said in a low tone, “I was in Milwaukee about four months ago, and one night I attended an open meeting. You were on the speaking platform, and you gave one of the finest A.A. talks I ever heard.” The bartender turned and walked to the end of the bar. For a few minutes, the customer sat there—probably in a state of shock. Then he picked his money off the bar with trembling hands and walked out, all desire for a drink drained out of him. It is estimated that there are about 8,000 saloons in Chicago, employing some 25,000 bartenders. This man had entered the one saloon in 8,000 where he would encounter the one man in 25,000 who knew that he was a member of A.A. and didn’t belong there. Chicago, Illinois ~ A A World Services Inc,
1190:But now, midway through Friday, look. The One whom Jesus calls "Father" is not in heaven, sitting on a throne, preparing to swoop down sometime and fix everything. The Father is there with the Son, hanging on a cross, now in intimate conversation with the Son, therefore not as the Son. We don't want to overhear such terrible, terrifying words, "My God, why have you abandoned me," because we don't want to know that that's the kind of God we've got, the kind of God who does not always work the world to our benefit, the kind of God who, when it gets dark, doesn't immediately switch on the lights but rather comes and hangs out with us, on the cross, in the dark, and lets us in on the most intimate of conversations within the very heart of the Trinity. The Father is one with the Son, in the power of the Holy Spirit. Yet the Father, in infinite love, has sent the Son out to the far country to us sinners. Away from the Father in order to be close to those who have abandoned the Father, the Son risks separation from the Father, risks not only abandonment but also dismemberment from his true identity. The Son comes very close to us, so close that he bears our sinfulness, bears the brunt of our viciousness. And the Father, who is complete righteousness and holiness, cannot embrace the sin that the Son so recklessly, lovingly bears, so the Father must abandon the Son on the cross because the Father is both love and righteousness. Here, in this word from the cross, is the unthinkable: a separation, because of love, in the heart of the fully loving, inseparable Trinity. In this world, love is the cause of some of life's greatest tragedies, and we know that there is no way completely to love anyone without the risk of pain because of that love. Sure, it's an inadequate human analogy, but we grope in our talk of such a mystery. What a sacrifice the Father is making in the Son's sacrifice, in the sacrificial power of the Spirit. There is a real division in the heart of the Trinity at this moment on the cross, and because the Trinity is inherently indivisible, the magnitude of the sacrifice is massive. The division that is part of the pain that must be borne by a God who would come out, in both righteousness and love, to save us. ~ William H Willimon,
1191:She’s giving me a hard time.” “Oh?” “She hates me.” Jerry waited patiently, irritating Rick. “I knew it was going to be hard on her, telling her we couldn’t be a couple anymore. I figured there’d be tears and stuff. But then she’d get over it. I knew it would take a while, but then some guy would ask her out or something. Eventually she’s going to be all right.” “What about this is keeping you awake at night?” Jerry asked. “You know, this isn’t easy on me, either,” Rick snapped. “Staying away from her isn’t exactly simple. But it’s better this way.” Jerry leaned forward. “Listen, I think you’re going to have to try to be more specific. I’m not sure I’m following. We’ve talked about the girlfriend before and as I understand it, you explained to her that you couldn’t be her boyfriend anymore and that upset her. Correct?” “Correct,” he answered tightly. “And now she’s angry?” “Whew,” Rick said, shaking his head. “I go to Jack’s every Friday afternoon for about an hour or so. After a week of PT and you, I’m wrecked, so Jack lets me have a beer and some dinner. She comes to the bar every week, knowing I’m going to be there, and she won’t look at me. I mean, she won’t even accidentally see me. Won’t speak to me. Smiles pretty at everyone else and it’s like I’m not there.” Jerry tilted his head. “You don’t want to be her boyfriend anymore,” he pointed out. “Well, I can’t be. It’s no good that way. For her. Believe me.” “Okay, let me get this right,” Jerry said. “You told her you’re through—you two cannot be together. Sounds like maybe she believes you. Did you expect her to be a little more gracious about it?” Rick glared through narrowed eyes. “You’re a smart-ass, you know that?” “Sorry, that’s not my intention at all. I’m really trying to understand what about this is off. What about this is costing you sleep?” “She could say hello,” he barked. “Is it possible she’s angry with your decision to break it off with her?” “Well, no shit! She even told me to grow up, like I’m being a real baby about having my leg blown off!” “Did she say that?” Jerry asked. “No, but that’s what she meant!” “Are you certain?” “Of course I’m certain!” “Did she tell you exactly why she thought you should grow up?” Jerry asked. “Listen to me! She didn’t have to!” “I ~ Robyn Carr,
1192:Children Are a Gift Behold, children are a gift of the LORD; the fruit of the womb is a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one’s youth. —PSALM 127:3 NASB     In a recent women’s Bible study, the teacher asked the group, “Did you feel loved by your parents when you were a child?” Here are some of the responses. • “A lot of pizza came to the house on Friday nights when my parents went out for the evening.” • “I got in their way. I wasn’t important to them.” • “They were too busy for me.” • “Mom didn’t have to work, but she did just so she wouldn’t have to be home with us kids.” • “I spent too much time with a babysitter.” • “Mom was too involved at the country club to spend time with me.” • “Dad took us on trips, but he played golf all the time we were away.” So many of the ladies felt they were rejected by their parents in their childhoods. There was very little love in their homes. What would your children say in response to the same question? I’m sure we all would gain insight from our children’s answers. In today’s verse we see that children are a reward (gift) from the Lord. In Hebrew, “gift” means “property—a possession.” Truly, God has loaned us His property or possessions to care for and to enjoy for a certain period of time. My Bob loves to grow vegetables in his raised-bed garden each summer. I am amazed at what it takes to get a good crop. He cultivates the soil, sows seeds, waters, fertilizes, weeds, and prunes. Raising children takes a lot of time, care, nurturing, and cultivating as well. We can’t neglect these responsibilities if we are going to produce good fruit. Left to itself, the garden—and our children—will end up weeds. Bob always has a smile on his face when he brings a big basket full of corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans into the kitchen. As the harvest is Bob’s reward, so children are parents’ rewards. Let your home be a place where its members come to be rejuvenated after a very busy time away from it. We liked to call our home the “trauma center”—a place where we could make mistakes, but also where there was healing. Perfect people didn’t reside at our address. We tried to teach that we all make mistakes and certainly aren’t always right. Quite often in our home we could hear the two ~ Emilie Barnes,
1193:The Clash
Civilisations, it’s often shouted,
clash. Particularly mine
and yours. At Thermopylae
the Persians crashed
into and squashed the Spartan
infantry. At Salamis
the Athenians sank the Persian
fleet. Romans were crushed
by Parthian horsed-archers
but they later skilfully
smashed Cleopatra and took
Egypt. Then Christianity
and the destruction
of Jerusalem’s temples. Yet
my religion untouched by your
god’s self-sacrifice
Zoroastrian, polytheist, Jewish
and Islam: your Romanised tribes
unified in the exigent cause
of the Cross. My side took Spain.
Yours defeated the Saracens
at Poitiers. Then the Crusades. Then
the Ottomans. Scimitars clashed
chainmail, cannons fired
on muskets. Then the tanks,
the air-raids and suicide bombers.
72
But do I forget to tell
you about the Muslim scholars
studying Aristotle? The English
poets translating the ghazals
and rubaiyats of Persians? Or my
watching sneakily the pirated
videos of Friday the 13th
and Mad Max? Or your eating
kebabs and saving to buy
an Afghan rug? Perhaps. But my
forgetting to include
the images of exchange
in the midst of the clatter
of the chronology of hostility
proves a little more than dubious
compared to the fallacy
of classification. How did I
become Eastern and you
my Other? Vice versa? How
am I grouped? According to what
mischievous logic? Am I
shrunken to an ethnic type? But I
don’t wear turban, ride camel
have never spoken Arabic or bothered
with the Koran. Your pride in
the Acropolis, Colosseum
and Westminster Abbey, frankly
nonexistent. To what cultures
73
do we belong? To repeat:
mine, not of sensuality
and hashish-induced lassitude, but
a love of Rimbaud
and Belgian beer. Yours, not of greed
and rationalist modernity
but baklavas and the Book
of Thoth. Why determine us
by the trite significance
of hair-colour and nose-shape? What
does it take to overcome the logic
of the Third Reich? But enough
questions. What use when The Answer
is being shouted and proliferates
above the murmur of my individual’s
doubt.
~ Ali Alizadeh,
1194:Ode--'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune
Now the 'rosy morn appearing'
Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
And the schoolboy groans on hearing
That eternal clock strike seven:Now the waggoner is driving
Towards the fields his clattering wain;
Now the bluebottle, reviving,
Buzzes down his native pane.
But to me the morn is hateful:
Wearily I stretch my legs,
Dress, and settle to my plateful
Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,
Mentioned 'rent,' which 'p'raps I'd pay;'
And I have a dismal presage
That she'll call, herself, to-day.
Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,
Smoked through silver-mounted pipes Then how my patrician nose would
Turn up at the thought of 'swipes!'
Ale,--occasionally claret, Graced my luncheon then:- and now
I drink porter in a garret,
To be paid for heaven knows how.
When the evening shades are deepened,
And I doff my hat and gloves,
No sweet bird is there to 'cheep and
Twitter twenty million loves:'
No dark-ringleted canaries
Sing to me of 'hungry foam;'
No imaginary 'Marys'
Call fictitious 'cattle home.'
Araminta, sweetest, fairest!
Solace once of every ill!
How I wonder if thou bearest
47
Mivins in remembrance still!
If that Friday night is banished
Yet from that retentive mind,
When the others somehow vanished,
And we two were left behind:When in accents low, yet thrilling,
I did all my love declare;
Mentioned that I'd not a shilling Hinted that we need not care:
And complacently you listened
To my somewhat long address (Listening, at the same time, isn't
Quite the same as saying Yes).
Once, a happy child, I carolled
O'er green lawns the whole day through,
Not unpleasingly apparelled
In a tightish suit of blue:What a change has now passed o'er me!
Now with what dismay I see
Every rising morn before me!
Goodness gracious, patience me!
And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara,
Through the world, as prowls the bat,
And habitually wear a
Cypress wreath around my hat:
And when Death snuffs out the taper
Of my Life, (as soon he must),
I'll send up to every paper,
'Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.'
~ Charles Stuart Calverley,
1195:Quanta.

On Yom Kippur Eve, the quanta went to ask Einstein for his forgiveness. “I'm not home,” Einstein yelled at them from behind his locked door. On their way back, people swore loudly at them through the windows, and someone even threw a can. The quanta pretended not to care, but deep in their hearts they were really hurt. Nobody understands the quanta, everybody hates them.
“You parasites,” people would shout at them as they walked down the road.
“Go serve in the army.”
“We wanted to, actually,” the quanta would try to explain, “but the army wouldn't take us because we're so tiny.” Not that anyone listened. Nobody listens to the quanta when they try to defend themselves, but when they say something that can be interpreted negatively, well, then everyone's all ears. The quanta can make the most innocent statement, like “Look, there's a cat!” and right away they're saying on the news how the quanta were stirring up trouble and they rush off to interview Schrödinger. All in all, the media hated the quanta worse than anybody, because once the quanta had spoken at an IBM press conference about how the very act of viewing had an effect on an event, and all the journalists thought the quanta were lobbying to keep them from covering the Intifada. The quanta could insist as much as they wanted that this wasn't at all what they meant and that they had no political agenda whatsoever, but nobody would believe them anyway. Everyone knew they were friends of the government's Chief Scientist.
Loads of people think the quanta are indifferent, that they have no feelings, but it simply isn't true. On Friday, after the program about the bombing of Hiroshima, they were interviewed in the studio in Jerusalem. They could barely talk. They just sat there facing the open mike and sniffling, and all the viewers at home, who didn't know the quanta very well, thought they were avoiding the question and didn't realize the quanta were crying What's sad is that even if the quanta were to write dozens of letters to the editors of all the scientific journals in the world and prove beyond a doubt that people had taken advantage of their naiveté, and that they'd never ever imagined it would end that way, it wouldn't do them any good, because nobody understands the quanta. The physicists least of all. ~ Etgar Keret,
1196:Rachel came carefully downstairs one morning, in a dressing gown that wasn't quite clean, and stood at the brink of the living room as though preparing to make an announcement. She looked around at each member of the double household - at Evan, who was soberly opening the morning paper, at Phil, who'd been home from Costello's for hours but hadn't felt like sleeping yet, and at her mother, who was setting the table for breakfast - and then she came out with it.

"I love everybody," she said, stepping into the room with an uncertain smile. And her declaration might have had the generally soothing effect she'd intended if her mother hadn't picked it up and exploited it for all the sentimental weight it would bear.

"Oh Rachel," she cried, "What a sweet, lovely thing to say!" and she turned to address Evan and Phil as if both of them might be too crass or numbskulled to appreciate it by themselves. "Isn't that a wonderful thing for this girl to say, on a perfectly ordinary Friday morning? Rachel, I think you've put us all to shame for our petty bickering and our selfish little silences, and it's something I'll never forget. You really do have a marvelous wife, Evan, and I have a marvelous daughter. Oh, and Rachel, you can be sure that everybody in this house loves you, too, and we're all tremendously glad to have you feeling so well."

Rachel's embarrassment was now so intense that it seemed almost to prevent her from taking her place at the table; she tried two quick, apologetic looks at her husband and her brother, but they both missed the message in her eyes.

And Gloria wasn't yet quite finished. "I honestly believe that was a moment we'll remember all our lives," she said. "Little Rachel coming downstairs - or little big Rachel, rather - and saying 'I love everybody.' You know what I wish though Evan? I only wish your father could've been here this morning to share it with us."

But by then even Gloria seemed to sense that the thing had been carried far enough. As soon as she'd stopped talking the four of them took their breakfast in a hunched and businesslike silence, until Phil mumbled "Excuse me" and shoved back his chair.

"Where do you think you're going, young man?" Gloria inquired. "I don't think you'd better go anywhere until you finish up all of that egg. ~ Richard Yates,
1197:I’ve got to get Brittany alone if I’m gonna have any chance of saving face and saving my Honda. Does her freakout session mean she really doesn’t hate me? I’ve never seen that girl do anything not scripted or 100 percent intentional. She’s a robot. Or so I thought. She’s always looked and acted like a princess on camera every time I’ve seen her. Who knew it’d be my bloody arm that would crack her.
I look over at Brittany. She’s focused on my arm and Miss Koto’s ministrations. I wish we were back in the library. I could swear back there she was thinking about getting it on with me.
I’m sporting la tengo dura right here in front of Miss Koto just thinking about it. Gracias a Dios the nurse walks over to the medicine cabinet. Where’s a large chem book when you need one?
“Let’s hang Thursday after school. You know, to work on the outline,” I tell Brittany for two reasons. First, I need to stop thinking about getting naked with her in front of Miss Koto. Second, I want Brittany to myself.
“I’m busy Thursday,” she says.
Probably with Burro Face. Obviously she’d rather be with that pendejo than me.
“Friday then,” I say, testing her although I probably shouldn’t. Testing a girl like Brittany could put a serious damper on my ego. Although I caught her at a time when she’s vulnerable and still shaking from seeing my blood. I admit I’m a manipulative asshole.
She bites her bottom lip that she thinks is glossed with the wrong color. “I can’t Friday, either.” My hard-on is officially deflated. “What about Saturday morning?” she says. “We can meet at the Fairfield Library.”
“You sure you can pencil me into your busy schedule?”
“Shut up. I’ll meet you there at ten.”
“It’s a date,” I say while Miss Koto, obviously eavesdropping, finishes wrapping my arm with dorky gauze.
Brittany gathers her books. “It’s not a date, Alex,” she says over her shoulder.
I grab my book and hurry into the hallway after her. She’s walking alone. The loudspeaker music isn’t playing so class is still on.
“It might not be a date, but you still owe me a kiss. I always collect debts.” My chem partner’s eyes go from dull to shining mad and full of fire. Mmm, dangerous. I wink at her. “And don’t sweat about what lip gloss to wear on Saturday. You’ll just have to reapply it after we make out. ~ Simone Elkeles,
1198:Saving Lives and Protecting Rights in Translation It is said that life and death are under the power of language. —Hélène Cixous, French author and philosopher Lifeline The phone rings, jolting me to attention. It’s almost midnight on a Friday night. I didn’t want to work the late shift, but the need for my work never sleeps. Most of the calls I get at this late hour are from emergency dispatchers for police, fire, and ambulance. They often consist of misdials, hang-ups, and other nonemergencies. I’ve been working since early this morning, and I’m just not in the mood tonight to hear someone complain about a neighbor’s television being turned up too loud. But someone has got to take the call. I pick up before it rings a second time. “Interpreter three nine four zero speaking, how may I help you?” The dispatcher wastes no time with pleasantries. “Find out what’s wrong,” he barks in English. He didn’t ask me to confirm the address, so I assume he must already have police officers headed to the scene. I ask the Spanish speaker how we can help. I wait for a response. Silence. I ask the question again. No answer, but I can hear that there’s someone on the line. We wait, but we don’t hear any response. It’s probably just another child playing with the phone, accidentally dialing 911. I imagine the little guy looking curiously at the phone and pressing the buttons, then staring at it as a voice comes out of the other end. This happens all the time. I turn up the volume on my headset, just in case it might help me pick up the scolding words of a parent in the background. Then suddenly, I hear a timid female voice speaking so quietly that I can barely make out the words. “Me va a matar,” she whispers. The tiny hairs on my arm stand up on end. I swiftly render her words into English: “He’s going to kill me.” Not missing a beat, the dispatcher asks, “Where is he now?” “Outside. I saw him through the window,” I state, after listening to the Spanish version. I’m trying to stay calm and focused, but the fear in the caller’s voice is not only contagious, but essential to the meaning I have to convey. For what seems like an eternity (but is probably just a few seconds), I hear only the beeps of the recorded line and the dispatcher clicking away at his keyboard. I feel impatient. He’s most likely looking to see how far the nearest police officer is from the scene. “Interpreter, find out where she is. ~ Nataly Kelly,
1199:Clip This Article on Location 1397 | Added on Monday, September 1, 2014 4:10:39 PM REVIEW & OUTLOOK An $8.3 Billion Rebuke to the FDA Roche buys a drug approved in Europe but not in America. 359 words Amid this summer's M&A fever, Roche's agreement Monday to buy the San Francisco biotech InterMune deserves special notice. The tie-up is an $8.3 billion guided missile into the fortified bunker that is the Food and Drug Administration. InterMune has never turned a profit in 16 years of existence and other than its clinical expertise the company holds a single asset: an idea for treating a lethal lung disorder called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis with no known cause, cure or approved therapy—at least in the U.S. An InterMune drug called pirfenidone that slows the progression of irreversible lung scarring is on the market in Europe, Japan, Canada and even China. Bloomberg News But the FDA refused to approve pirfenidone in 2010, despite the 40,000 Americans who are killed annually by lung fibrosis and a positive recommendation from its outside scientific advisory committee. The agency brass claimed the evidence was statistically unsatisfactory, when one clinical trial was inconclusive but another showed strong benefits such as improved lung function. The results of the third trial the FDA ordered were reported earlier this year and confirmed that pirfenidone is even more of a treatment advance than it seemed in 2010, and may prolong life. The agency is expected, finally, to approve the medicine in November. Roche is paying a 38% premium over Friday's closing share price, and 63% over trading before the news of InterMune's corporate suitors broke a few weeks ago. The deal is a big vote of confidence in pirfenidone, not least because a rival lung fibrosis drug is awaiting U.S. approval. Then again, maybe that drug's maker, the German pharmaceutical consortium Boehringer Ingelheim, will have the same FDA experience as InterMune. The Roche deal is a tacit reprimand to the FDA's unscientific and uncompassionate—and wrong—2010 defenestration. Amid medical ambiguity about effectiveness, the humane option is to allow a drug to come to patients and follow on with more research, in particular for a drug with few side effects. Pulmonary fibrosis is a protracted death sentence of three to five years. The FDA denied tens of thousands of dying people better and possibly longer lives in the time they had left. ========== ~ Anonymous,
1200:Leigh mentioned that you’re a vet in Winnipeg, here to take some courses to update your skills?” “Yes.” Valerie grimaced. “That was the idea, but if they don’t catch this guy in the next day or two, I’ll have to give up the courses until next semester and if that happens, I might as well head home.” “What?” Anders turned on her sharply. Valerie bit her lip, not very happy at the thought herself. She would have liked to get to know him better, but if she couldn’t do the course now, she’d have to do it next term and it wouldn’t be fair to be away from the clinic that long. Sighing at the very thought, she said, “That’s what my academic advisor said when I talked to him today. I’ve missed the first two weeks of class already. He said if I’m not back by Monday, then I might as well give it up and reapply for next term.” Anders frowned, his gaze shooting to Lucian. It was Leigh who said worriedly, “You can’t go home, Valerie. Not with him still out there.” “Actually, it’s probably better if I did,” Valerie said and pointed out, “He can’t know I’m from Winnipeg, so I’d be safe there, and Anders wouldn’t have to waste his time playing babysitter so he could help hunt for him.” Dead silence met this announcement as the others all exchanged glances. “But your courses,” Anders said finally. “You wanted to upgrade.” “And I still do, but I can’t do that if I can’t attend classes,” she pointed out reasonably. Another moment of silence passed with everyone exchanging glances she didn’t understand and then Lucian said abruptly, “Then you’ll have to attend classes.” When Valerie stared at him with surprise, he added, “Anders will accompany you.” “Oh.” She hesitated briefly and then shook her head. “I don’t think they’ll let him attend with me.” “They might,” Dani said slowly. “I’ve heard of people auditing classes. I even knew someone who audited a couple of mine. She had to get permission from the instructor, and the department chair, and I think her program counselor first though.” “Then he’ll get permission,” Lucian said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. When Anders frowned at this news, he added solemnly, “It’s that or we put her and Roxy on a plane home to Winnipeg.” For some reason, those words sounded ominous to Valerie, and certainly Anders reacted as if they were. His mouth tightened grimly, and he nodded once. It was Friday now, but apparently come Monday, she was attending class and Anders was coming with her. ~ Lynsay Sands,
1201:reaches for her purse, but I stretch out and catch her hand in mine. “Please don’t go,” I say. “Please.” She nods, biting her lower lip between her teeth. “Okay,” she breathes. She sits down beside me and fidgets. I lean over and place Kit in her arms and then press a kiss to her temple. “Let me love you,” I say softly. Then I sit back and I watch her as she arranges Kit in her lap so that she can look into the baby’s face. Silence sinks over the room like a wet, heavy blanket. “He was perfect,” she says quietly. “He looked like me. He had dark-blue eyes and freckles and he wasn’t but a minute old. Then I never got to see him again. Not close up. They took him from me, and I didn’t even get to hold him.” “Where is he now?” My throat clogs so tight with emotion that I have to cough past it. “He’s with a wonderful family that adopted him when he was a day old.” She finally looks up at me, and her eyes shimmer with tears. One drops down her cheek, and she doesn’t brush it away. “They send me pictures every six months. He’s beautiful. He plays baseball, and he loves trains.” “We all do what we have to do to survive,” I say. She snorts. I pass her a tissue because it almost comes out like a sob. “I was fifteen and completely alone.” She unwraps Kit and counts her toes and fingers. “She’s going to play guitar like her mom,” she says. “Look at these fingers.” Kit grips Friday’s finger in her sleep, and Friday wraps her back up. I don’t say anything because I don’t think she wants me to. “His name is Jacob,” she says. She smiles. “I have his footprints and his date of birth on my inner thigh. Pete did it for me.” Fucking Pete. He knew all this time and didn’t tell me. “Little fucker,” I grumble. “Pete knows the value of a well-placed secret.” I’m glad she had someone to tell her secrets to. I hope someday, it’ll be me. “I treasure your secrets. I’ll hold them close to my heart and keep them between us and only us, always.” She smiles. “I know.” She takes a deep breath, and I feel like she’s just relieved some of her burden. “You’ve never seen him?” “No. I’m allowed to. It was an open adoption. But I never have.” “Why not?” “I’m afraid that if I ever get my hands on him I won’t be able to let him go.” Her voice breaks again. “Or worse—what if I see him and he hates me? I wouldn’t be able to stand myself. It’s hard enough knowing that he doesn’t know who I am. If he hates me, too, I won’t be able to take it.” “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1202:Friday reaches for her purse, but I stretch out and catch her hand in mine. “Please don’t go,” I say. “Please.” She nods, biting her lower lip between her teeth. “Okay,” she breathes. She sits down beside me and fidgets. I lean over and place Kit in her arms and then press a kiss to her temple. “Let me love you,” I say softly. Then I sit back and I watch her as she arranges Kit in her lap so that she can look into the baby’s face. Silence sinks over the room like a wet, heavy blanket. “He was perfect,” she says quietly. “He looked like me. He had dark-blue eyes and freckles and he wasn’t but a minute old. Then I never got to see him again. Not close up. They took him from me, and I didn’t even get to hold him.” “Where is he now?” My throat clogs so tight with emotion that I have to cough past it. “He’s with a wonderful family that adopted him when he was a day old.” She finally looks up at me, and her eyes shimmer with tears. One drops down her cheek, and she doesn’t brush it away. “They send me pictures every six months. He’s beautiful. He plays baseball, and he loves trains.” “We all do what we have to do to survive,” I say. She snorts. I pass her a tissue because it almost comes out like a sob. “I was fifteen and completely alone.” She unwraps Kit and counts her toes and fingers. “She’s going to play guitar like her mom,” she says. “Look at these fingers.” Kit grips Friday’s finger in her sleep, and Friday wraps her back up. I don’t say anything because I don’t think she wants me to. “His name is Jacob,” she says. She smiles. “I have his footprints and his date of birth on my inner thigh. Pete did it for me.” Fucking Pete. He knew all this time and didn’t tell me. “Little fucker,” I grumble. “Pete knows the value of a well-placed secret.” I’m glad she had someone to tell her secrets to. I hope someday, it’ll be me. “I treasure your secrets. I’ll hold them close to my heart and keep them between us and only us, always.” She smiles. “I know.” She takes a deep breath, and I feel like she’s just relieved some of her burden. “You’ve never seen him?” “No. I’m allowed to. It was an open adoption. But I never have.” “Why not?” “I’m afraid that if I ever get my hands on him I won’t be able to let him go.” Her voice breaks again. “Or worse—what if I see him and he hates me? I wouldn’t be able to stand myself. It’s hard enough knowing that he doesn’t know who I am. If he hates me, too, I won’t be able to take it.” “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1203:Sylphid was beginning to play professionally, and she was subbing as second harpist in the orchestra at Radio City Music Hall. She was called pretty regularly, once or twice a week, and she’d also got a job playing at a fancy restaurant in the East Sixties on Friday night. Ira would drive her from the Village up to the restaurant with her harp and then go and pick her and the harp up when she finished. He had the station wagon, and he’d pull up in front of the house and go inside and have to carry it down the stairs. The harp is in its felt cover, and Ira puts one hand on the column and one hand in the sound hole at the back and he lifts it up, lays the harp on a mattress they keep in the station wagon, and drives Sylphid and the harp uptown to the restaurant. At the restaurant he takes the harp out of the car and, big radio star that he is, he carries it inside. At ten-thirty, when the restaurant is finished serving dinner and Sylphid’s ready to come back to the Village, he goes around to pick her up and the whole operation is repeated. Every Friday. He hated the physical imposition that it was—those things weigh about eighty pounds—but he did it. I remember that in the hospital, when he had cracked up, he said to me, ‘She married me to carry her daughter’s harp! That’s why the woman married me! To haul that fucking harp!’ “On those Friday night trips, Ira found he could talk to Sylphid in ways he couldn’t when Eve was around. He’d ask her about being a movie star’s child. He’d say to her, ‘When you were a little girl, when did it dawn on you that something was up, that this wasn’t the way everyone grew up?’ She told him it was when the tour buses went up and down their street in Beverly Hills. She said she never saw her parents’ movies until she was a teenager. Her parents were trying to keep her normal and so they downplayed those movies around the house. Even the rich kid’s life in Beverly Hills with the other movie stars’ kids seemed normal enough until the tour buses stopped in front of her house and she could hear the tour guide saying, ‘This is Carlton Pennington’s house, where he lives with his wife, Eve Frame.’ “She told him about the production that birthday parties were for the movie stars’ kids—clowns, magicians, ponies, puppet shows, and every child attended by a nanny in a white nurse’s uniform. At the dining table, behind every child would be a nanny. The Penningtons had their own screening room and they ran movies. Kids would come over. Fifteen, twenty kids. ~ Philip Roth,
1204:We are mad if we imagine that the God of love revealed in Jesus will bless us in waging war. That is madness! But it’s a pervasive and beloved madness. And I know from experience that it’s hard to oppose a crowd fuming for war. When we have identified a hated enemy, we want to be assured that God is on our side as we go to war with our enemy. And we believe that surely God is on our side, because we feel so unified in the moment. Everyone knows the nation is most unified in times of war. Nothing unites a nation like war. But what’s so tragic is when Christian leaders pretend that a rally around the war god is compatible with worshipping the God revealed in Jesus Christ. We refuse to face the truth that waging war is incompatible with following Jesus. We forget that God is most clearly revealed, not in the nascent understanding of the ancient Hebrews but in the Word made flesh. We forget that “being disguised under the disfigurement of an ugly crucifixion and death, the Christform upon the cross is paradoxically the clearest revelation of who God is.”6 We forget that “the worst day in history was not a Tuesday in New York, but a Friday in Jerusalem when a consortium of clergy and politicians colluded to run the world on our own terms by crucifying God’s own Son.”7 We forget that when we see Christ dead upon the cross, we discover a God who would rather die than kill his enemies. We forget all of this because the disturbing truth is this—it’s hard to believe in Jesus. When I say it’s hard to believe in Jesus, I mean it’s hard to believe in Jesus’s ideas—in his way of saving the world. For Christians it’s not hard to believe in Jesus as the Son of God, the Second Person of the Trinity—all the Christological stuff the church hammered out in the first five centuries. That’s not hard for us. What’s hard is to believe in Jesus as a political theologian. It’s hard because his ideas for running the world are so radically different from anything we are accustomed to. Which is why, I suspect, for so long, the Gospels have been treated as mere narratives and have not been taken seriously as theological documents in their own right. We want to hear how Jesus was born in Bethlehem, died on the cross, and rose again on the third day. We use these historical bits as the raw material for our theology that we mostly shape from a particular misreading of Paul. In doing this we conveniently screen out Jesus’s own teachings about the kingdom of God and especially his ideas about nonviolence and enemy love. ~ Brian Zahnd,
1205:The ones who are not soul-mated – the ones who have settled – are even more dismissive of my singleness: It’s not that hard to find someone to marry, they say. No relationship is perfect, they say – they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation – yes, honey, okay, honey – is the same as concord. He’s doing what you tell him to do because he doesn’t care enough to argue, I think. Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked.

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don’t land me in one of those relationships where we’re always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and ‘playfully’ scrapping in front of our friends, hoping to lure them to our side of an argument they could not care less about. Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only… and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realizes.

So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn’t make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I’m the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart – perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?

So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man – the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you’ve made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine. ~ Gillian Flynn,
1206:For a moment we just sit there silently, our heads tipped back as we stare at the sky. A minute passes, maybe two. And then Ryder’s hand grazes mine before settling on the ground, our pinkies touching.
I suck in a breath, my entire body going rigid. I’m wondering if he realizes it, if he even knows he’s touching me, when just like that, he draws away.
Ryder clears his throat. “So…I hear you’re going out with Patrick on Friday.”
“And?” I ask. That brief connection that we’d shared is suddenly gone--poof, just like that.
“And what?” he answers with a shrug.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got an opinion on this--one you’re just dying to share.” Because Ryder has an opinion on everything.
“Well, it’s just that Patrick…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up.”
“No, go on. It’s just that Patrick what?”
“Seriously, Jemma. It’s none of my business.”
“C’mon, Ryder, get it out of your system. What? Patrick is looking to get a piece? Is using me? Is planning on standing me up?” I can’t help myself; the words just tumble out.
“I was going to say that I think he really likes you,” he says, his voice flat.
I bite back my retort, forcing myself to take a deep, calming breath instead. That was not what I had expected him to say--not at all--and it takes me completely by surprise. Patrick really likes me? I’m not sure how I feel about that--not sure I want it to be true.
“What do you mean, he really likes me?” I ask stupidly.
“Just what I said. It’s pretty simple stuff, Jemma. He likes you. I think he always has.”
“And you know this how?”
He levels a stare at me. “Trust me on this, okay? He’s got problems, sure, but he’s a decent guy. Don’t break his heart.”
I scramble to my feet. “I agreed to go out with him--once. And I’m probably going to cancel, anyway, because after today’s news, I’m really not in the mood. But the last thing I need is dating advice from you.”
“How come every conversation we have ends like this--with you going off on me? You didn’t use to be like this. What happened?”
He’s right, and I hate myself for it--hate the way he makes me feel inside, as if I’m not good enough. I mean, let’s face it--I know I’m nothing special. I’m not beauty-pageant perfect like Morgan, or fashion-model gorgeous like Lucy. Unlike Ryder and Nan, I don’t have state-championship trophies lining my walls. My singing voice is only so-so, I can’t draw or play a musical instrument, and if the school plays are any indicator, I can’t act for shit, either. ~ Kristi Cook,
1207:Learn That Your Feelings Are as Important as Theirs. Some of us can’t see our own feelings because we have learned somewhere along the way that other people’s feelings are more important than ours. For example, it was always assumed that your father would move in with your family when his health began to fail. But now that he has, his constant demands and crankiness are beginning to take a toll, especially on top of managing his medications and frequent doctor’s visits. You are exhausted and frustrated, and wonder why your brother isn’t willing to do his share. Yet you don’t raise it with parent or sibling. “It’s hard, but it’s not that hard,” you reason. “Besides, I don’t want to rock the boat.” Your girlfriend calls and says she can’t have dinner on Friday after all. She’s wondering whether Saturday is okay. She says a friend of hers is in town and wants to see a movie on Friday. You say, “Sure, if that’s better for you.” Although you said yes, Saturday is actually not as good for you, because you had planned to go to a baseball game. Still, you’d rather see your girlfriend, so you give your ticket away. In each of these situations, you’ve chosen to put someone else’s feelings ahead of your own. Does this make sense? Is your father’s frustration or your brother’s peace of mind more important than yours? Is your girlfriend’s desire to see a movie with her friend more important than your desire to see a baseball game? Why is it that they express their feelings and preferences, but you cope with yours privately? There are several reasons why you may choose to honor others’ feelings even when it means dishonoring your own. The implicit rule you are following is that you should put other people’s happiness before your own. If your friends or loved ones or colleagues don’t get their way, they’ll feel bad, and then you’ll have to deal with the consequences. That may be true, but it’s unfair to you. Their anger is no better or worse than yours. “Well, it’s just easier not to rock the boat,” you think. “I don’t like it when they’re mad at me.” If you’re thinking this, then you are undervaluing your own feelings and interests. Friends, neighbors, and bosses will recognize this and begin to see you as someone they can manipulate. When you are more concerned about others’ feelings than your own, you teach others to ignore your feelings too. And beware: one of the reasons you haven’t raised the issue is that you don’t want to jeopardize the relationship. Yet by not raising it, the resentment you feel will grow and slowly erode the relationship anyway. ~ Douglas Stone,
1208:He tips his glass and drinks. So does Matt. And everyone in the crowd. Except me. “What’s wrong?” Matt asks. “Nothing,” I say. I motion my mother forward, and she puts a box in my hands. It’s small, but it’s weighty at the same time. “I have a present for you.” “I thought our honeymoon was our present to each other,” he reminds me with a scowl. We’re leaving for the Carolina coast for a week with the kids tonight. I can’t wait. I motion for him to take my package. “The vacation is our gift. This is just extra.” I blink back the tears that are already forming in my eyes. He makes a face and opens up the box. He looks inside and then gets confused. He pulls the tiny little item out of the box. It’s a onesie that has tattoo designs all over it, and on the back, it has the name Reed. “What’s this?” he asks, confused. Then his eyes grow wide. Friday gasps when she realizes what’s going on, and the rest of the crowd rumbles and fidgets. “Is this…?” he asks. He stops, because he’s choked with emotion. “Yes,” I say. Tears roll down my face, and I don’t care. I lean close to him. “You knocked me up.” He takes me in his arms and pulls me close, and a sob rolls through him. “Are you serious?” “Completely serious, Matt,” I say. “But wait.” I look down and shake the onesie out. A second one falls out, and Matt catches it in the air. “Two?” he asks. I nod, so broken by his reaction that I can’t speak. “Two tiny little heartbeats,” I say as soon as I can. “Holy fuck,” he breathes into my ear. He squeezes me so tightly that I chirp. “I love you so fucking much,” he says to me. He takes a second to breathe me in and compose himself, then he drops to his knees and lays his forehead on my belly. He says something quietly to his unborn children, and I’m not even sure what it was, but I do know it was between him and them. Or him and God. I’m not sure which. Then he stands and looks up at the crowd. Half of them are as teary-eyed as we are. “Do you know what this means?” he asks our friends and family. They rumble, but he can’t hear one voice over another. He points to Logan. “This means my sperm are better swimmers than yours, little brother!” he says. He signs while he talks, and Logan flips him off. But he’s laughing. He wraps his arms around Emily and lays his hands on the small swell of her belly. I slap his shoulder. “What if it’s my eggs that are amazing and not your sperm?” “What if it’s just us?” he asks quietly, and he kisses me. “Us together.” “I told you I believe in miracles, Matt,” I say when I can finally lift my head. “You’re my miracle,” he says. “You. Just you. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1209:Lucien is throwing a ball next Friday in honor of Charles's homecoming, and he wants you to be there." "Wants?" Juliet drawled, "Demands is more like it." "It's his way of thanking you for all you've done for Charles," Nerissa added.  "He wants to give you a magical, Cinderella night-at-the-ball as his way of expressing his gratitude for saving Charles's life." "But — but I can't attend, I — I don't even know how to dance!" "Then you will learn," said Nerissa, blithely. "And . . . I don't know the correct things to say to people, or how to address them properly . . . or — or . . . anything!" "We will teach you." "And I can't afford fancy new clothes, let alone a ball gown!" "Ah, but I can, and I would be very offended if you do not accept them as a small token of my appreciation for saving my brother's life," intoned a smoothly urbane, aristocratic voice.  Gasping, Amy whirled to see the duke of Blackheath standing in the doorway, an amused little smile playing about his otherwise severe face. Amy sank in a curtsey.  "Your Grace!" "My dear girl.  Are you giving my sister trouble?" "No, but I really can't go to a ball, I'll look the fool and I've got no business being there anyhow and —" "Do you want to go to the ball?" "Well of course, it'll be magical, wondrous, but I'll feel like a chicken amongst a flock of peacocks!" The duke folded his arms and leaned negligently against the door jamb, his black eyes holding her captive.  "Do you remember the conversation we had last night . . . about helping Charles?" That soft, suave tone was enough to make Amy's heart still.  "Well yes, but I don't see how this has anything to do with him . . ." "Of course you don't.  And so I will tell you.   Nerissa wants a new gown for the ball.  As a lady's maid, you will want some new clothes.  And I —" he gave a silky smile — "I will want Charles to ride alongside your coach to provide safe escort to and from London."  He smiled, but the gesture was just a little bit sinister.  "It would benefit him greatly to feel . . . useful, don't you think?" And Amy, standing there feeling nervous and dry-mouthed and very, very intimidated indeed, suddenly understood.  By sending the girls off to London and asking Charles to go along as protection, Lucien was setting things up so that Charles would have opportunity to regain some of his feelings of self-worth. She only hoped he wasn't lining up a highwayman to rob them, as well! She returned the duke's smile, suddenly feeling like a co-conspirator instead of a scared ninny.  "Yes, your Grace.  I quite understand." "Good.  I knew that you would. ~ Danelle Harmon,
1210:The only thing I knew about pickups was this: growing up, I always inwardly mocked the couples I saw who drove around in them. The girl would be sitting in the middle seat right next to the boy, and the boy’s right arm would be around her shoulders, and his left arm would be on the wheel. I’m not sure why, but there was something about my golf course upbringing that had always caused me to recoil at this sight. Why is she sitting in the middle seat? I’d wonder. Why is it important that they press against each other as they drive down the road? Can’t they wait until they get home? I looked at it as a sign of weakness--something pitiable. They need to get a life may have even crossed my mind once or twice, as if their specific brand of public affection was somehow directly harming me. But that’s what happens to people who, by virtue of the geography of their childhood, are deprived of the opportunity to ride in pickup trucks. They become really, really judgmental about otherwise benign things.
Still, every now and then, as Marlboro Man showed me the beauty of the country in his white Ford F250, I couldn’t help but wonder…had he been one of those boys in high school? I knew he’d had a serious girlfriend back in his teenage years. Julie. A beautiful girl and the love of his adolescent life, in the same way Kev had been mine. And I wondered: had Julie scooched over to the middle seat when Marlboro Man picked her up every Friday night? Had he hooked his right arm around her neck, and had she then reached her left hand up and clasped his right hand with hers? Had they then dragged Main in this position? Our hometowns had been only forty miles apart; maybe he’d brought her to my city to see a movie. Was it remotely possible I’d actually seen Marlboro Man and Julie riding around in his pickup, sitting side by side? Was it possible this man, this beautiful, miraculous, perfect man who’d dropped so magically into my life, had actually been one of the innocent recipients of my intolerant, shallow pickup-related condemnation?
And if he had done it, was it something he’d merely grown out of? How come I wasn’t riding around in his middle seat? Was I supposed to initiate this? Was this expected of me? Because I probably should know early on. But wouldn’t he have gestured in that direction if he’d wanted me to move over and sit next to him? Maybe, just maybe, he’d liked those girls better than he liked me. Maybe they’d had a closeness that warranted their riding side by side in a pickup, a closeness that he and I just don’t share? Please don’t let that be the reason. I don’t like that reason. I had to ask him. I had to know. ~ Ree Drummond,
1211:She told me she loves me,” I blurt out. His eyes open wide. “Wow.” Wow? That’s all I get? He starts setting up his machines. “How do you feel about that?” “I fucking love it.” My heart thrills. “But?” “But I’m just not sure.” He laughs. “No one ever is. You just have to go with your gut. If it’s meant to be, you’ll meet her somewhere near the middle and fall in love with her too.” “Oh, I already did.” He looks up and smiles. “Really?” A grin tips the corners of my lips. “Yeah.” “What does love mean to you?” he asks. “It means that if something happened to her tomorrow, I don’t know if I would ever be the same.” “Love does that to you.” “Did you feel like Friday was yours long before she knew she was yours?” He laughs. “I knew she was mine the first time I kissed her. Then I just had to convince her.” “Do you ever feel like you dragged her along? Like maybe it wasn’t her idea?” He shakes his head. “Never. Is that what you feel like you’re doing with Peck?” I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. She told me she loves me. And she sleeps in my bed every night. And now if she left me, she’d leave a hole behind. That’s all.” “Has she talked to her mom yet?” I shake my head. “Not that I know of. That’s kind of why she’s with me. So she can stay away from her mom.” “Maybe she needs to face that. Then she could at least be with you by choice rather than by necessity. You’d probably feel a little bit more comfortable about her reason for being there if you knew she was there for you, and not just for the safety of your apartment.” He shrugs. “But what do I know. I had to have Friday lead me around by my dick piercing to get it.” He grins. “So, do you think she might?” I ask quietly. “I think she’s an idiot if she doesn’t.” “She’s going on tour soon.” “How do you feel about that?” “I’m going to miss her like crazy.” “Be sure to tell her that.” “I will.” “You know Logan and Emily are going to be traveling with them, right?” He gets a gleam in his eye. “Yeah. Why?” “Just saying.” I just wish I knew what he was just saying. “So, you’re the last one to fall,” he says. He’s serious all of a sudden. “I never really worried about you. I worried more about Pete, because I knew you had more ability to love than any of the rest of us.” “What makes you say that?” “I don’t know,” he hedges. “You just wore your heart on your sleeve. You love, and you love well and true. That’s one of your strengths.” “I’m not sure if strength is the right word.” “A lot of men would be put off by her stutter. Embarrassed by it. You’re not, are you?” “I don’t even notice it when she does it, but last night we had a whole conversation without her stuttering even once.” “She’s learning to trust you.” “God, I hope so.” “She ~ Tammy Falkner,
1212:He leans down next to my head from behind the couch like he’s going to whisper in my ear. But I put up my hand and push against his nose with the flat of my palm. “Oh!” Pete cries. He jumps to his feet. “That counts! That so counts!” He points at me and then to Paul’s nose. “She just hit you in the fucking nose, man,” he shouts. He high-fives Sam, who’s grinning like an idiot. He rubs his nose. “She didn’t hit me in the nose.” “Trust me,” I say, “if I hit him, he would know it.” He shoots me a glare. Paul leans toward me again. “You could tell me what I did wrong,” he says quietly, while his brothers are still placing bets and catcalling about my little shove to his nose. I lean closer to him and sniff. I expect to smell sex on him, but I just smell fresh, clean male. Fresh, clean, hot-as-hell man. Hmm. “What did I do?” he asks. He leans his elbows on the couch, hanging over my shoulder. I can feel his warm breath on the side of my neck, and a shiver runs up my spine. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing is always something in girl code,” he says. He smells like Michelob Light and Paul. “What girl code is this of which you speak?” I ask. “The one where you’re right and I’m wrong no matter how we look at it.” He grins. “Talk to me, Friday.” He leans closer, and his lips touch the shell of my ear. “What did I do wrong?” I grunt and cross my arms. “That’s it, then,” he says. “You forced me to do it.” He stands up, stretches, and cracks his knuckles. “Forced you to do what?” I ask. “To take matters into my own hands,” he says. He reaches down and scoops me up in his arms. “Paul!” I screech. “Put me down! Right now!” But all I can really do is grab his neck because he’s moving faster than I thought possible. “The drawer!” his brothers all cry at once. They’re laughing like hell and high-fiving one another. “Fuck the drawer,” he says. “What drawer?” I ask. I am so confused. “The drawer!” they yell, all pointing toward it. He stops and looks back at them. “We’re just going to talk. Where the fuck do you think I’m going to put it?” he asks. “On my tongue?” Pete looks at Sam and shrugs. “I’ve heard dumber ideas,” he says. “Seems like overkill to me,” Sam replies. He shrugs, too. Paul shakes his head and bumps his door open with his shoulder. “That’s what they all say,” Matt calls. “Get a condom out of the drawer!” “You have a condom drawer?” I ask. “In the kitchen, yes.” I must look dumbfounded because he goes on to explain. “I raised four teenaged boys. I had to be creative about getting condoms in their hands. And on their dicks.” Paul sets me down gently on his bed. Then he turns around and closes and locks his door behind us. “Let me out of here,” I grit out. I scurry across the bed like a crab. “Not until you talk to me. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1213:Hi,” I say quietly. I’m surprised that noise crept past the emotion in my throat because I still feel like it’s going to choke me. “Hi,” he says quietly. He looks over at Jill, and she gives him a thumbs-up. She doesn’t get up, though. I see her wipe a tear from her cheek. “Did you meet my friend, Hayley?” I ask. He nods. Paul keeps trying to catch my eyes with his, but I won’t let him. “I’m Friday,” I say. I’m your mother, and I love you more than anything, anywhere, anytime. The words rush to my lips, but I bite them back. “What’s your name?” Jacob runs over to his mother and says something to her. She reaches into the big bag at her feet and takes out a box. She hands it to him, and he runs back over. He never did tell me his name, but that’s okay. I’d rather he have a little stranger danger. And I’m a stranger, after all. Jacob sits down on the sidewalk and opens his box. He takes out a clunky piece of chalk and says, “Do you want to draw with me?” I sit down beside him and say, “What color should I use?” He gives me a blue piece of chalk. “This one.” So I sit for hours and draw with my son in chalk on the sidewalk. We draw rainbows and dragons, and we even make some flowers for his mom. I look around and see that the sidewalk is completely full of our art. There’s not an available space to be had. “You’re a really good drawer,” he says. He grins up at me, and I see the space where his missing tooth should be. “So are you.” I reach out a tentative hand and touch the top of his head. I close my eyes and breathe, letting my hand riffle through the silky strands. I pull back way sooner than I want to because he’s looking at me funny. I look over and see Paul sitting and talking quietly with Jill. He gets up and yells over to us. “We’re going to get some lunch! We’ll be right back!” I give him a thumbs-up and get up to chase Hayley and Jacob over to the swings. “Push me!” Hayley cries. “Push me!” Jacob calls at the same time. He laughs, and I put my hand in the center of both their backs, standing between them, and give them both a shove. It’s only a minute or two later when Paul and Jill come back carrying hot dogs and drinks. The kids race to the table. I jam my hands into my pockets and walk over a little more slowly. Paul and Jill sit side by side on one side of the picnic table, and Hayley and Jacob sit on the other. “Sit beside me!” Hayley cries. “No, me!” Jacob says. I put my legs over the bench and sit between them, and Paul hands me a hot dog. Jacob scoots so close to me that I can feel his thigh against mine. The heat of his little body seeps into the cold of mine and warms me everywhere. I close my eyes for a moment and just breathe, enjoying the feel of having my living, breathing child pressed into my side. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1214:The all-powerful Zahir seemed to be born with every human being and to gain full strength in childhood, imposing rules that would thereafter always be respected:

People who are different are dangerous; they belong to another tribe; they want our lands and our women.

We must marry, have children, reproduce the species.

Love is only a small thing, enough for one person, and any suggestion that the heart might be larger than this may seem perverse.

When we are married we are authorised to take possession of the other person, body and soul.

We must do jobs we detest because we are part of an organised society, and if everyone did what they wanted to do, the world would come to a standstill.

We must buy jewelry; it identifies us with our tribe.

We must be amusing at all times and sneer at those who express their real feelings; it's dangerous for a tribe to allow its members to show their feelings.

We must at all costs avoid saying no because people prefer those who always say yes, and this allows us to survive in hostile territory.

What other people think is more important than what we feel.

Never make a fuss--it might attract the attention of an enemy tribe.

If you behave differently you will be expelled from the tribe because you could infect others and destroy something that was extremely difficult to organise in the first place.

We must always consider the look of our new cave, and if we don't have a clear idea of our own, then we must call a decorator who will do his best to show others what good taste we have.

We must eat three meals a day, even if we're not hungry, and when we fail to fit the current ideal of beauty we must fast, even if we're starving.

We must dress according to the dictates of fashion, make love whether we feel like it or not, kill in the name of our country, wish time away so that retirement comes more quickly, elect politicians, complain about the cost of living, change our hair-style, criticise anyone who is different, go to a religious service on Sunday, Saturday or Friday, depending on our religion, and there beg forgiveness for our sins and puff ourselves up with pride because we know the truth and despise he other tribe, who worship false gods.

Our children must follow in our footsteps; after all we are older and know more about the world.

We must have a university degree even if we never get a job in the area of knowledge we were forced to study.

We must never make our parents sad, even if this means giving up everything that makes us happy.

We must play music quietly, talk quietly, weep in private, because I am the all-powerful Zahir, who lays down the rules and determines the meaning of success, the best way to love, the importance of rewards. ~ Paulo Coelho,
1215:For long seconds, neither of them moved. The only sound in the forest was the wind luffing through the trees, their labored breathing, and the soft thud of their heartbeats.
Then Call muttered something beneath his breath. Gathering his long limbs, he lifted himself away from her and regained his feet. His shaft was still hard, big and thick and jutting forward through his open fly as if they hadn’t just made wildly passionate love. Call rid himself of the condom, zipped his faded jeans, and turned to find her groping for her sweater, pulling it on to cover her naked breasts.
Swearing, he reached down and snatched up her jeans and pink satin panties, which were tangled together and refused to come apart.
“Here.”
She blushed as he unwound the fabric, handing her first the panties, then the jeans, which she hurriedly pulled on.
She didn’t look at him. Her cheeks were hot and her lacy pink bra still lay embarrassingly on the ground. She snatched it up and stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans.
Charity swallowed, made herself turn and face him, tried to muster some sort of smile. “I…um…I don’t suppose we can blame this on your relief at finding me alive and safe.”
He shook his head, his eyes still fixed on her face. “I don’t think so.”
“Just lust then, I suppose.”
He shrugged those wide shoulders and she wished he would put his shirt back on so she didn’t have to remember all that smooth muscle moving beneath her hands.
“So it’s just a one-night stand.”
His head came up. Eyes as blue as the sky bored into her. “In case you haven’t noticed, the sun is still up.”
“The sun is always up in this place. What does that have to do with anything?”
He pulled on his shirt and she suddenly wished he were bare-chested again. “It has to do with the fact that the night hasn’t even begun.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re not…you’re not saying what I think you are.”
“I’m saying exactly what you think I am. If you believe what just happened is anything besides a warm-up, sugar, you had better think again. If I wasn’t worried that Maude might sent the Mounties up here to find us if we don’t get back soon, we’d start over again right here.”
“B-but you said…we both said--”
“I know exactly what we said. It’s a little late to be worrying about that now.” He looked at her and his deep voice softened. “Besides, I never really believed one night with you would be enough.”
Relief trickled through her. Whatever was happening between them, it wasn’t over yet. She gave him a reluctant smile. “I never believed it either.”
“Come on.” Call reached out and caught her hand. “It’s Friday. We’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us. Maybe by Monday, we’ll have had enough of each other.”
“Maybe,” she said. But Charity didn’t really believe it and from the burning glance Call gave her, she didn’t think he did either. ~ Kat Martin,
1216:The US traded its manufacturing sector’s health for its entertainment industry, hoping that Police Academy sequels could take the place of the rustbelt. The US bet wrong.

But like a losing gambler who keeps on doubling down, the US doesn’t know when to quit. It keeps meeting with its entertainment giants, asking how US foreign and domestic policy can preserve its business-model. Criminalize 70 million American file-sharers? Check. Turn the world’s copyright laws upside down? Check. Cream the IT industry by criminalizing attempted infringement? Check. It’ll never work. It can never work. There will always be an entertainment industry, but not one based on excluding access to published digital works. Once it’s in the world, it’ll be copied. This is why I give away digital copies of my books and make money on the printed editions: I’m not going to stop people from copying the electronic editions, so I might as well treat them as an enticement to buy the printed objects.

But there is an information economy. You don’t even need a computer to participate. My barber, an avowed technophobe who rebuilds antique motorcycles and doesn’t own a PC, benefited from the information economy when I found him by googling for barbershops in my neighborhood.

Teachers benefit from the information economy when they share lesson plans with their colleagues around the world by email. Doctors benefit from the information economy when they move their patient files to efficient digital formats. Insurance companies benefit from the information economy through better access to fresh data used in the preparation of actuarial tables. Marinas benefit from the information economy when office-slaves look up the weekend’s weather online and decide to skip out on Friday for a weekend’s sailing. Families of migrant workers benefit from the information economy when their sons and daughters wire cash home from a convenience store Western Union terminal.

This stuff generates wealth for those who practice it. It enriches the country and improves our lives.

And it can peacefully co-exist with movies, music and microcode, but not if Hollywood gets to call the shots. Where IT managers are expected to police their networks and systems for unauthorized copying – no matter what that does to productivity – they cannot co-exist. Where our operating systems are rendered inoperable by “copy protection,” they cannot co-exist. Where our educational institutions are turned into conscript enforcers for the record industry, they cannot co-exist.

The information economy is all around us. The countries that embrace it will emerge as global economic superpowers. The countries that stubbornly hold to the simplistic idea that the information economy is about selling information will end up at the bottom of the pile.

What country do you want to live in? ~ Cory Doctorow,
1217:Lesson one: Pack light unless you want to hump the eight around the mountains all day and night.
By the time we reached Snowdonia National Park on Friday night it was dark, and with one young teacher as our escort, we all headed up into the mist. And in true Welsh fashion, it soon started to rain.
When we reached where we were going to camp, by the edge of a small lake halfway up, it was past midnight and raining hard. We were all tired (from dragging the ridiculously overweight packs), and we put up the tents as quickly as we could. They were the old-style A-frame pegged tents, not known for their robustness in a Welsh winter gale, and sure enough by 3:00 A.M. the inevitable happened.
Pop.
One of the A-frame pegs supporting the apex of my tent broke, and half the tent sagged down onto us.
Hmm, I thought.
But both Watty and I were just too tired to get out and repair the first break, and instead we blindly hoped it would somehow just sort itself out.
Lesson two: Tents don’t repair themselves, however tired you are, however much you wish they just would.
Inevitably, the next peg broke, and before we knew it we were lying in a wet puddle of canvas, drenched to the skin, shivering, and truly miserable.
The final key lesson learned that night was that when it comes to camping, a stitch in time saves nine; and time spent preparing a good camp is never wasted.
The next day, we reached the top of Snowdon, wet, cold but exhilarated. My best memory was of lighting a pipe that I had borrowed off my grandfather, and smoking it with Watty, in a gale, behind the summit cairn, with the teacher joining in as well.
It is part of what I learned from a young age to love about the mountains: They are great levelers.
For me to be able to smoke a pipe with a teacher was priceless in my book, and was a firm indicator that mountains, and the bonds you create with people in the wild, are great things to seek in life.
(Even better was the fact that the tobacco was homemade by Watty, and soaked in apple juice for aroma. This same apple juice was later brewed into cider by us, and it subsequently sent Chipper, one of the guys in our house, blind for twenty-four hours. Oops.)
If people ask me today what I love about climbing mountains, the real answer isn’t adrenaline or personal achievement. Mountains are all about experiencing a shared bond that is hard to find in normal life. I love the fact that mountains make everyone’s clothes and hair go messy; I love the fact that they demand that you give of yourself, that they make you fight and struggle. They also induce people to loosen up, to belly laugh at silly things, and to be able to sit and be content staring at a sunset or a log fire.
That sort of camaraderie creates wonderful bonds between people, and where there are bonds I have found that there is almost always strength. ~ Bear Grylls,
1218:I’ll pay you two thousand dollars if you stall.” Mitch blinked, surprised to hear the words that had just come out of his mouth. “What?” Tommy asked, his own surprise clear in his tone. “I will pay you two grand to stall the repair,” he repeated, ignoring the little voice in his head telling him this was wrong. If there was another way, he’d take it, but every other option had variables. And he couldn’t risk variables. “And how long am I supposed to do that?” Mitch calculated how much time he could get away with while not raising Maddie’s suspicions. The small-town thing would only get him so far before it became unbelievable. “Can you make it the end of the week?” If he pushed it until Friday, maybe he could convince her to stay through the weekend instead of making her way back home. That gave him about a week. One week, then he’d let the chips fall where they may. “So let me get this straight, you’re going to pay me two thousand dollars to let the car sit in my garage for a week?” “Plus the cost of the repair,” Mitch added, knowing Maddie would insist on paying for the car herself. “I’ll bring her in this morning, and you tell her the repair will be three to four hundred but will take until Friday to fix. I’ll pay you two thousand dollars on the side.” “You’ve got a real hard-on for this girl.” Tommy laughed, repeating Charlie’s sentiment from last night. “Never mind that. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell your wife.” It was only right to point out that Tommy was the pussy-whipped one, not him. “Now, that’s going to cost you a little more,” Tommy said in a thoughtful tone. Mitch narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me two grand isn’t enough?” “It’s plenty for me, but Mary Beth’s silence will cost you something extra.” Ah, hell. He was about to get hustled and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “Don’t tell her and we won’t have a problem.” Tommy made disapproving sounds, and Mitch could practically see the big, blond ex-captain of the football team rocking back and forth on his chair. “Now, you know I can’t. A good marriage is built on honesty.” Mitch’s grip tightened on his mug, and he silently cursed. “You don’t give a shit that your wife carries your balls in her purse, do you?” Tommy’s chuckle was pure evil. “It’s a small price to pay for matrimonial bliss.” Mitch tried to think of a way out, but for the life of him he couldn’t see one. Between lack of sleep and deprived blood flow, his normally agile mind failed. “And this is nonnegotiable?” “Well, I’m reasonable.” Tommy’s voice took on the tone of a resigned man. “But, you know Mary Beth, and she does like her gossip.” Everyone in town would know about the plot by noon, and as much as Mitch wanted to delude himself, he didn’t think Maddie would stay locked in the house for a week. “Fine.” Mitch ground out through clenched teeth. “I’ll look at your nephew’s case. But I’m not making any promises.” Mary ~ Jennifer Dawson,
1219:When we get closer, he pushes out both of the chairs across from him. He nods at them and says, “Take a seat.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Am I going to have to woo you before I get my slice?”

He smiles over the pizza that he’s about to bite into. “Yeah, I do believe you’re going to have to.”

With zero self-respect, Amanda takes a seat and says, “That’s no problem with me.”

Honestly. Does she not know how to avoid showing all her cards at once?

When I take a seat, he holds out his hand. “I’m Aaron.”

I take his hand and notice how rough it is. It’s a working hand, one that experiences strenuous hours on the jobsite, day in, day out. “Amelia, and this is my friend, Amanda.”

Aaron nods at Amanda. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure is mine and just so you know, Amelia is single and definitely on the market. Want me to give you her number?”

“Amanda, what the hell are you—?”

“I would love it,” Aaron says, leaning back in his chair while sipping his drink.

Slowly turning toward him, a little stunned, I ask, “You would?”

He nods with all the confidence in the world. “I would.”

“But you don’t know me. I could be a shovel-wielding rabbit killer.”

He leans forward, his chest flexing under his shirt with the movement. “I’ll take my chances.”

Now feeling a little skeptical, I fold my arms over my chest and ask, “Why do you want it?”

He bites down on his straw and studies me for a second before saying, “Can’t let a girl walk out the door without getting her number who’s that passionate about Buffalo chicken pizza. It’s just not physically possible.”

“Aw, he likes you for your crazy; he’s a keeper,” Amanda chimes in with her mouth full of pizza. “It’s 607—”

“Amanda, just be quiet for a second.” Looking at Aaron, I say, “Three Buffalo chicken pizza slices in exchange for three veggie and my phone number.”

“No way.” He shakes his head. “You can’t take all my Buffalo.”

“But I thought you wanted my number.”

“I do.” He leans forward some more, his fresh scent hitting me hard in the chest. “But we both know if I give you three slices, you will have zero respect for me because no man in his right mind would give up three Buffalo slices. No matter how hot the chick is.” Eeep, he thinks I’m hot. “But I will counter you with one and a half slices and a number.”

I sit back now, watching how his smile starts to spread. God, he’s just so . . . yum. He looks like he’s quite a few years older than me. Not just because of his face, but there is something in his eyes that makes him seem older. He’s definitely not in his second year of college like me. Not wanting to fold so quickly, I counter. “Two slices, my number, and a guaranteed date this Friday.”

He sits back, his eyes widen, and that smile gets even bigger. “Fucking deal.” He holds his hand out and we shake. ~ Meghan Quinn,
1220:Weren’t you fucking somebody else last week, Friday?” I blurt out. I want to take it back immediately because it hangs there in the air between us like a bomb about to explode. “What?” she asks, and her voice goes soft. “Last week it was a different guy who took you to lunch.” I grumble to myself and get up, pretending to clean the counter. She thinks it over. “You mean Cody?” “How many are there?” She blinks hard. What the fuck? Friday never cries. Ever. I take a step toward her, and she steps back, putting her hand up like she’s going to push the air around me back. “How dare you?” she breathes. A tear falls over her lashes, and she swipes it away and then looks down at the back of her wet hand like she doesn’t know what the fuck a tear is. “Friday,” I say. I step toward her again. I soften my voice because I have no idea what to do. I have never seen this Friday before. I have only seen the one who can eat my balls for lunch. Hell, she’ll feed my balls to me if I piss her off enough. And make me like it. Four years and I have never seen her shed a tear. She turns around and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I lean my ear against the door and listen, but I can’t hear anything over the sound of the fan. I knock. She doesn’t answer. “Dammit,” I swear. I lean my forehead against the door. “Leave her alone,” I hear from behind me. I turn around because Logan is talking. “I can’t,” I say to him. I knock again, but she doesn’t answer. “Just leave her the fuck alone,” he says again. He’s pissed, I can tell. “You have a client.” He waves toward my customer like he’s Vanna Fucking White. “Work to do. So, you might want to get to it.” I heave a sigh and look at my client. “Just a moment,” I say. “Take your time,” he says with a grin. He’s loving the show, apparently. I pull my keys from my pocket and fit the key in the lock. I hesitate long enough for Logan to notice. “You shouldn’t,” he warns. I know I shouldn’t, but I am. I turn the key and let myself into the room. I find Friday washing her face. “What the fuck, Paul!” she cries. She turns back to the mirror and dabs beneath her eyes. She looks at me in the mirror. “Get out.” I close the door behind me and lean against it. “Why are you crying?” “I don’t know,” she bites out. But another tear slides down her cheek. “Fucking hormones,” she says as she swipes it away. All this because she has her period? I know better than to say that out loud. “Oh,” I say instead. She turns to face me, hitching her hip against the sink. She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, which pushes them up and makes little pillows over the top of that low-cut dress she’s wearing. My God. I look up at her face. She smirks at me. I like a smirking Friday a lot better than one who’s crying because I don’t know what do with tears. Not from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I blurt out when she just glares at me. “Yes, you did.” “No, I didn’t.” “Yes, you did. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1221:It’s just a kiss,” she says softly. “Why are you all torn up about a kiss?” She’s studying me way too closely. “I’m not torn up,” I protest. “You’ve been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean,” she says. “What’s your problem? It’s for charity, for God’s sake.” She lays her free hand on her chest. “My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I’m doing my part for a better community.” I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won’t. Because she doesn’t want me. “I can’t believe you’re going kiss some stranger,” I bite out. “Don’t do it.” “I’ve kissed men before, Sean,” she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself. “What if it’s some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?” I ask. “What if it’s some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?” she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she’ll stop. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be all tatted up, too.” She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me. “Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don’t have to kiss some stranger.” Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she’s looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I’d give it to her, if she wanted it. But it’s not me she wants. She’s made that abundantly clear. “If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop,” I say quietly. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way. “Prove it,” she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn’t break eye contact. I move quickly. This is the first time she’s ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she’s going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes. “Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey,” I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her. “I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Please.” Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed. Friday, ~ Tammy Falkner,
1222:Okay, I’m going to tell you what I think. It’s like this,” he said grimly. “Quit or don’t quit. Take the promotion or not take it. But, if you take the graveyard shift, mark my words, we will eventually—I don’t know how, and I don’t know when—live to regret it.” Without saying another word he walked inside. In bed Alexander let her kiss his hands. He was on his back, and Tatiana sidled up to him naked, kneeling by his side. Taking his hands, she kissed them slowly, digit by digit, knuckle by knuckle, pressing them to her trembling breasts, but when she opened her mouth to speak, Alexander took his hands away. “I know what you’re about to do,” he said. “I’ve been there a thousand times. Go ahead. Touch me. Caress me. Whisper to me. Tell me first you don’t see my scars anymore, then make it all right. You always do, you always manage to convince me that whatever crazy plan you have is really the best for you and me,” he said. “Returning to blockaded Leningrad, escaping to Sweden, Finland, running to Berlin, the graveyard shift. I know what’s coming. Go ahead, I’ll be good to you right back. You’re going to try to make me all right with you staying in Leningrad when I tell you that to save your hard-headed skull you must return to Lazarevo? You want to convince me that escaping through enemy territory across Finland’s iced-over marsh while pregnant is the only way for us? Please. You want to tell me that working all Friday night and not sleeping in my bed is the best thing for our family? Try. I know eventually you’ll succeed.” He was staring at her blonde and lowered head. “Even if you don’t,” he continued, “I know eventually, you’ll do what you want anyway. I don’t want you to do it. You know you should be resigning, not working graveyard—nomenclature, by the way, that I find ironic for more reasons that I care to go into. I’m telling you here and now, the path you’re taking us on is going to lead to chaos and discord not order and accord. It’s your choice, though. This defines you—as a nurse, as a woman, as a wife—pretend servitude. But you can’t fool me. You and I both know what you’re made of underneath the velvet glove: cast iron.” When Tatiana said nothing, Alexander brought her to him and laid her on his chest. “You gave me too much leeway with Balkman,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You kept your mouth shut too long, but I’ve learned from your mistake. I’m not keeping mine shut—I’m telling you right from the start: you’re choosing unwisely. You are not seeing the future. But you do what you want.” Kneeling next to him, she cupped him below the groin into one palm, kneading him gently, and caressed him back and forth with the other. “Yes,” he said, putting his arms under his head and closing his eyes. “You know I love that, your healing stroke. I’m in your hands.” She kissed him and whispered to him, and told him she didn’t see his scars anymore, and made it if not all right then at least forgotten for the next few hours of darkness. ~ Paullina Simons,
1223:Moscow can be a cold, hard place in winter. But the big old house on Tverskoy Boulevard had always seemed immune to these particular facts, the way that it had seemed immune to many things throughout the years. When breadlines filled the streets during the reign of the czars, the big house had caviar. When the rest of Russia stood shaking in the Siberian winds, that house had fires and gaslight in every room. And when the Second World War was over and places like Leningrad and Berlin were nothing but rubble and crumbling walls, the residents of the big house on Tverskoy Boulevard only had to take up a hammer and drive a single nail—to hang a painting on the landing at the top of the stairs—to mark the end of a long war. The canvas was small, perhaps only eight by ten inches. The brushstrokes were light but meticulous. And the subject, the countryside near Provence, was once a favorite of an artist named Cézanne. No one in the house spoke of how the painting had come to be there. Not a single member of the staff ever asked the man of the house, a high-ranking Soviet official, to talk about the canvas or the war or whatever services he may have performed in battle or beyond to earn such a lavish prize. The house on Tverskoy Boulevard was not one for stories, everybody knew. And besides, the war was over. The Nazis had lost. And to the victors went the spoils. Or, as the case may be, the paintings. Eventually, the wallpaper faded, and soon few people actually remembered the man who had brought the painting home from the newly liberated East Germany. None of the neighbors dared to whisper the letters K-G-B. Of the old Socialists and new socialites who flooded through the open doors for parties, not one ever dared to mention the Russian mob. And still the painting stayed hanging, the music kept playing, and the party itself seemed to last—echoing out onto the street, fading into the frigid air of the night. The party on the first Friday of February was a fund-raiser—though for what cause or foundation, no one really knew. It didn’t matter. The same people were invited. The same chef was preparing the same food. The men stood smoking the same cigars and drinking the same vodka. And, of course, the same painting still hung at the top of the stairs, looking down on the partygoers below. But one of the partygoers was not, actually, the same. When she gave the man at the door a name from the list, her Russian bore a slight accent. When she handed her coat to a maid, no one seemed to notice that it was far too light for someone who had spent too long in Moscow’s winter. She was too short; her black hair framed a face that was in every way too young. The women watched her pass, eyeing the competition. The men hardly noticed her at all as she nibbled and sipped and waited until the hour grew late and the people became tipsy. When that time finally came, not one soul watched as the girl with the soft pale skin climbed the stairs and slipped the small painting from the nail that held it. She walked to the window. And jumped. And neither the house on Tverskoy Boulevard nor any of its occupants ever saw the girl or the painting again. ~ Ally Carter,
1224:Quran: A Simple English Translation (Goodword ! Koran) (Khan, Maulana Wahiduddin;Goodword) - Your Highlight at location 221-228 | Added on Friday, 10 April 2015 19:41:32 Those who are introduced to the Quran only through the media, generally have the impression that the Quran is a book of jihad, and jihad to them is an attempt to achieve one’s goal by means of violence. But this idea is based on a misunderstanding. Anyone who reads the Quran for himself will easily appreciate that its message has nothing to do with violence. The Quran is, from beginning to end, a book which promulgates peace and in no way countenances violence. It is true that jihad is one of the teachings of the Quran. But jihad, taken in its correct sense, is the name of peaceful struggle rather than of any kind of violent action. The Quranic concept of jihad is expressed in the following verse, ‘Do greater jihad (i.e strive more strenuously) with the help of this [Quran]’ (25:52). Obviously, the Quran is not a weapon, but a book which gives us an introduction to the divine ideology of peaceful struggle. The method of such a struggle, according to the Quran, is ‘to speak to them a word to reach their very soul’ (4:63). ========== Quran: A Simple English Translation (Goodword ! Koran) (Khan, Maulana Wahiduddin;Goodword) - Your Note at location 228 | Added on Friday, 10 April 2015 19:41:45 jihad ========== Quran: A Simple English Translation (Goodword ! Koran) (Khan, Maulana Wahiduddin;Goodword) - Your Highlight at location 232-235 | Added on Friday, 10 April 2015 19:43:12 It is true that there are certain verses in the Quran, which convey injunctions similar to the following, ‘Slay them wherever you find them’ (2:191). Referring to such verses, there are some who attempt to give the impression that Islam is a religion of war and violence. This is totally untrue. Such verses relate, in a restricted sense, to those who have unilaterally attacked the Muslims. The above verse does not convey the general command of Islam. ========== Quran: A Simple English Translation (Goodword ! Koran) (Khan, Maulana Wahiduddin;Goodword) - Your Highlight at location 239-244 | Added on Friday, 10 April 2015 19:44:16 This division of commands into different categories is a natural one and is found in all religious books. For instance, the Gita, the holy book of the Hindus, pertains to wisdom and moral values. Yet along with this is the exhortation of Krishna to Arjuna, encouraging him to fight (Bhagavad Gita, 3:30). This does not mean that believers in the Gita should wage wars all the time. Mahatma Gandhi, after all, derived his philosophy of non-violence from the same Gita. The exhortation to wage war in the Gita applies only to exceptional cases where circumstances leave no choice. But for general day-to-day existence it gives the same peaceful commands as derived from it by Mahatma Gandhi. ========== Quran: A Simple English Translation (Goodword ! Koran) (Khan, Maulana Wahiduddin;Goodword) - Your Highlight at location 244-245 | Added on Friday, 10 April 2015 19:44:39 Similarly, Jesus Christ said, ‘Do not think that I came to bring peace on Earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.’ (Matthew, 10:34). ========== ~ Anonymous,
1225:home only to pine over an ex-girlfriend, so he stopped. He apologized, saying a few more things that Catherine once again just nodded her head to, smiling, and before she knew it, she had plans to go see a movie with Dickie the following Friday. It was a date, the first of many. It went like this for two months: Friday night dates. Rides home from school while other girls looked on in jealousy. Long nights parked up at The Point, the low rumble of his car idling away while they made out with the heat blowing on her legs. Him sliding his hands up her skirt. Under her shirt. Her moaning. Her face flushing red. Her toes curling. The Rolling Stones on the radio. Why did he taste so good? Never sex, though. Even when he begged for it, she would refuse. She knew what their relationship really was. It was great and fun and wild and exciting, but she knew it wouldn’t last; he was off to college soon, and she remembered how he felt about being tethered to something familiar. That conversation never left her mind for the duration of their relationship, always reminding her to be ready to lose him. At the time, she was still a virgin, and as much as she loved Dickie she did not wish to give herself fully to someone who would more than likely forget about her within months, if not weeks, of leaving. Catherine was young, but never stupid or naive. She knew how the world worked… even Dickie’s world. What she felt and experienced with him may have been real by her definition, but she understood that that did not make the relationship everlasting or meant-to-be. Their time together had been great and fun and had changed her in ways she would never be able to put into words. She would forever cherish their moments together. Or at least, that’s what she’d thought at the time, before these cherished memories soured. Everything changed the night of the dance. The night he changed. The night she changed, too. It was Dickie’s senior prom. He invited her to go and she happily accepted. She even bought a new dress with the money she’d saved working shifts down at Woolworth’s. The dance was fine and good. They had a blast. They’d even kissed in the middle of the gymnasium during the last slow dance. It had been so romantic. But afterward was a different sort of time. Dickie and some of his friends rented a few rooms at the Heartsridge Motel for a place to hang out after the dance. But it was more than just a place to hang out. It was a place to party, a place to drink alcohol purchased illegally, a place for some of the looser girls to sleep with their dates. She had been to parties with Dickie before, parties with drinking and drugs and where there were rooms dedicated to fooling around. She wasn’t a square. But this was different. This place made her skin crawl. There was a raw energy in the air. She remembered feeling it on her skin. And the fact that it was a motel made the whole scene seem depraved. It just felt off, and she wanted to beg him to go somewhere else. But instead she held her tongue and went along with Dickie. He was leaving soon, after all. Why not appease him? He seemed excited about going. A few of them—all friends of Dickie’s—ended up together in one room, drinking Schnapps, smoking cigarettes, having ~ Christian Galacar,
1226:What’s this?” he asks, sitting forward. I remove the top off the box and take out a pile of pictures. I hand him one. “This is Jacob,” I say. My eyes fill with tears, and I don’t even try to blink them back. I let them fall over my lashes and onto my cheeks. Paul brushes them away, but I really don’t want him to. I want to feel all of this because I have forced myself not to feel it for so very long. “This is when he was born.” I point to the squirmy little ball of red skin and dark hair. Paul looks from me to it. “He looks like you,” he says. I shake my head. “He looks more like his dad, I think.” These fucking tears keep falling. I’m not crying. It’s like someone opened an emotional dam in me and I can’t get it to close. I don’t want it to. “What happened to his dad?” Paul asks. “He died,” I say. I have to stop and clear my throat. “Drug overdose a few years after Jacob was born. I read about it in the paper.” “I’m so sorry.” I sniff. “I am, too.” I feel like I need to explain, and for the first time ever, I want to. “We were young, and we played around with marijuana and stuff. But I cut it all out when I found out I was pregnant with Jacob. He didn’t. He wasn’t able. It was really sad when I couldn’t be with him anymore. I didn’t have anyone else. But I didn’t really have him, either. The drugs had him, you know?” He nods. I hand him more pictures, and he flips through them. I have looked at them so much that they’re dog-eared in places. He holds one up from when Jacob was about three. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t look like you. Look at those eyes! He’s so handsome.” My eyes fill with tears again, but I smile through them. He is perfect. And I should be able to hear someone say so. “Look at that smirk!” Paul cries when he sees the most recent one. “That is so you!” I grin. I guess he’s right. “Where is your family, Friday?” he asks. “I don’t know,” I tell him. I lay my head on his shoulder and watch as he takes in the photos over and over, poring through the stack so he can point out ways that Jacob looks like me. “They kicked me out when I got pregnant. Terminated their rights.” Paul presses his lips to my forehead and doesn’t say anything. “I thought I knew everything back then.” I laugh and wipe my eyes with the hem of my dress. “Turns out I didn’t know shit.” “Do you ever think about looking for them?” I shake my head. “No. Never.” I point to special pictures of my son. “His mom—her name is Jill—she sometimes sends me special milestone pictures. This is his first tooth he got and the first tooth he lost. And this one is from his first step. That wasn’t even part of the agreement. She just does it because she wants me to know how he’s doing.” I try to grin through the tears. “He’s doing so great. He’s smart. And they can send him to college and to special schools. He takes piano, and he plays sports. And Jill says he likes to paint.” My voice cracks, and I don’t hate that it does. I just let it. “Of course, he does. You’re his mother.” “I just wanted to do what was best for him, you know?” This time, I use Paul’s sleeve to wipe my eyes. I blink hard trying to clear my vision. “That’s what parents do. We do what’s in the best interest of our children.” He kisses me softly. “Thank you for showing me these. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1227:Senator Warren questions SEC chair on broker reforms 525 words By Sarah N. Lynch WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Senator Elizabeth Warren said Friday that the Labor Department should press ahead with brokerage industry reforms, and not be deterred by the Securities and Exchange Commission's plans to adopt its own separate rules.    President Barack Obama, with frequent Wall Street critic Warren at his side, last month called on the Labor Department to quickly move forward to tighten brokerage standards on retirement advice, lending new momentum to a long-running effort to implement reforms aimed at reducing conflicts of interest and "hidden fees." But that effort could be complicated by a parallel track of reforms by the SEC, whose Chair Mary Jo White on Tuesday said she supported moving ahead with a similar effort to hold retail brokers to a higher "fiduciary" standard. "I want to see the Department of Labor go forward now," Warren told Reuters in an interview Friday. "There is no reason to wait for the SEC. There is no question that the Department of Labor has the authority to act to ensure that retirement advisers are serving the best interest of their clients." Warren said that while she has no concerns with the SEC moving forward to write its own rules, she fears its involvement may give Wall Street a hook to try to delay or water down a separate ongoing Labor Department effort to craft tough new rules governing how brokers dole out retirement advice. She also raised questions about White's decision to unveil her position at a conference hosted by the Securities Industry and Financial Markets Association (SIFMA), a trade group representing the interests of securities brokerage firms. Not only is the SEC the lead regulator for brokers, but unlike the Labor Department, it is also bound by law to preserve brokers' commission-based compensation in any new fiduciary rule.     "I was surprised that (Chair) White announced the rule at a conference hosted by an industry trade group that spent several years and millions of dollars lobbying members of Congress to block real action to fix the problem," Warren said. Warren, a Massachusetts Democrat who frequently challenges market regulators as too cozy with industry, stopped short of directly criticizing White. The SEC and SIFMA both declined to comment on Warren's comments. SIFMA has strongly opposed the Labor Department's efforts, fearing its rule will contain draconian measures that would cut broker profits, and in turn, force brokers to pull back from offering accounts and advice to American retirees. It has long advocated for the SEC to take the lead on a rule that would create a new uniform standard of care for brokers and advisers. The SEC has said it has been coordinating with the Labor Department on the rule-writing effort, but on Tuesday White also acknowledged that the two can still act independently of one another because they operate under different laws. The industry and reform advocates have been waiting now for years to see whether the SEC would move to tighten standards.     Warren expressed some skepticism on Friday about whether the SEC will ever in fact actually adopt a rule, saying that for years the agency has talked about taking action, but has not delivered. (Reporting by Sarah N. Lynch; Editing by Christian Plumb) ~ Anonymous,
1228:George, please sit down,” Luke said. “Visit a while.” “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” George pulled a chair over from an empty table and sat right beside Maureen so that she was sandwiched between himself and Art. “What brings you back to town so soon?” he asked her. “I’m, ah, visiting.” “Fantastic,” he said. “A long visit, I hope.” Luke took his seat, chuckling as he did so. “I have a brother here right now—Sean. You might remember him as my best man. He just discovered he has a young daughter in the area. Mom is visiting us and getting to know her first granddaughter, Rosie, three and a half and smart as a whip.” “How wonderful!” George said enthusiastically. “You must be having the time of your life!” Maureen lifted a thin brow, wary of his reaction. “I am enjoying her, yes.” “First one? I suppose before too much longer the other boys will be adding to the flock.” “Only the married ones, I hope,” Maureen said. “Do you have grandchildren, Mr. Davenport?” “Oh, let’s not be so formal—I’m George. Only step-grandchildren. I had no children of my own, in fact. Noah’s the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had, but I started out as his teacher. I’m a professor at Seattle Pacific University. I’ve known him quite a few years now. I’m here to be his best man on Friday night. I hope you’re all coming to the wedding.” “Wouldn’t miss it,” Luke said, grabbing Shelby’s hand. “And…Maureen?” George asked pointedly. “I’m not sure,” she said evasively. “Well, try to come,” he said. “These Virgin River people know how to have a good time. In fact, I have an idea. Once I have my best-man duties out of the way, I suggest we go to dinner. I’ll take you someplace nice in one of the coast towns, though it’ll be hard to improve on Preacher’s cooking. But we deserve some time away from all these young people, don’t you think?” “Excuse me, George?” she asked. “I assume you were married?” “Twice, as a matter of fact. Divorced a long time ago and, more recently, widowed. My wife died a few years ago. Maybe we should pick an evening and exchange phone numbers,” he suggested. “That’s very nice of you, but no. I don’t go out with men.” “Really?” he asked, surprised by her immediate refusal. “And why is that?” “I’m a widow,” she said. “A single woman.” “What a coincidence. And I’m a single man. I’m all for free thinking, but I wouldn’t ask you to dinner were I married. Are you recently widowed?” Out of the corner of his eye, George saw Luke snicker and look away. “Yes,” Maureen said. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was under the impression it had been years. When did you lose your husband, Maureen?” She looked a bit shocked to be put on the spot like that. It was apparent she was trying to gather her wits. She put out her hand. “It was so nice to see you again, Mr….George. I’m glad you sat and visited awhile. Maybe I’ll see you at the wedding this weekend if I’m not needed for anything else. I should probably get on the road—I have to drive to Eureka.” She stood and George did, as well. “Eureka? You’re not staying here in Virgin River with your son?” “I’m staying with a friend just down the street from my granddaughter so I’m free to pick her up after preschool. We spend most afternoons together. Really, nice seeing you.” She turned to Luke. “I’m going to head back to Viv’s, Luke. Good night, Shelby. ’Night, Art. Thanks for dinner, it was great as usual.” “Wonderful seeing you, too,” George said. “Try to come to Noah’s wedding. I guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself.” Luke ~ Robyn Carr,
1229:The plane banked, and he pressed his face against the cold window. The ocean tilted up to meet him, its dark surface studded with points of light that looked like constellations, fallen stars. The tourist sitting next to him asked him what they were. Nathan explained that the bright lights marked the boundaries of the ocean cemeteries. The lights that were fainter were memory buoys. They were the equivalent of tombstones on land: they marked the actual graves. While he was talking he noticed scratch-marks on the water, hundreds of white gashes, and suddenly the captain's voice, crackling over the intercom, interrupted him. The ships they could see on the right side of the aircraft were returning from a rehearsal for the service of remembrance that was held on the ocean every year. Towards the end of the week, in case they hadn't realised, a unique festival was due to take place in Moon Beach. It was known as the Day of the Dead...

...When he was young, it had been one of the days he most looked forward to. Yvonne would come and stay, and she'd always bring a fish with her, a huge fish freshly caught on the ocean, and she'd gut it on the kitchen table. Fish should be eaten, she'd said, because fish were the guardians of the soul, and she was so powerful in her belief that nobody dared to disagree. He remembered how the fish lay gaping on its bed of newspaper, the flesh dark-red and subtly ribbed where it was split in half, and Yvonne with her sleeves rolled back and her wrists dipped in blood that smelt of tin.

It was a day that abounded in peculiar traditions. Pass any candy store in the city and there'd be marzipan skulls and sugar fish and little white chocolate bones for 5 cents each. Pass any bakery and you'd see cakes slathered in blue icing, cakes sprinkled with sea-salt.If you made a Day of the Dead cake at home you always hid a coin in it, and the person who found it was supposed to live forever. Once, when she was four, Georgia had swallowed the coin and almost choked. It was still one of her favourite stories about herself. In the afternoon, there'd be costume parties. You dressed up as Lazarus or Frankenstein, or you went as one of your dead relations. Or, if you couldn't think of anything else, you just wore something blue because that was the colour you went when you were buried at the bottom of the ocean. And everywhere there were bowls of candy and slices of special home-made Day of the Dead cake. Nobody's mother ever got it right. You always had to spit it out and shove it down the back of some chair.

Later, when it grew dark, a fleet of ships would set sail for the ocean cemeteries, and the remembrance service would be held. Lying awake in his room, he'd imagine the boats rocking the the priest's voice pushed and pulled by the wind. And then, later still, after the boats had gone, the dead would rise from the ocean bed and walk on the water. They gathered the flowers that had been left as offerings, they blew the floating candles out. Smoke that smelt of churches poured from the wicks, drifted over the slowly heaving ocean, hid their feet. It was a night of strange occurrences. It was the night that everyone was Jesus...

...Thousands drove in for the celebrations. All Friday night the streets would be packed with people dressed head to toe in blue. Sometimes they painted their hands and faces too. Sometimes they dyed their hair. That was what you did in Moon Beach. Turned blue once a year. And then, sooner or later, you turned blue forever. ~ Rupert Thomson,
1230:There was music from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before.

Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York--every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler's thumb.

At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby's enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-d'oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another.

By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names.

The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light.

Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the FOLLIES. The party has begun. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,
1231:Will you let me move into your fortress with you?” I blurt out. Her brow furrows, and she looks so damn cute that I want to kiss her, but I know I can’t. “What?” she breathes out. I get up and walk to her. “That fortress where you reside? Will you let me live there with you?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. “I don’t want to blow all your walls to bits,” I say. She has a piece of hair stuck to her lips, so I pull it away and tuck it behind her ear. “I just want to live inside them with you. Fuck,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I fucking love your walls. Every single brick. But let me move in. Let me be there with you. Then you can find out if you love me, and you can invite me to stay if you find out that you do. Just let me inside.” I take a deep breath and watch her. “Did you hit your fucking head on the way to work?” she asks. I laugh and rub my forehead. “No, but Logan just slapped some sense into me.” “Then what the fuck is wrong with you?” “I’m in fucking love with you, Friday!” I cry. “I fucking love you, you irritating, obnoxious, sexy-ass woman that I can’t get out of my fucking head.” I hit myself in the head with my fists like I’m knocking. “I’m in love with you.” I drop down onto my knees in front of her, and she steps back, so I inch forward until I can pull her belly to touch my forehead. “I’m in love with you.” I look up at her. “I’m on my knees, and I’m not going to try to get you to marry me or make you do anything you don’t want to do. Just let me in, and I’ll be happy with it.” “So, you don’t want to talk me into marrying you?” I shake my head, staring up at her like a puppy. “You’re not going to hold it over my head and refuse intimacy until I cave to what you want?” “No.” “You’re not going to keep asking me again and again?” “No.” “You’re going to stop being stupid?” I grin. “I don’t know about that one.” “You have testicles,” she says, and she shrugs. “I can’t have it all, can I?” She sinks down onto her knees in front of me. She bites her lower lip and stares at me. “Say it,” I coax. She goes back to glaring at me. “Say what?” “Whatever you’re thinking.” “I’m thinking that my knees are uncomfortable on this fucking floor, and I’m wondering how long you’re going to fucking make me stay down here.” I laugh. God, she’s so contrary! She takes my face in her hands. “Tonight, can I make you dinner?” she asks. My heart does that pitter-patter thing again. “Like a date?” She rocks her head back and forth like she’s weighing her words. “I guess you could call it a date.” “Then yes, I’d love that.” Then I remember. “But I have Hayley tonight.” She brightens. “Good.” She kisses me quickly and grins. “Because that’s about as close to a threesome as you’ll ever get with me.” She points to the floor. “Can I get up now?” she asks. “Get the fuck up,” I growl. I get to my feet, too. She falls against me and wraps her arms around my waist. “So does this mean that you don’t want to marry me?” she asks, her voice muffled against my chest. Her words touch the tattoo I just got, and it stings a little. But I don’t pull back. I don’t want her to see it yet. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t say the opposite.” I set her back a little and look down into her upturned face. “Are you telling me you do want to marry me?” She shakes her head and jabs a finger at me. “But I want to leave the door open.” Oh, holy hell. She’s opening a fucking door and I didn’t even have to threaten her or withhold anything or torment her in any way. I might pass out. “Okay,” I say. ~ Tammy Falkner,
1232:I was in the fifth grade the first time I thought about turning thirty. My best friend Darcy and I came across a perpetual calendar in the back of the phone book, where you could look up any date in the future, and by using this little grid, determine what the day of the week would be. So we located our birthdays in the following year, mine in May and hers in September. I got Wednesday, a school night. She got a Friday. A small victory, but typical. Darcy was always the lucky one. Her skin tanned more quickly, her hair feathered more easily, and she didn't need braces. Her moonwalk was superior, as were her cart-wheels and her front handsprings (I couldn't handspring at all). She had a better sticker collection. More Michael Jackson pins. Forenze sweaters in turquoise, red, and peach (my mother allowed me none- said they were too trendy and expensive). And a pair of fifty-dollar Guess jeans with zippers at the ankles (ditto). Darcy had double-pierced ears and a sibling- even if it was just a brother, it was better than being an only child as I was.

But at least I was a few months older and she would never quite catch up. That's when I decided to check out my thirtieth birthday- in a year so far away that it sounded like science fiction. It fell on a Sunday, which meant that my dashing husband and I would secure a responsible baby-sitter for our two (possibly three) children on that Saturday evening, dine at a fancy French restaurant with cloth napkins, and stay out past midnight, so technically we would be celebrating on my actual birthday. I would have just won a big case- somehow proven that an innocent man didn't do it. And my husband would toast me: "To Rachel, my beautiful wife, the mother of my chidren and the finest lawyer in Indy." I shared my fantasy with Darcy as we discovered that her thirtieth birthday fell on a Monday. Bummer for her. I watched her purse her lips as she processed this information.

"You know, Rachel, who cares what day of the week we turn thirty?" she said, shrugging a smooth, olive shoulder. "We'll be old by then. Birthdays don't matter when you get that old."

I thought of my parents, who were in their thirties, and their lackluster approach to their own birthdays. My dad had just given my mom a toaster for her birthday because ours broke the week before. The new one toasted four slices at a time instead of just two. It wasn't much of a gift. But my mom had seemed pleased enough with her new appliance; nowhere did I detect the disappointment that I felt when my Christmas stash didn't quite meet expectations. So Darcy was probably right. Fun stuff like birthdays wouldn't matter as much by the time we reached thirty.

The next time I really thought about being thirty was our senior year in high school, when Darcy and I started watching ths show Thirty Something together. It wasn't our favorite- we preferred cheerful sit-coms like Who's the Boss? and Growing Pains- but we watched it anyway. My big problem with Thirty Something was the whiny characters and their depressing issues that they seemed to bring upon themselves. I remember thinking that they should grow up, suck it up. Stop pondering the meaning of life and start making grocery lists. That was back when I thought my teenage years were dragging and my twenties would surealy last forever.

Then I reached my twenties. And the early twenties did seem to last forever. When I heard acquaintances a few years older lament the end of their youth, I felt smug, not yet in the danger zone myself. I had plenty of time.. ~ Emily Giffin,
1233:From La Pucelle: The Epic Of Joan Of Arc
––Listen my Prince. This is important. I could feel
the dew setting on the leaves and petals of lilies and camellias.
I was aware of the soil’s moisture being
absorbed by the roots of hollies and cedars. I could smell
the aroma of blooming jasmine and carnations. I could
taste the sweetness of wild berries and apples that hadn’t
ripened yet. My finger could already stroke the creeping
ivy that had not yet covered the oaks. And the immense moon
the heart of the vast mother nature, vitality
desire filling the universe from it…by God I was
so terrified to be there, alone, a lost little girl
in the presence of such greatness, and the white circle
was getting larger, expanding, devouring me
I was drowning in the heavenly brightness. What was
happening to me? The moon was now the shape
of an infinitely huge person’s face. No, don’t look at me
like that! By God I’m not lying. I saw this
huge face before me, a ghost, or a fairy, or a monster
whose eyes were a hundred stars, whose smile
the entire horizon, and I was on my knees by now
shivering, about to faint. I was screaming. Brightness
above the thing’s head, I couldn’t tell horns or
***
halo, glistening. Had a gigantic sword. And I
closed my eyes. I can’t believe how horrified I was. I thought
23
this thing, a demon, would kill me with its sword
but when I closed my eyes I saw, my Prince, I tell you
the truth: I saw houses burning, cities burning, countries
burning I saw hundreds of hundreds of soldiers of an unholy
empire destroying me, destroying the village, and
the whole world. I can’t remember if I saw anything more
that night before I collapsed after the first visitation
by Catherine of Alexandria herself, Matron Saint of Maidens.
II
––Well, no, I’m not mad. That’s what Mama thought
after one of my brothers found me passed out. She
became so angry. And vicious. When she found out
I hadn’t been to the stupid ceremony at the Hermitage
she lost her mind. She first broke a wooden ladle
on my back, then started whacking me with a broom
screaming: Jeannette, useless girl. Sick girl.
Shameful girl. After all I’ve done for you. Of course
I didn’t tell her what exactly I’d seen in the woods.
She would’ve said I was possessed by the Devil. I cried
for so many days, weeks, because now beautiful
Marguerite, all my friends, had been confirmed
as young women, started going to the village dances
without their parents, and they never took me. I don’t
know why I was all of a sudden so hated by everyone
and I kept getting so, so many pimples . . . no, I won’t
***
bore you with that my Prince. But you need to know
that I started going to the church frequently, and
24
started praying to the statue of Saint Catherine. I took
flowers, bread and wool to the alter, fasted every Friday
and said Pater Noster, Ave Maria and Credo in Mass
every Sunday. I confessed to our priest every week, then
every day. I spoke to Saint Catherine when there was
no one in the church. I knelt on the altar floor in the weak,
shimmering light of the votive candles and begged Her
to guide me. I wanted Mama to love me again. I wanted
Marguerite to stop flirting with idiot boys and ask me
over to her house to spin wool. And the serene statue
of Saint Catherine remained silent and looked on
as I cried. I tried to imagine what it’d be like if Her spirit
could hear me. I didn’t know I had just been visited by
the noble Saint. I was so sad, my Prince, so lonely
~ Ali Alizadeh,
1234:Chelsea was something else. Like an unstoppable force of nature. Similar to a hurricane or a tornado. Or a pit bull.
Violet admired that about her.
And, in this instance, Chelsea had proven to be nothing less than formidable.
So when Jay had mentioned earlier in the week that they might be able to go to the movies over the weekend, Chelsea held him to it. A time and a place were chosen. And word spread.
And, somehow, Chelsea managed to unravel it all.
She still wanted the Saturday night plans; she just didn’t want the crowd that came with them. She’d decided it should be more of a “double date.” With Mike.
Except Mike would never see it coming.
By the time the bell rang at the end of lunch on Friday, everyone had agreed to meet up for the seven o’clock showing the next night. But when they split up to go to their classes, Chelsea set her own plan into motion. She began to separate the others from the pack and, one by one, they all fell.
She started with Andrew Lauthner. Poor Andrew didn’t know what hit him.
“Hey, Andy, did you hear?”
From the look on his face, he didn’t hear anything other than that Chelsea-his Chelsea-was talking to him. Out of the blue. Violet needed to get to class, but she was dying to see what Chelsea had up her sleeve, so she stuck it out instead.
“What?” His huge frozen grin looked like it had been plastered there and dried overnight.
Chelsea’s expression was apologetic, something that may have actually been difficult for her to pull off. “The movie’s been canceled. Plans are off.” She stuck out her lower lip in a disappointed pout.
“But I thought…” He seemed confused.
So was Violet.
“…didn’t we just make the plans at lunch?” he asked.
“I know.” Chelsea managed to sound as surprised as he did. “But you know how Jay is, always talking out of his ass. He forgot to mention that he has to work tomorrow night and can’t make it.” She looked at Violet and said, again apologetically, “Sorry you had to hear that, Vi.”
Violet just stood there gaping and thinking that she should deny what Chelsea was saying, but she wasn’t even sure where to start. She knew Jules would have done it. Where was Jules when she needed her?
“What about everyone else?” Andrew asked, still clinging to hope.
Chelsea shrugged and placed a sympathetic hand on Andrew’s arm. “Nope. No one else can make it either. Mike’s got family plans. Jules has a date. Claire has to study. And Violet here is grounded.” She draped an arm around Violet’s shoulder. “Right, Vi?”
Violet was saved from having to answer, since Andrew didn’t seem to need one. Apparently, if Chelsea said it, it was the gospel truth. But the pathetic look on his face made Violet want to hug him right then and there.
"Oh," he finally said. And then, "Well, maybe next time."
"Yeah. Sure. Of course," Chelsea called over her shoulder, already dragging Violet away from the painful scene.
"Geez, Chels, break his heart, why don't you? Why didn't you just say you have some rare disease or something?" Violet made a face at her friend. "Not cool."
Chelsea scoffed. "He'll be fine. Besides, if I said 'disease,' he would have made me some chicken soup and offered to give me a sponge bath or something." She wrinkled her nose. "Eww."
The rest of the afternoon went pretty much the same way, with a few escalations: Family obligations. Big tests to study for. House arrests. Chelsea made excuses to nearly everyone who'd planned on going, including Clair. She was relentless.
By Saturday night, it was just the four of them...Violet, Jay, Chelsea, and, of course, Mike. It was everything Chelsea had dreamed of, everything she'd worked for. ~ Kimberly Derting,
1235:break?" She stared back at him, but speaking was beyond her. She was so taken aback by the concern and care he couldn't hide. This was just one more aspect of his personality that she was seeing, whether he wanted her to see it or not. She sucked in a ragged breath. She had one thought and one thought only. She was falling in love with the Neanderthal. **** During the evening and night, Logan fed her soup and made her drink Gatorade and lots of water. Lauren knew he'd called someone, she suspected it was his mother, because she'd heard him talking on the phone. After that, he timed her medicine and alternated between giving her ibuprofen and acetaminophen. He took care of her, and she left any worries she might have had to him. Since the following day was Friday, she already knew she wasn't going in to work, and so did her immediate boss. It had been more than obvious when Lauren had left with chills and a fever and he had called out, "See you Monday." She knew he didn't want her spreading what she had all over the office. So Lauren alternated between sleeping through the evening and night, and being taken care of by Logan. All she had to do on her own was pick her way to the bathroom, and a couple of times, she hadn't even had to do that. He'd lifted her up when she'd swayed a little too much for his liking, and deposited her in the bathroom and closed the door. He'd been there waiting for her, ready to carry her back after she opened the door. They watched some television together, and at about midnight, he carried her through to the bedroom and held her as she slept. Lauren couldn't ever remember having had so much fun being sick. She reveled in his care; she luxuriated in the undivided attention he was showing her. Nothing anyone had ever done for her had ever felt so . . . compelling. The next morning when she realized that he wasn't going to go to work, she rebelled against that. "I'm okay. I'm going to live. Please go to work." He frowned in obvious agitation. "Your fever might flare up again." "I just took the ibuprofen. I'll take some more meds in a couple of hours, okay?" He watched her as if debating the idea. "I think you still need me." God, yes, she needed him. "I'll be fine." She watched him warily, a thousand emotions bouncing around in her head. "You can come back after work if you want." He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "That's a given, baby." **** Lauren went back to work on Monday but was slow to fully get her strength back. Two weeks later, however, she was full steam ahead. She'd laid low at work, put a lot of stuff on the back burner as she recovered from what she guessed was a mild case of the flu. Then one day, feeling much better, she took a look at her upcoming calendar and almost flipped out. She had a full schedule packed into the next ten days or so, starting with an out of town trip. Logan took her out to dinner that evening, and after they'd eaten and she'd delayed as long as she could, she lowered the boom on him. After she told him about the trip, he turned in his seat to stare down at her. He said nothing for a moment, as if not trusting himself to speak. The waiter walked by, and Logan motioned for the check with a jerk of his hand. Every motion of his body indicated his heightened stress level. "Logan, you're overreacting," Lauren chided softly. "Am I?" he asked, staring across the restaurant, out the windows, looking everywhere else but not at her while he drummed his fingers on the table. "Yes. It's no big deal, really, I'll be home before you know it," she tried to soothe. "I don't think you understand," he said flatly as he turned to look at her. Oh, Lauren was pretty sure she did understand and told him so in no uncertain terms. "I ~ Lynda Chance,
1236:Bruadar And Smith And Glinn
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,
Amen, dear God, I pray,
May they lie low in waves of woe,
And tortures slow each day!
Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
Helpless and cold, I pray,
Amen! I pray, O king,
To see them pine away.
Amen!
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
May flails of sorrow flay!
Cause for lamenting, snares and cares
Be theirs by night and day!
Amen!
Blindness come down on Smith,
Palsy on Bruadar come,
Amen, O King of Brightness! Smite
Glinn in his members numb,
Amen!
Smith in the pangs of pain,
Stumbling on Bruadar’s path,
King of the Elements, Oh, Amen!
Let loose on Glinn Thy Wrath.
Amen!
For Bruadar gape the grave,
Up-shovel for Smith the mould,
Amen, O King of the Sunday! Leave
Glinn in the devil’s hold.
Amen!
Terrors on Bruadar rain,
And pain upon pain on Glinn,
Amen, O King of the Stars! And Smith
May the devil be linking him.
Amen!
Glinn in a shaking ague,
Cancer on Bruadar’s tongue,
Amen, O King of the Heavens! and Smith
Forever stricken dumb.
Amen!
Thirst but no drink for Glinn,
Smith in a cloud of grief,
Amen! O King of the Saints; and rout
Bruadar without relief.
Amen!
Smith without child or heir,
And Bruadar bare of store,
Amen, O King of the Friday! Tear
For Glinn his black heart’s core.
Amen!
Bruadar with nerveless limbs,
Hemp strangling Glinn’s last breath,
Amen, O King of the World’s Light!
And Smith in grips with death.
Amen!
Glinn stiffening for the tomb,
Smith wasting to decay,
Amen, O King of the Thunder’s gloom,
And Bruadar sick alway.
Amen!
Smith like a sieve of holes,
Bruadar with throat decay,
Amen, O king of the Orders! Glinn
A buck-show every day.
Amen!
Hell-hounds to hunt for Smith,
Glinn led to hang on high,
Amen, O King of the Judgment Day!
And Bruadar rotting by.
Amen!
Curses on Glinn, I cry,
My curse on Bruadar be,
Amen, O king of the Heavens high!
Let Smith in bondage be.
Amen!
Showers of want and blame,
Reproach, and shame of face,
Smite them all three, and smite again,
Amen, O King of Grace!
Amen!
Melt, may the three, away,
Bruadar and Smith and Glinn,
Fall in a swift and sure decay
And lose, but never win.
Amen!
May pangs pass through thee, Smith,
(Let the wind not take my prayer),
May I see before the year is out
Thy heart’s blood flowing there.
Amen!
Leave Smith no place nor land,
Let Bruadar wander wide,
May the Devil stand at Glinn’s right hand,
And Glinn to him be tied.
Amen!
All ill from every airt
Come down upon the three,
And blast them ere the year be out
In rout and misery.
Amen!
Glinn let misfortune bruise,
Bruadar lose blood and brains,
Amen, O Jesus! hear my voice,
Let Smith be bent in chains.
Amen!
I accuse both Glinn and Bruadar,
And Smith I accuse to God,
May a breach and a gap be upon the three,
And the Lord’s avenging rod.
Amen!
Each one of the wicked three
Who raised against me their hand,
May fire from heaven come down and slay
This day their perjured band,
Amen!
May none of their race survive,
May God destroy them all,
Each curse of the psalms in the holy books
Of the prophets upon them fall.
Amen!
Blight skull, and ear, and skin,
And hearing, and voice, and sight,
Amen! before the year be out,
Blight, Son of the Virgin, blight.
Amen!
May my curses hot and red
And all I have said this day,
Strike the Black Peeler, too,
Amen, dear God, I pray!
Amen!
~ Douglas Hyde,
1237:My Dear Mrs Winter. (I had half a mind when I dipped my pen in the ink, to address you by your old natural Christian name.)
The snow lies so deep on the Northern Railway, and the Posts have been so interrupted in consequence, that your charming note arrived here only this morning...
I get the heartache again when I read your commission, written in the hand which I find now to be not in the least changed, and yet it is a great pleasure to be entrusted with it, and to have that share in your gentler remembrances which I cannot find it still my privilege to have, without a stirring of the old fancies. ... I am very very sorry you mistrusted me in not writing before your little girl was born; but I hope now you know me better you will teach her, one day, to tell her children, in times to come when they have some interest in wondering about it, that I loved her mother with the most extraordinary earnestness when I was a boy.
I have always believed since, and always shall to the last, that there never was such a faithful and devoted poor fellow as I was. Whatever of fancy, romance, energy, passion, aspiration and determination belong to me, I never have separated and never shall separate from the hard hearted little woman - you - whom it is nothing to say I would have died for, with the greatest alacrity! I never can think, and I never seem to observe, that other young people are in such desperate earnest, or set so much, so long, upon one absorbing hope. It is a matter of perfect certainty to me that I began to fight my way out of poverty and obscurity, with one perpetual idea of you. This is so fixed in my knowledge that to the hour when I opened your letter last Friday night, I have never heard anybody addressed by your name or spoken of by your name, without a start. The sound of it has always filled me with a kind of pity and respect for the deep truth that I had, in my silly hobbledehoyhood, to bestow upon one creature who represented the whole world to me. I have never been so good a man since, as I was when you made me wretchedly happy. I shall never be half so good a fellow any more.
This is all so strange now, both to think of, and to say, after every change that has come about; but I think, when you ask me to write to you, you are not unprepared for what it is so natural to me to recall, and will not be displeased to read it. I fancy, - though you may not have thought in the old time how manfully I loved you - that you may have seen in one of my books a faithful reflection of the passion I had for you, and may have thought that it was something to have been loved so well, and may have seen in little bits of "Dora" touches of your old self sometimes, and a grace here and there that may be revived in your little girls, years hence, for the bewilderment of some other young lover - though he will never be as terribly in earnest as I and David Copperfield were. People used to say to me how pretty all that was, and how fanciful it was, and how elevated it was above the little foolish loves of very young men and women. But they little thought what reason I had to know it was true and nothing more nor less.
These are things that I have locked up in my own breast, and that I never thought to bring out any more. But when I find myself writing to you again "all to your self", how can I forbear to let as much light in upon them as will shew you that they are there still! If the most innocent, the most ardent, and the most disinterested days of my life had you for their Sun - as indeed they had - and if I know that the Dream I lived in did me good, refined my heart, and made me patient and persevering, and if the Dream were all of you - as God knows it was - how can I receive a confidence from you, and return it, and make a feint of blotting all this out! ... ~ Charles Dickens,
1238:I knew you forever and you were always old,
soft white lady of my heart. Surely you would scold
me for sitting up late, reading your letters,
as if these foreign postmarks were meant for me.
You posted them first in London, wearing furs
and a new dress in the winter of eighteen-ninety.
I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day,
where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes
of Whitechapel, clutching your pocketbook, on the way
to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones.
This Wednesday in Berlin, you say, you will
go to a bazaar at Bismarck's house. And I
see you as a young girl in a good world still,
writing three generations before mine. I try
to reach into your page and breathe it back…
but life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
This is the sack of time your death vacates.
How distant your are on your nickel-plated skates
in the skating park in Berlin, gliding past
me with your Count, while a military band
plays a Strauss waltz. I loved you last,
a pleated old lady with a crooked hand.
Once you read Lohengrin and every goose
hung high while you practiced castle life
in Hanover. Tonight your letters reduce
history to a guess. The count had a wife.
You were the old maid aunt who lived with us.
Tonight I read how the winter howled around
the towers of Schloss Schwobber, how the tedious
language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound
of the music of the rats tapping on the stone
floors. When you were mine you wore an earphone.
This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne,
Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago. I learn
your first climb up Mount San Salvatore;
this is the rocky path, the hole in your shoes,
the yankee girl, the iron interior
of her sweet body. You let the Count choose
your next climb. You went together, armed
with alpine stocks, with ham sandwiches
and seltzer wasser. You were not alarmed
by the thick woods of briars and bushes,
nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo
up over Lake Lucerne. The Count sweated
with his coat off as you waded through top snow.
He held your hand and kissed you. You rattled
down on the train to catch a steam boat for home;
or other postmarks: Paris, verona, Rome.
This is Italy. You learn its mother tongue.
I read how you walked on the Palatine among
the ruins of the palace of the Caesars;
alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July.
When you were mine they wrapped you out of here
with your best hat over your face. I cried
because I was seventeen. I am older now.
I read how your student ticket admitted you
into the private chapel of the Vatican and how
you cheered with the others, as we used to do
on the fourth of July. One Wednesday in November
you watched a balloon, painted like a silver abll,
float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors,
to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional
breeze. You worked your New England conscience out
beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout.
Tonight I will learn to love you twice;
learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face.
Tonight I will speak up and interrupt
your letters, warning you that wars are coming,
that the Count will die, that you will accept
your America back to live like a prim thing
on the farm in Maine. I tell you, you will come
here, to the suburbs of Boston, to see the blue-nose
world go drunk each night, to see the handsome
children jitterbug, to feel your left ear close
one Friday at Symphony. And I tell you,
you will tip your boot feet out of that hall,
rocking from its sour sound, out onto
the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall
and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by
to mumble your guilty love while your ears die. ~ Anne Sexton,
1239:We came to the city because we wished to live haphazardly, to reach for only the least realistic of our desires, and to see if we could not learn what our failures had to teach, and not, when we came to live, discover that we had never died. We wanted to dig deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to be overworked and reduced to our last wit. And if our bosses proved mean, why then we’d evoke their whole and genuine meanness afterward over vodka cranberries and small batch bourbons. And if our drinking companions proved to be sublime then we would stagger home at dawn over the Old City cobblestones, into hot showers and clean shirts, and press onward until dusk fell again. For the rest of the world, it seemed to us, had somewhat hastily concluded that it was the chief end of man to thank God it was Friday and pray that Netflix would never forsake them.

Still we lived frantically, like hummingbirds; though our HR departments told us that our commitments were valuable and our feedback was appreciated, our raises would be held back another year. Like gnats we pestered Management— who didn’t know how to use the Internet, whose only use for us was to set up Facebook accounts so they could spy on their children, or to sync their iPhones to their Outlooks, or to explain what tweets were and more importantly, why— which even we didn’t know. Retire! we wanted to shout. We ha Get out of the way with your big thumbs and your senior moments and your nostalgia for 1976! We hated them; we wanted them to love us. We wanted to be them; we wanted to never, ever become them.

Complexity, complexity, complexity! We said let our affairs be endless and convoluted; let our bank accounts be overdrawn and our benefits be reduced. Take our Social Security contributions and let it go bankrupt. We’d been bankrupt since we’d left home: we’d secure our own society. Retirement was an afterlife we didn’t believe in and that we expected yesterday. Instead of three meals a day, we’d drink coffee for breakfast and scavenge from empty conference rooms for lunch. We had plans for dinner. We’d go out and buy gummy pad thai and throat-scorching chicken vindaloo and bento boxes in chintzy, dark restaurants that were always about to go out of business. Those who were a little flush would cover those who were a little short, and we would promise them coffees in repayment. We still owed someone for a movie ticket last summer; they hadn’t forgotten. Complexity, complexity.

In holiday seasons we gave each other spider plants in badly decoupaged pots and scarves we’d just learned how to knit and cuff links purchased with employee discounts. We followed the instructions on food and wine Web sites, but our soufflés sank and our baked bries burned and our basil ice creams froze solid. We called our mothers to get recipes for old favorites, but they never came out the same. We missed our families; we were sad to be rid of them.

Why shouldn’t we live with such hurry and waste of life? We were determined to be starved before we were hungry. We were determined to be starved before we were hungry. We were determined to decrypt our neighbors’ Wi-Fi passwords and to never turn on the air-conditioning. We vowed to fall in love: headboard-clutching, desperate-texting, hearts-in-esophagi love. On the subways and at the park and on our fire escapes and in the break rooms, we turned pages, resolved to get to the ends of whatever we were reading. A couple of minutes were the day’s most valuable commodity. If only we could make more time, more money, more patience; have better sex, better coffee, boots that didn’t leak, umbrellas that didn’t involute at the slightest gust of wind. We were determined to make stupid bets. We were determined to be promoted or else to set the building on fire on our way out. We were determined to be out of our minds. ~ Kristopher Jansma,
1240:Reader's Digest (Reader's Digest USA) - Clip This Article on Location 56 | Added on Friday, May 16, 2014 12:06:55 AM Words of Lasting Interest Looking Out for The Lonely One teacher’s strategy to stop violence at its root BY GLENNON DOYLE MELTON  FROM MOMASTERY.COM PHOTOGRAPH BY DAN WINTERS A few weeks ago, I went into my son Chase’s class for tutoring. I’d e-mailed Chase’s teacher one evening and said, “Chase keeps telling me that this stuff you’re sending home is math—but I’m not sure I believe him. Help, please.” She e-mailed right back and said, “No problem! I can tutor Chase after school anytime.” And I said, “No, not him. Me. He gets it. Help me.” And that’s how I ended up standing at a chalkboard in an empty fifth-grade classroom while Chase’s teacher sat behind me, using a soothing voice to try to help me understand the “new way we teach long division.” Luckily for me, I didn’t have to unlearn much because I’d never really understood the “old way we taught long division.” It took me a solid hour to complete one problem, but I could tell that Chase’s teacher liked me anyway. She used to work with NASA, so obviously we have a whole lot in common. Afterward, we sat for a few minutes and talked about teaching children and what a sacred trust and responsibility it is. We agreed that subjects like math and reading are not the most important things that are learned in a classroom. We talked about shaping little hearts to become contributors to a larger community—and we discussed our mutual dream that those communities might be made up of individuals who are kind and brave above all. And then she told me this. Every Friday afternoon, she asks her students to take out a piece of paper and write down the names of four children with whom they’d like to sit the following week. The children know that these requests may or may not be honored. She also asks the students to nominate one student who they believe has been an exceptional classroom citizen that week. All ballots are privately submitted to her. And every single Friday afternoon, after the students go home, she takes out those slips of paper, places them in front of her, and studies them. She looks for patterns. Who is not getting requested by anyone else? Who can’t think of anyone to request? Who never gets noticed enough to be nominated? Who had a million friends last week and none this week? You see, Chase’s teacher is not looking for a new seating chart or “exceptional citizens.” Chase’s teacher is looking for lonely children. She’s looking for children who are struggling to connect with other children. She’s identifying the little ones who are falling through the cracks of the class’s social life. She is discovering whose gifts are going unnoticed by their peers. And she’s pinning down—right away—who’s being bullied and who is doing the bullying. As a teacher, parent, and lover of all children, I think this is the most brilliant Love Ninja strategy I have ever encountered. It’s like taking an X-ray of a classroom to see beneath the surface of things and into the hearts of students. It is like mining for gold—the gold being those children who need a little help, who need adults to step in and teach them how to make friends, how to ask others to play, how to join a group, or how to share their gifts. And it’s a bully deterrent because every teacher knows that bullying usually happens outside her eyeshot and that often kids being bullied are too intimidated to share. But, as she said, the truth comes out on those safe, private, little sheets of paper. As Chase’s teacher explained this simple, ingenious idea, I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. “How long have you been using this system?” I said. Ever since Columbine, she said. Every single Friday afternoon since Columbine. Good Lord. This brilliant woman watched Columbine knowing that all violence begins with disconnection. All ~ Anonymous,
1241:Mary Smith
Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;
And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl,
And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;
Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place,
Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face,
And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow
I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.
I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird.
A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard.
She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass,
And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place;
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance,
For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance;
And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know
I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.
On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call,
And though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all.
With Mary's mother sitting here and Mary's father there,
The conversation never flagged so far as I'm aware;
Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we'd play at games,
Sometimes dissect the apples which we'd named each other's names.
Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go-'Twas ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's beau.
Now there was Luther Baker--because he'd come of age
And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage-He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend-Elsewise I'm sure the issue had had a tragic end.
For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide,
And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died.
I merely cite this instance incidentally to show
That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary's beau.
How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again:
The little township that was all the world I knew of then-The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond,
222
Old deacon Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond,
The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest
Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole's nest.
And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago,
The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's beau.
Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart-'T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part;
To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet
It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget.
And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy
That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy?
I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack,'t would show
That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau.
And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place,
God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face-God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day,
With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray;
But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee
As we were in the olden times--as you shall always be.
Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know
When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau.
Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes
Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies;
For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see
God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me;
And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days,
When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways-Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago,
Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau.
~ Eugene Field,
1242:The town knew about darkness.
It knew about the darkness that comes on the land when rotation hides the land from the sun, and about the darkness of the human soul. The town is an accumulation of three parts which, in sum, are greater than the sections. The town is the people who live there, the buildings which they have erected to den or do business in, and it is the land. The people are Scotch-English and French. There are others, of course - a smattering, like a fistful of pepper thrown in a pot of salt, but not many. This melting point never melted very much. The buildings are nearly all constructed of honest wood. Many of the older houses are saltboxes and most of the stores are false-fronted, although no one could have said why. The people know there is nothing behind those false facades just as most of them know that Loretta Starcher wears falsies. The land is granite-bodied and covered with a thin, easily ruptured skin of topsoil. Farming it is a thankless, sweaty, miserable, crazy business. The harrow turns up great chunks of the granite underlayer and breaks on them. In May you take out your truck as soon as the ground is dry enough to support it, and you and your boys fill it up with rocks perhaps a dozen times before harrowing and dump them in the great weed-choked pile where you have dumped them since 1955, when you first took this tiger by the balls. And when you have picked them until the dirt won't come out from under your nails when you wash and your fingers feel huge and numb and oddly large-pored, you hitch your harow to your tractor and before you've broken two rows you bust one of the blades on a rock you missed. And putting on a new blade, getting your oldest boy to hold up the hitch so you can get at it, the first mosquito of the new season buzzes bloodthirstily past your ear with that eye-watering hum that always makes you think it's the sound loonies must hear before they kill all their kids or close their eyes on the interstate and put the gas pedal to the floor or tighten their toe on the trigger of the .30-.30 they just jammed into their quackers; and then your boy’s sweat-slicked fingers slip and one of the other round harrow blades scrapes skin from your arm an d looking around in that kind of despairing, heartless flicker of time, when it seems you could just give it all over and take up drinking or go down to the bank that holds your mortgage and declare bankruptcy, at that moment of hating the land the soft suck of gravity that holds you to it, you also love it and understand how it knows darkness and has always known it. The land has got you, locked up solid got you, and the house, and the woman you fell in love with when you started high school (only she was a girl then, and you didn't know for shit about girls except you got one and hung on to her and she wrote your name all over her book covers and first you broke her in and then she broke you in and then neither one of you had to worry about that anymore), and the kids have got you, the kids that were started in the creaky double bed with the splintered headboard. You and she made the kids after the darkness fell - six kids, or seven, or ten. The bank has you, and the car dealership, and the Sears store in Lewiston, and John Deere in Brunswick. But most of all the town has you because you know it the way you know the shape of your wife's breast. You know who will be hanging around Crossen’s store in the daytime because Knapp Shoe laid him off and you know who is having woman trouble even before he knows it, the way Reggie Sawyer is having it, with that phone-company kid dipping his wick in Bonnie Sawyer’s barrel; you know where the roads go and where, on Friday afternoon, you and Hank and Nolly Gardener can go and park and drink a couple of sixpacks or a couple of cases. You know how the ground lies and you know how to get through the Marshes in April without getting the tops of your boots wet. You know it all. ~ Stephen King,
1243:Every single person on this planet has a relationship with God. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1267-1267 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 7:09:31 AM what happens when a man with an unclean spirit meets the One anointed with God’s Spirit. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1268-1268 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 7:09:56 AM Mark shows that Jesus teaches with unique authority, unlike and indeed surpassing that of the scribes ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1269-1269 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 7:10:08 AM The second part is an account of an exorcism (vv. 23-26). ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1270-1271 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 7:11:18 AM The combined stories demonstrate that Jesus’ word is deed. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1293-1294 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 7:16:33 AM Jewish synagogues, according to rabbinic nomenclature, were “assembly halls” or auditoriums where the Torah was read and expounded. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1329-1330 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:00:12 AM Every instance of exousia therefore reflects either directly or indirectly the authority of Jesus. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1331-1332 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:00:39 AM his authority over the highest authorities in both the temporal realm, as represented by the scribes, and the supernatural authorities, as represented by the demon in l:23ff. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1332-1334 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:01:04 AM The scribes derive their authority from the “tradition of the elders” (7:8-13) — the fathers of Judaism, we might say; whereas Jesus receives his authority directly from the Father in heaven (1:11). ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1334-1335 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:01:12 AM contingent on the authority of the Torah and hence a mediated authority; ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1335-1335 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:01:20 AM Jesus appeals to an immediate and superior authority resident in himself that he received at his baptism. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1337-1338 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:01:49 AM Jesus’ teaching is qualitatively different, “not as the teachers of the law.” ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1346-1346 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:03:40 AM does not recount the content of the teaching. The accent falls rather on Jesus the teacher. ========== The Gospel according to Mark (Pillar New Testament Commentary) (Edwards Jr., James R.) - Your Highlight on Location 1349-1350 | Added on Friday, February 13, 2015 10:04:30 AM In the Gospel of Mark the person of Jesus is more important than the subject of his teaching. If we want to know what the gospel or teaching of Jesus consists of, we are directed to its embodiment in Jesus the teacher. ========== The Gospel ~ Anonymous,
1244:Some Foreign Letters
I knew you forever and you were always old,
soft white lady of my heart. Surely you would scold
me for sitting up late, reading your letters,
as if these foreign postmarks were meant for me.
You posted them first in London, wearing furs
and a new dress in the winter of eighteen-ninety.
I read how London is dull on Lord Mayor's Day,
where you guided past groups of robbers, the sad holes
of Whitechapel, clutching your pocketbook, on the way
to Jack the Ripper dissecting his famous bones.
This Wednesday in Berlin, you say, you will
go to a bazaar at Bismarck's house. And I
see you as a young girl in a good world still,
writing three generations before mine. I try
to reach into your page and breathe it back…
but life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
This is the sack of time your death vacates.
How distant your are on your nickel-plated skates
in the skating park in Berlin, gliding past
me with your Count, while a military band
plays a Strauss waltz. I loved you last,
a pleated old lady with a crooked hand.
Once you read Lohengrin and every goose
hung high while you practiced castle life
in Hanover. Tonight your letters reduce
history to a guess. The count had a wife.
You were the old maid aunt who lived with us.
Tonight I read how the winter howled around
the towers of Schloss Schwobber, how the tedious
language grew in your jaw, how you loved the sound
of the music of the rats tapping on the stone
floors. When you were mine you wore an earphone.
This is Wednesday, May 9th, near Lucerne,
Switzerland, sixty-nine years ago. I learn
your first climb up Mount San Salvatore;
this is the rocky path, the hole in your shoes,
the yankee girl, the iron interior
of her sweet body. You let the Count choose
your next climb. You went together, armed
177
with alpine stocks, with ham sandwiches
and seltzer wasser. You were not alarmed
by the thick woods of briars and bushes,
nor the rugged cliff, nor the first vertigo
up over Lake Lucerne. The Count sweated
with his coat off as you waded through top snow.
He held your hand and kissed you. You rattled
down on the train to catch a steam boat for home;
or other postmarks: Paris, verona, Rome.
This is Italy. You learn its mother tongue.
I read how you walked on the Palatine among
the ruins of the palace of the Caesars;
alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July.
When you were mine they wrapped you out of here
with your best hat over your face. I cried
because I was seventeen. I am older now.
I read how your student ticket admitted you
into the private chapel of the Vatican and how
you cheered with the others, as we used to do
on the fourth of July. One Wednesday in November
you watched a balloon, painted like a silver abll,
float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors,
to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional
breeze. You worked your New England conscience out
beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout.
Tonight I will learn to love you twice;
learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face.
Tonight I will speak up and interrupt
your letters, warning you that wars are coming,
that the Count will die, that you will accept
your America back to live like a prim thing
on the farm in Maine. I tell you, you will come
here, to the suburbs of Boston, to see the blue-nose
world go drunk each night, to see the handsome
children jitterbug, to feel your left ear close
one Friday at Symphony. And I tell you,
you will tip your boot feet out of that hall,
rocking from its sour sound, out onto
the crowded street, letting your spectacles fall
and your hair net tangle as you stop passers-by
to mumble your guilty love while your ears die.
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~ Anne Sexton,
1245:Gone Shooting Ken And I Home Later Warren
(i)
Mr Warren Dionysius your appointment at the x-ray department is on Friday
27/8/76 at 12.00pm
sorry you're sick it must be a strange new feeling for you lying there in bed — by
yourself! with lots of love & best wishes for a speedy recovery from rosemary
and gordon get well soon
(ii)
BARIUM SWALLOW AND MEAL have nothing to eat or drink after the previous
evening meal if the examination is to be carried out in the afternoon, nothing to
eat or drink for six (6) hours prior to the examination.
get well soon “the eternal god is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting
arms” deuteronomy 33:27 a prayer for your recovery god bless you with his
gracious love, his heavenly gifts increase; and in his tender loving care, may you
find strength and peace; may god's dear prescence guide you, keep you ever
strong, and grant the gifts that comfort & bless to cheer you all life long to dear
warren big god bless lots of love mum and dad xxxxxx
(iii)
GALL BLADDER dose of agarol (1 tablespoon), or 2 “durolax” tablets, two nights
before the day of the examination all tablets to be taken according to direction at
6 p.m. the evening before the examination no food to be taken after the tablets,
but water can be drunk freely examination will be carried out at 8 a.m. all tablets
to be taken after the 6 p.m. meal on_______________________
a get well push to help you get your health in tow…'till your motor's revved up
and your gear's in go! dear warren, hurry up and get well love from joy and
wayne xxxx
(iv)
INTRAVENOUS PYELOGRAM *non-residue diet as far as possible two days before
the examination two tablets of “durolax” to be taken with the evening meal on
the day before the examination this should produce two or more bowel actions
the following morning a suppository should be inserted into the rectum one to
two hours before the examination this should produce one or two bowel actions
dear warren just wondering how you're doing and hope you can say that you are
26
really feeling more like yourself today and then, before you know it, may you be
pleased to find you're happily enjoying health of the very best kind many many
good wishes! our thoughts are with you every day and hoping you are feeling a
little better each day mildred and vic
no fluid is to be taken for eight (8) hours beforehand a light dry meal may be
taken four (4) hours beforehand, if desired only the bladder is to be emptied
immediately prior to the examination walk around as much as possible
beforehand
especially for you light thoughts bright thoughts gladden your day thoughts —
sun thoughts, fun thoughts, coming your way thoughts! Hope you're feeling
better from jack and mavis
(v)
INTRAVENOUS CHOLANGIOGRAM *non-residue diet as far as possible two days
before the examination two tablets of “durolax” to be taken with the evening
meal on the day before the examination this should produce two or more bowel
actions the following morning a suppository should be inserted into the rectum
one or two hours before the examination this should produce one or two bowel
actions fast on the day of the examination walk around as much as possible for 2
hours before the examination
hope you're feeling better certainly hope you're feeling just a whole lot better
today, and hope you know you're thought of in the very warmest way to dear
warren, thinking of you all the time and hoping you will soon be home all my
love, fay, jack, and family xxxxx
(vi)
“NON-RESIDUE DIET” should exclude all rough and stringy vegetables and fruit
and breakfast preparations containing bran etc. fruit juices, milk meat and bread
may be taken
get well real soon thinking of you a lot these days and sincerely hoping too that
things are going smoothly and will keep improving for you pat budd
IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO KEEP THIS APPOINTMENT, PLEASE NOTIFY THE X-RAY
DEPARTMENT, ROYAL BRISBANE HOSPITAL, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TELPHONE
52011 APPOINTMENTS CLERK EXT 591
(vii)
27
Gone shooting Ken and I home later Warren.
~ B. R. Dionysius,
1246:The Secret Of Being A Cowboy
Did I ever tell you I used to be a cowboy?
It’s true.
Had a horse name of Drunk Bob
a six shooter
called Witty Rejoinder.
And I tell you what,
Me and Bob and Witty
we rode the fucking range.
This thing here is two poems and one’s about proper shit
mythic, I guess, just the way you like it and the other one
isn’t much to look at, mostly about what a horse smells like
when he’s been slurping up Jack and ice from the trough.
The first poem goes like this:
A few little-known facts about cowboys:
M
ost of us are girls.
O
bsolescence does not trouble us.
W
e have a dental plan.
What I can tell you is cows smell like office work and
the moon looks like Friday night and the paycheck just cashed
rolling down to earth like all the coins
I ever earned.
Drunk Bob he used to say to me:
son, carrying you’s no hurt-it’s your shadow weighs me down.
That, and your damned singing.
And Witty she’d chuckle
like the good old girl she was,
with a cheeky spin of her barrel
she’d whistle:
boy, just gimme a chance
12
I’ll knock your whole world down.
Me and Bob and Witty,
we rode town to town and sometimes we had cattle
and sometimes we didn’t and that’s just how it lies.
Full-time cowboy employment is a lot like being a poet.
It’s a lot of time spent on your lonesome in the dark
and most folks don’t rightly know
what it is you do
but they’re sure as shot they could manage it
just about as well as you.
Some number of sweethearts come standard with the gig,
though never too much dough.
They dig the clothes, but they can’t shoot for shit,
and they damn sure don’t want to hear your poems.
That’s all right.
I got a heart like a half bottle
of no-label whiskey.
Nothing to brag on,
but enough for you, and all your friends, too.
I quit the life
for the East Coast and a novel I never could finish.
A book’s like a cattle drive--you pound back and forth over the same
ugly patch of country until you can taste your life seeping out
like tin leeching into the beans
but it’s never really over.
Drunk Bob said:
kid, you were the worst ride I had
since Pluto said: Bob, we oughta get ourselves a girl.
And Witty whispers: six, baby, count them up and just like that
we’re in the other poem, which is how we roll
on the glory-humping, dust-gulping, ever-loving range.
Some days you can’t even get a man to spit in your beer
and some you crack open your silver gun
and there’s seeds there like blood already freezing
ready to stand tall at high midnight
ready to fire so fucking loyal, so sweet,
like every girl who ever said no
13
turning around at once and opening their arms.
And your honor’s out on the table, all cards hid.
And by your honor I mean my honor,
and by my honor I mean everything in me, always, forever,
everything in a body that knows
what to do with six ruby bullets
and a horse the color of two in the morning.
That knows when the West tastes like death and an old paperback
you saddle your shit and ride East,
when you’re done with it all you don’t put down roots
and Drunk Bob says: come on, son, you’ve got that book to write
and I know a desk in the dark with your name on it.
And Witty old girl she sighs: you know what you have to do.
Seeds fire and bullets grow and I’m the only one who’s ever loved you.
That horse can go hang.
And I say: maybe I’ll get an MFA
and be King of the Underworld
in some sleepy Massachusetts town.
And all the while my honor’s tossed into the pot
and by my honor I mean your honor
or else what’s this all about? Drunk Bob
never did know where this thing was going
but I guess the meat of it is how Bob is strong and I am strong
and Witty is a barrel of futures, and we are all of us
unstopping, unending, unbeginning:
we keep moving. You gotta keep moving.
Six red bullets will show the way down.
We all have to bring the cows in.
I am here to tell you
we are all of us just as mighty as planets--and you too,
we’ll let you in, we’ve got stalwart to spare-but you might have to sleep on the floor.
Me and Bob and Witty just
clop on and the gun don’t soften
and the horse don’t bother me with questions,
all of us just heading toward the red rhyme of the sunset
and the door at the bottom of the verse.
14
The secret of being a cowboy is
never sticking around too long and honor
sometimes looks like a rack of bones
still standing straight up at the end of both poems.
~ Catherynne M. Valente,
1247:The Division Of Parts
1.
Mother, my Mary Gray,
once resident of Gloucester
and Essex County,
a photostat of your will
arrived in the mail today.
This is the division of money.
I am one third
of your daughters counting my bounty
or I am a queen alone
in the parlor still,
eating the bread and honey.
It is Good Friday.
Black birds pick at my window sill.
Your coat in my closet,
your bright stones on my hand,
the gaudy fur animals
I do not know how to use,
settle on me like a debt.
A week ago, while the hard March gales
beat on your house,
we sorted your things: obstacles
of letters, family silver,
eyeglasses and shoes.
Like some unseasoned Christmas, its scales
rigged and reset,
I bundled out gifts I did not choose.
Now the houts of The Cross
rewind. In Boston, the devout
work their cold knees
toward that sweet martyrdom
that Christ planned. My timely loss
is too customary to note; and yet
I planned to suffer
and I cannot. It does not please
my yankee bones to watch
where the dying is done
in its usly hours. Black birds peck
at my window glass
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and Easter will take its ragged son.
The clutter of worship
that you taught me, Mary Gray,
is old. I imitate
a memory of belief
that I do not own. I trip
on your death and jesus, my stranger
floats up over
my Christian home, wearing his straight
thorn tree. I have cast my lot
and am one third thief
of you. Time, that rearranger
of estates, equips
me with your garments, but not with grief.
2.
This winter when
cancer began its ugliness
I grieved with you each day
for three months
and found you in your private nook
of the medicinal palace
for New England Women
and never once
forgot how long it took.
I read to you
from The New Yorker, ate suppers
you wouldn't eat, fussed
with your flowers,
joked with your nurses, as if I
were the balm among lepers,
as if I could undo
a life in hours
if I never said goodbye.
But you turned old,
all your fifty-eight years sliding
like masks from your skull;
and at the end
I packed your nightgowns in suitcases,
paid the nurses, came riding
home as if I'd been told
I could pretend
236
people live in places.
3.
Since then I have pretended ease,
loved with the trickeries of need, but not enough
to shed my daughterhood
or sweeten him as a man.
I drink the five o' clock martinis
and poke at this dry page like a rough
goat. Fool! I fumble my lost childhood
for a mother and lounge in sad stuff
with love to catch and catch as catch can.
And Christ still waits. I have tried
to exorcise the memory of each event
and remain still, a mixed child,
heavy with cloths of you.
Sweet witch, you are my worried guide.
Such dangerous angels walk through Lent.
Their walls creak Anne! Convert! Convert!
My desk moves. Its cavr murmurs Boo
and I am taken and beguiled.
Or wrong. For all the way I've come
I'll have to go again. Instead, I must convert
to love as reasonable
as Latin, as sold as earthenware:
an equilibrium
I never knew. And Lent will keep its hurt
for someone else. Christ knows enough
staunch guys have hitched him in trouble.
thinking his sticks were badges to wear.
4.
Spring rusts on its skinny branch
and last summer's lawn
is soggy and brown.
Yesterday is just a number.
All of its winters avalanche
out of sight. What was, is gone.
Mother, last night I slept
in your Bonwit Teller nightgown.
Divided, you climbed into my head.
There in my jabbering dream
237
I heard my own angry cries
and I cursed you, Dame
keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead.
And Mother, three stones
slipped from your glittering eyes.
Now it's Friday's noon
and I would still curse
you with my rhyming words
and bring you flapping back, old love,
old circus knitting, god-in-her-moon,
all fairest in my lang syne verse,
the gauzy bride among the children,
the fancy amid the absurd
and awkward, that horn for hounds
that skipper homeward, that museum
keeper of stiff starfish, that blaze
within the pilgrim woman,
a clown mender, a dove's
cheek among the stones,
my Lady of first words,
this is the division of ways.
And now, while Christ stays
fastened to his Crucifix
so that love may praise
his sacrifice
and not the grotesque metaphor,
you come, a brave ghost, to fix
in my mind without praise
or paradise
to make me your inheritor.
~ Anne Sexton,
1248:Mr. Fink's Debating Donkey
Of a person known as Peters I will humbly crave your leave
An unusual adventure into narrative to weave
Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel,
A public educator and an orator as well.
Mr. Peters had a weakness which, 'tis painful to relate,
Was a strong predisposition to the pleasures of debate.
He would foster disputation wheresoever he might be;
In polygonal contention none so happy was as he.
'Twas observable, however, that the exercises ran
Into monologue by Peters, that rhetorical young man.
And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show,
By involuntary silence testified their overthrowMr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief,
Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief.
O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold
As to entertain opinions that he didn't care to hold.
One day-'t was in pursuance of a pedagogic plan
For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man
Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained
That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained)
Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate
Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate
On the question, 'Which is better, as a serviceable gift,
Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?'
The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met
At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet,
They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove,
And the non-committal 'barkeep' on their differences throve.
And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way:
You'll have the more to back your word the less you have to say.
Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink
Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think.
On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel
Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well
All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear.
Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear,
And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn't lift
354
The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift.
The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled,
The question he proceeded _in extenso_ to unfold:
'_Resolved_-The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach
Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech.'
This simple proposition he expounded, word by word,
Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard.
Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain
The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain.
Beginning at a period before Creation's morn,
He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn.
As down the early centuries of pre-historic time
He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme,
And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay,
Had risen and like an earthquake, 'reeled unheededly away,'
And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve,
Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve,
A noise arose outside-the door was opened with a bang
And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating 'G'lang!'
Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink
An ancient ass-the property it was of Mr. Fink.
Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread,
Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped!
It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown
Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone.
Then spake old Ebenezer: 'Gents, I heern o' this debate
On w'ether v'ice or y'ears is best the mind to elevate.
Now 'yer's a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme:
He has 'em both, I'm free to say, oncommonly extreme.
He wa'n't invited for to speak, but he will not refuse
(If t'other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views.'
Ere merriment or anger o'er amazement could prevail;
He cut the string that held the stone on that canary's tail.
Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight,
Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite.
With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid,
Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then-to put it mildly-brayed!
He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills,
And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills.
'T is said that awful bugle-blast-to make the story briefWafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf!
355
Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred
'Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard
That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel,
A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel,
Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
1249:Rapunzel
A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young.
The mentor
and the student
feed off each other.
Many a girl
had an old aunt
who locked her in the study
to keep the boys away.
They would play rummy
or lie on the couch
and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast…
Let your dress fall down your shoulder,
come touch a copy of you
for I am at the mercy of rain,
for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti
for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor
and the church spires have turned to stumps.
The sea bangs into my cloister
for the politicians are dying,
and dying so hold me, my young dear,
hold me…
The yellow rose will turn to cinder
and New York City will fall in
before we are done so hold me,
my young dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower
lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin
as sheer as a cobweb,
let me open it up
and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips
all puffy with their art
and I will give you angel fire in return.
We are two clouds
153
glistening in the bottle glass.
We are two birds
washing in the same mirror.
We were fair game
but we have kept out of the cesspool.
We are strong.
We are the good ones.
Do not discover us
for we lie together all in green
like pond weeds.
Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
They touch their delicate watches
one at a time.
They dance to the lute
two at a time.
They are as tender as bog moss.
They play mother-me-do
all day.
A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young.
Once there was a witch's garden
more beautiful than Eve's
with carrots growing like little fish,
with many tomatoes rich as frogs,
onions as ingrown as hearts,
the squash singing like a dolphin
and one patch given over wholly to magic rampion, a kind of salad root
a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin,
growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin.
as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked
and each day a woman who was with child
looked upon the rampion wildly,
fancying that she would die
if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare
and thus climbed into the garden
to fetch the life-giving tubers.
Ah ha, cried the witch,
whose proper name was Mother Gothel,
154
you are a thief and now you will die.
However they made a trade,
typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel
so of course when it was born
she took the child away with her.
She gave the child the name Rapunzel,
another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl
Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought:
None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tow without a door
or a staircase. It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried'
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as strong as a dandelion
and as strong as a dog leash.
Hand over hand she shinnied up
the hair like a sailor
and there in the stone-cold room,
as cold as a museum,
Mother Gothel cried:
Hold me, my young dear, hold me,
and thus they played mother-me-do.
Years later a prince came by
and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine
but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees
and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out:
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,
and thus they met and he declared his love.
What is this beast, she thought,
with muscles on his arms
like a bag of snakes?
What is this moss on his legs?
What prickly plant grows on his cheeks?
What is this voice as deep as a dog?
Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
155
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads,
swimming through them
like minnows through kelp
and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.
Each day he brought her a skein of silk
to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot
and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears
and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened
the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw Rapunzel had been banished
he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years
until he heard a song that pierced his heart
like that long-ago valentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes
and in the manner of such cure-alls
his sight was suddenly restored.
They lived happily as you might expect
proving that mother-me-do
can be outgrown,
just as the fish on Friday,
just as a tricycle.
The world, some say,
is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.
As for Mother Gothel,
her heart shrank to the size of a pin,
never again to say: Hold me, my young dear,
hold me,
and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair
did moonlight sift into her mouth.
~ Anne Sexton,
1250:Prothalamion
"little soul, little flirting,
little perverse one
where are you off to now?
little wan one, firm one
little exposed one...
and never make fun of me again."
Now I must betray myself.
The feast of bondage and unity is near,
And none engaged in that great piety
When each bows to the other, kneels, and takes
Hand in hand, glance and glance, care and care,
None may wear masks or enigmatic clothes,
For weakness blinds the wounded face enough.
In sense, see my shocking nakedness.
I gave a girl an apple when five years old,
Saying, Will you be sorry when I am gone?
Ravenous for such courtesies, my name
Is fed like a raving fire, insatiate still.
But do not be afraid.
For I forget myself. I do indeed
Before each genuine beauty, and I will
Forget myself before your unknown heart.
I will forget the speech my mother made
In a restaurant, trapping my father there
At dinner with his whore. Her spoken rage
Struck down the child of seven years
With shame for all three, with pity for
The helpless harried waiter, with anger for
The diners gazing, avid, and contempt
And great disgust for every human being.
I will remember this. My mother's rhetoric
Has charmed my various tongue, but now I know
Love's metric seeks a rhyme more pure and sure.
For thus it is that I betray myself,
59
Passing the terror of childhood at second hand
Through nervous, learned fingertips.
At thirteen when a little girl died,
I walked for three weeks neither alive nor dead,
And could not understand and still cannot
The adult blind to the nearness of the dead,
Or carefully ignorant of their own death.
--This sense could shadow all the time's curving fruits,
But we will taste of them the whole night long,
Forgetting no twelfth night, no fete of June,
But in the daylight knowing our nothingness.
Let Freud and Marx be wedding guests indeed!
Let them mark out masks that face us there,
For of all anguish, weakness, loss and failure,
No form is cruel as self-deception, none
Shows day-by-day a bad dream long lived
And unbroken like the lies
We tell each other because we are rich or poor.
Though from the general guilt not free
We can keep honor by being poor.
The waste, the evil, the abomination
Is interrupted. the perfect stars persist
Small in the guilty night,
and Mozart shows
The irreducible incorruptible good
Risen past birth and death, though he is dead.
Hope, like a face reflected on the windowpane,
Remote and dim, fosters a myth or dream,
And in that dream, I speak, I summon all
Who are our friends somehow and thus I say:
"Bid the jewellers come with monocles,
Exclaiming, Pure! Intrinsic! Final!
Summon the children eating ice cream
To speak the chill thrill of immediacy.
Call for the acrobats who tumble
The ecstasy of the somersault.
Bid the self-sufficient stars be piercing
In the sublime and inexhaustible blue.
60
"Bring a mathematician, there is much to count,
The unending continuum of my attention:
Infinity will hurry his multiplied voice!
Bring the poised impeccable diver,
Summon the skater, precise in figure,
He knows the peril of circumstance,
The risk of movement and the hard ground.
Summon the florist! And the tobacconist!
All who have known a plant-like beauty:
Summon the charming bird for ignorant song.
"You, Athena, with your tired beauty,
Will you give me away? For you must come
In a bathing suit with that white owl
Whom, as I walk, I will hold in my hand.
You too, Crusoe, to utter the emotion
Of finding Friday, no longer alone;
You too, Chaplin, muse of the curbstone,
Mummer of hope, you understand!"
But this is fantastic and pitiful,
And no one comes, none will, we are alone,
And what is possible is my own voice,
Speaking its wish, despite its lasting fear;
Speaking of its hope, its promise and its fear,
The voice drunk with itself and rapt in fear,
Exaggeration, braggadocio,
Rhetoric and hope, and always fear:
"For fifty-six or for a thousand years,
I will live with you and be your friend,
And what your body and what your spirit bears
I will like my own body cure and tend.
But you are heavy and my body's weight
Is great and heavy: when I carry you
I lift upon my back time like a fate
Near as my heart, dark when I marry you.
"The voice's promise is easy, and hope
Is drunk, and wanton, and unwilled;
In time's quicksilver, where our desires grope,
The dream is warped or monstrously fulfilled,
In this sense, listen, listen, and draw near:
61
Love is inexhaustible and full of fear."
This life is endless and my eyes are tired,
So that, again and again, I touch a chair,
Or go to the window, press my face
Against it, hoping with substantial touch,
Colorful sight, or turning things to gain once more
The look of actuality, the certainty
Of those who run down stairs and drive a car.
Then let us be each other's truth, let us
Affirm the other's self, and be
The other's audience, the other's state,
Each to the other his sonorous fame.
Now you will be afraid, when, waking up,
Before familiar morning, by my mute side
Wan and abandoned then, when, waking up,
You see the lion or lamb upon my face
Or see the daemon breathing heavily
His sense of ignorance, his wish to die,
For I am nothing because my circus self
Divides its love a million times.
I am the octopus in love with God,
For thus is my desire inconclusible,
Until my mind, deranged in swimming tubes,
Issues its own darkness, clutching seas
---O God of my perfect ignorance,
Bring the New Year to my only sister soon,
Take from me strength and power to bless her head,
Give her the magnitude of secular trust,
Until she turns to me in her troubled sleep,
Seeing me in my wish, free from self-wrongs.
~ Delmore Schwartz,
1251:Crusoe in England
A new volcano has erupted,
the papers say, and last week I was reading
where some ship saw an island being born:
at first a breath of steam, ten miles away;
and then a black fleck—basalt, probably—
rose in the mate's binoculars
and caught on the horizon like a fly.
They named it. But my poor old island's still
un-rediscovered, un-renamable.
None of the books has ever got it right.
Well, I had fifty-two
miserable, small volcanoes I could climb
with a few slithery strides—
volcanoes dead as ash heaps.
I used to sit on the edge of the highest one
and count the others standing up,
naked and leaden, with their heads blown off.
I'd think that if they were the size
I thought volcanoes should be, then I had
become a giant;
and if I had become a giant,
I couldn't bear to think what size
the goats and turtles were,
or the gulls, or the overlapping rollers
—a glittering hexagon of rollers
closing and closing in, but never quite,
glittering and glittering, though the sky
was mostly overcast.
My island seemed to be
a sort of cloud-dump. All the hemisphere's
left-over clouds arrived and hung
above the craters—their parched throats
were hot to touch.
Was that why it rained so much?
And why sometimes the whole place hissed?
The turtles lumbered by, high-domed,
hissing like teakettles.
24
(And I'd have given years, or taken a few,
for any sort of kettle, of course.)
The folds of lava, running out to sea,
would hiss. I'd turn. And then they'd prove
to be more turtles.
The beaches were all lava, variegated,
black, red, and white, and gray;
the marbled colors made a fine display.
And I had waterspouts. Oh,
half a dozen at a time, far out,
they'd come and go, advancing and retreating,
their heads in cloud, their feet in moving patches
of scuffed-up white.
Glass chimneys, flexible, attenuated,
sacerdotal beings of glass ... I watched
the water spiral up in them like smoke.
Beautiful, yes, but not much company.
I often gave way to self-pity.
"Do I deserve this? I suppose I must.
I wouldn't be here otherwise. Was there
a moment when I actually chose this?
I don't remember, but there could have been."
What's wrong about self-pity, anyway?
With my legs dangling down familiarly
over a crater's edge, I told myself
"Pity should begin at home." So the more
pity I felt, the more I felt at home.
The sun set in the sea; the same odd sun
rose from the sea,
and there was one of it and one of me.
The island had one kind of everything:
one tree snail, a bright violet-blue
with a thin shell, crept over everything,
over the one variety of tree,
a sooty, scrub affair.
Snail shells lay under these in drifts
and, at a distance,
you'd swear that they were beds of irises.
There was one kind of berry, a dark red.
I tried it, one by one, and hours apart.
25
Sub-acid, and not bad, no ill effects;
and so I made home-brew. I'd drink
the awful, fizzy, stinging stuff
that went straight to my head
and play my home-made flute
(I think it had the weirdest scale on earth)
and, dizzy, whoop and dance among the goats.
Home-made, home-made! But aren't we all?
I felt a deep affection for
the smallest of my island industries.
No, not exactly, since the smallest was
a miserable philosophy.
Because I didn't know enough.
Why didn't I know enough of something?
Greek drama or astronomy? The books
I'd read were full of blanks;
the poems—well, I tried
reciting to my iris-beds,
"They flash upon that inward eye,
which is the bliss ..." The bliss of what?
One of the first things that I did
when I got back was look it up.
The island smelled of goat and guano.
The goats were white, so were the gulls,
and both too tame, or else they thought
I was a goat, too, or a gull.
Baa, baa, baa and shriek, shriek, shriek,
baa ... shriek ... baa ... I still can't shake
them from my ears; they're hurting now.
The questioning shrieks, the equivocal replies
over a ground of hissing rain
and hissing, ambulating turtles
got on my nerves.
When all the gulls flew up at once, they sounded
like a big tree in a strong wind, its leaves.
I'd shut my eyes and think about a tree,
an oak, say, with real shade, somewhere.
I'd heard of cattle getting island-sick.
I thought the goats were.
One billy-goat would stand on the volcano
26
I'd christened Mont d'Espoir or Mount Despair
(I'd time enough to play with names),
and bleat and bleat, and sniff the air.
I'd grab his beard and look at him.
His pupils, horizontal, narrowed up
and expressed nothing, or a little malice.
I got so tired of the very colors!
One day I dyed a baby goat bright red
with my red berries, just to see
something a little different.
And then his mother wouldn't recognize him.
Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of food
and love, but they were pleasant rather
than otherwise. But then I'd dream of things
like slitting a baby's throat, mistaking it
for a baby goat. I'd have
nightmares of other islands
stretching away from mine, infinities
of islands, islands spawning islands,
like frogs' eggs turning into polliwogs
of islands, knowing that I had to live
on each and every one, eventually,
for ages, registering their flora,
their fauna, their geography.
Just when I thought I couldn't stand it
another minute longer, Friday came.
(Accounts of that have everything all wrong.)
Friday was nice.
Friday was nice, and we were friends.
If only he had been a woman!
I wanted to propagate my kind,
and so did he, I think, poor boy.
He'd pet the baby goats sometimes,
and race with them, or carry one around.
—Pretty to watch; he had a pretty body.
And then one day they came and took us off.
Now I live here, another island,
that doesn't seem like one, but who decides?
27
My blood was full of them; my brain
bred islands. But that archipelago
has petered out. I'm old.
I'm bored, too, drinking my real tea,
surrounded by uninteresting lumber.
The knife there on the shelf—
it reeked of meaning, like a crucifix.
It lived. How many years did I
beg it, implore it, not to break?
I knew each nick and scratch by heart,
the bluish blade, the broken tip,
the lines of wood-grain on the handle ...
Now it won't look at me at all.
The living soul has dribbled away.
My eyes rest on it and pass on.
The local museum's asked me to
leave everything to them:
the flute, the knife, the shrivelled shoes,
my shedding goatskin trousers
(moths have got in the fur),
the parasol that took me such a time
remembering the way the ribs should go.
It still will work but, folded up,
looks like a plucked and skinny fowl.
How can anyone want such things?
—And Friday, my dear Friday, died of measles
seventeen years ago come March.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
1252:The Scapegoat
We have all of us read how the Israelites fled
From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em,
And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup"
When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em.
The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had"
That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad.
You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro".
For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears
In deserts with never a famine to follow by,
The Israelite horde went roaming abroad
Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby".
When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em,
Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are:
I give you command of the whole of the band" -And handed the Government over to Joshua.
But Moses told 'em before he died,
"Wherever you are, whatever betide,
Every year as the time draws near
By lot or by rote choose you a goat,
And let the high priest confess on the beast
The sins of the people the worst and the least,
Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer.
Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future.
Then lead him away to the wilderness black
To die with the weight of your sins on his back:
Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven,
For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!"
'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity
This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity.
By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do,
Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo,
Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate,
Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate;
Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat?
It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture
By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a
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Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose
Was a long way from being their choicest Angora.
In fact I should think he was one of their weediest:
'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns,
When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest;
Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers
Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled,
That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.
Be that as it may, as each year passed away,
a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted
With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted)
And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated.
The day it has come, with trumpet and drum.
With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb
They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom:
On every hand a reverend band,
Prophets and preachers and elders stand
And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye,
Delivers a sermon to all standing by.
(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he
No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.)
The sermon was marked by a deal of humility
And pointed the fact, with no end of ability.
That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility,
And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well.
Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat
And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him,
Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him.
With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -"Go forth in the desert and perish in woe,
The sins of the people are whiter than snow!"
Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go".
(That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word,
Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"),
As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins
The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!"
The animal, freed from all restraint
Lowered his head, made a kind of feint,
And charged straight at that elderly saint.
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So fierce his attack and so very severe, it
Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly,
Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it.
The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted,
A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp",
Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground",
And made a beeline back again to the camp.
The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast
So gallantly making his way to the east,
Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again
If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again.
He's hurrying, too! This never will do.
Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew.
After all our confessions, so openly granted,
He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted.
We've come all this distance salvation to win agog,
If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!"
He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light,
A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light.
"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain,
And drive back the brute to the desert again.
The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you,
From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you."
So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him,
But the goat made it clear each time he drew near
That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him.
The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -"Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him,
The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him.
The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more,
And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four!
He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!"
But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion.
('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning),
"It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be
A good thing for someone to take up the running."
As soon said as done, they started to run -The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns
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All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute,
And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit.
And then it came out, as the rabble and rout
Streamed over the desert with many a shout -The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician,
Had been in his youth a bold metallician,
And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled,
"Any price Abraham! Evens the field!"
Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran,
And Abraham proved him an "even time" man,
But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin'
And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon.
Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp
Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices,
And paling and wall he plasters them all,
"I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says,
The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills"
"Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all
Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown;
Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual!
Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all,
For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!"
Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side
Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement!
One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!"
And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst.
His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste,
But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste.
With downcast head, and sorrowful tread,
The people came back from the desert in dread.
"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?"
In very short order they got plenty word of him.
In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall,
"The trail of the serpent was over them all."
A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter
Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter".
The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale,
The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail;
He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses,
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But his latest achievement most anger arouses,
For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums,
One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed,
Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums.
Moral
The moral is patent to all the beholders -Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders;
Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them,
Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them:
Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst,
But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst.
Remember, no matter how far you may roam
That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens,
Their talent stupendous for "getting back home".
Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out,
And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it,
But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!
~ Banjo Paterson,
1253:Forsaking All Others Part 4
WAYNE was looking near and far
After the theatre to find his car.
He had taken his wife to the play that night;
Broadway was glittering hard and bright
With every sort of electric light­
Green and scarlet and diamond-white;
And moving letters against the sky
Told you exactly the reason why
This or that was the thing to buy.
And suddenly there at his side was Nell
Vainly seeking her car as well
They talked. for a moment... of meeting again...
And how were Edward and Ruth, and then
'I wonder,' said Nell, 'if you ever see
My lovely friend...' 'You mean,' said he,
'That blue-eyed lady I once sat next.. '
'Exactly,' said Nellie. 'I feel so vexed
With Lee. I haven't seen her this season,
And between you and me, I know the reason.'
'Do you indeed? ' said Wayne.'Oh, yes,'
Nell answered. 'I know... at least I guess.
When a woman like that whom I've seen so much
All of a sudden drops out of touch,
Is always busy and never can
Spare you a moment, it means a MAN.'
Wayne did not smile. 'I am sure you are
Right,' he said. 'Do you go so far
In the magic art as to tell us who
The man may be? ' 'I certainly do,'
Said Nell. 'It's that handsome young romantic
Doctor who's driving the ladies frantic,
So that they flock to be cured in shoals
And talk of nothing but sex and souls,
And self-expression, and physical passion..
Of course, no wonder the man's the fashion.'
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'Does Mrs. Kent flock? ' 'Oh, no, I meant
They've called him in to take care of Kent.
Imagine the long deep conversations,
The tears, the intimate revelations...
I wish to all ladies, lonely and sad,
Tied to a husband hopelessly mad
A handsome psychiatrist... good or bad.
Oh, there's my car,' and so with a gay
Good night to Wayne she was driven away.
People will come for miles, they say,
To see a man burnt at the stake, yet none
Turned in that crowd to look at one
Standing quietly burning there,
Suffering more than a man can bear,
Consumed with hideous inner fire,
Believing his love a cheat and a liar...
Believing the moment that Nell had spoken,
For that day of all days Lee had broken
A date... at the time he had thought it queer,
And now, by God, it was perfectly clear,
Perfectly clear, no doubt whatever...
A doctor, handsome and young and clever,
With all this rotten erotic learning....
Strange indeed that no head was turning
To watch this gentleman quietly burning,
In a trance of pain he heard Ruth say:
'Well, dear, what did you think of that play? '
II
'HOW could you think such a thing? '
'Try to forgive if you can.'
'Spoiling our beautiful Spring! '
'Well, I am only a man.'
'I will forgive, if I can.'
'Jealousy made me insane.'
'I never spoke to the man.'
'I'll never doubt you again.'
35
'Jealousy made you insane.'
'Lee, you have much to forgive.'
'Oh, never doubt me again.'
'Never as long as I live.'
'Jim, I have much to forgive.'
'Yes, but I've suffered like hell.'
'Trust me as long as you live.'
'Dearest, I love you too well.'
'Poor darling, going through hell.'
'Spoiling our beautiful Spring.'
'I also love you too well.'
'How could I think such a thing? '
III
LOVERS after a quarrel say to each other lightly:
'Dear, we are closer than ever: I love you better by far;
After the rainstorm is over, the sun shines even more brightly...'
Poor pitiful lovers, trying to hide the unsightly
Stain on the surface of love... the ineffaceable scar.
IV
THE Spring was over, and Summer far advanced,­
Lee spent many a hidden week in town,
Days long and enchanted, and nights entranced,
But one thought would not down:
'Is he content with this snatched and broken life? '
She thought, 'when we might be free?
He cannot love that dowdy middle-aged wife.
Does he really love me? '
She was not burnt by jealousy sudden and hot,
But poisoned and chilled that he would not break
A meagre tie to a wife she knew he could not
Love, - yet would not forsake.
One night at her window, looking over the Park,
36
With his strong hand on her shoulder prest,
And a thunder-cloud rolling up out of the dark,
Rolling out of the West,
Suddenly she heard herself quoting Macbeth:
' 'To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus.' '
He answered after a pause on a long-drawn breath:
'Safety is not for us.'
AND from that moment Lee began - not nagging,
She was too wise for that - but she began
A secret steady pull, a silent dragging
To break the other tie that bound this man.
And she would brood, injured, remote, self-centred
At any mention that he had a wife;
And something chill and faintly hostile entered
The magic circle of this hidden life.
O lovers, those legitimately united
In holy wedlock, and less happy, those
Whose troth may never openly be plighted­
(Less happy did I say? Alas, who knows?)
But lovers all, beware, and know the strongest
Of wills may make a strong antagonist:
And that love will not always linger longest
With those who hold it in too clenched a fist.
VI
YET on the whole they were happy, as day by day
The long mysterious Summer passed away.
None guessed their secret - except far off on a shady
Lawn by the coast of Maine, a middle-aged lady
Spending a quiet Summer almost alone
In a great Victorian house of dark gray stone,
Knew as she sat and stared at the cold Maine ocean
Every event, every phase, every emotion
Of that great romance. She knew, none better,
Not by a chance or slip, or anonymous letter,
37
Not through gossip by any tattler carried,
But because she perfectly knew the man she had married.
VII
'DO not go home for Sunday,
Darling,' Lee's letter said.
'How I hate Friday to Monday!
Stay with me here, instead.
Life is so short, and one day
Soon, we shall both be dead.
'The curse of love like ours
Is that we seem to be
Always cut short by powers
Stronger than you and me.
But if you stayed-what hours,
Glorious, alone and free'
VIII
RUTH in her quiet garden beside the sea
Thinking, 'To-morrow at this time Jim will be
Here at my side. It's something to be a wife The background dull and assured of everyday life.
He must come home, whether he wants to or not,
To me, to me... All other women must plot,
Arrange, manoeuver to see him...'
And then behind her
She heard the steps of a servant coming to find her:
A footman stood with a telegram held on a tray:
'Terribly sorry I cannot get away
This week-end. Better luck next. Love. Jim.'
She turned her head to the footman, and said to him,
'Say Mr. Wayne will not be here to-morrow.'
And the man withdrew and left her alone with her sorrow.
The sun went down behind the great blue hill;
And she sat there alone in her garden, perfectly still,
Watching the wraiths of fog blow in like smoke,
38
And her heart as she sat there gently and quietly broke.
IX
AN August Sunday in town,
The Park all sere and brown,
The noise of wheels died down.
Faint tepid breezes wake
Now and again, and make
Lee's slatted curtains shake.
Now and again in the street
The sound of passing feet,
And church bells, faint and sweet.
Faint bells that ought to mean
A village spire seen
Across a meadow green.
Faint bells... Wayne's early youth....
Going to church... in truth
Going to church with Ruth.
Faint bells, and Lee cries, 'Oh,
How I should like to know
Why bells depress me so! '
BEFORE the skulls of Primitive Man,
Lee stood and thought: 'Are we part of a plan
Of Nature's; or are we just a sort
Of Cosmic Coincidence - a sport
Of God - or worse, a sport of chance­
Or of Ether - Nature's great romance?
'How queer it would be, if it turned out we
Were merely eddies - Jim and me
Meaningless eddies in ether swirled
In and out of a meaningless world.
Well, if we are it's nice to think
39
We've had some moments upon the brink
Of dissolution - of absolute chaos
Moments of joy that well repay us.'
And she paused to note that her fellow eddy
Was fifteen minutes late already.
Waiting she wandered from floor to floor,
Every instant becoming more
Uneasy, and going back to the door,
Where Wayne ought to have been at exactly four.
She went from the skulls of Primitive Man
To the mystic temples of Yucatan,
Or studied gray elephants, vast and haughty,
But with eyes like pigs' eyes, shrewd and naughty,
Flamingoes of beautiful coral pink­
The ancestry of the missing link­
But in between she was always hurrying
Back to the doorway, wondering, worrying And then she saw with a horrid sinking
Of heart, it was five! And she went home thinking,
'Something has happened - he's been struck
By a ruthless, rollicking, rumbling truck,
Or crushed by a taxi, and now is lying
In some hospital ward - unknown and dying Or if they knew would they send in truth
For me? Oh, no, they would send for Ruth.'
And hurrying fast as the laws enable,
She found a telegram on her table,
Signed as usual, 'J. H. Wayne:'
'Ruth has pneumonia alone in Maine,
Of course I am taking the very first train.
Sorry to miss you before I go.
When I know my plans, I'll let you know.'
The first emotion felt by Lee
Was pure and perfect relief that he
Was safe. And then she felt the force
Of that cruel, domestic calm 'of course.'
40
And then undeniably into her head
Came the thought unbidden: - 'If Ruth were dead - '
And standing alone: 'Poor thing,' she said
~ Alice Duer Miller,
1254:The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde
The Bell in the convent tower swung.
High overhead the great sun hung,
A navel for the curving sky.
The air was a blue clarity.
Swallows flew,
And a cock crew.
The iron clanging sank through the light air,
Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare
Of spotted green, and a snake had gone
Into the bed where the snowdrops shone
In green new-started,
Their white bells parted.
Two by two, in a long brown line,
The nuns were walking to breathe the fine
Bright April air. They must go in soon
And work at their tasks all the afternoon.
But this time is theirs!
They walk in pairs.
First comes the Abbess, preoccupied
And slow, as a woman often tried,
With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun.
Then younger and younger, until the last one
Has a laugh on her lips,
And fairly skips.
They wind about the gravel walks
And all the long line buzzes and talks.
They step in time to the ringing bell,
With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well
In the core of a sky
Domed silverly.
Sister Marguerite said: 'The pears will soon bud.'
Sister Angelique said she must get her spud
And free the earth round the jasmine roots.
Sister Veronique said: 'Oh, look at those shoots!
249
There's a crocus up,
With a purple cup.'
But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all,
She looked up and down the old grey wall
To see if a lizard were basking there.
She looked across the garden to where
A sycamore
Flanked the garden door.
She was restless, although her little feet danced,
And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced
Her morning's work had hung in her mind
And would not take form. She could not find
The beautifulness
For the Virgin's dress.
Should it be of pink, or damasked blue?
Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through?
Should it be banded with yellow and white
Roses, or sparked like a frosty night?
Or a crimson sheen
Over some sort of green?
But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new
In all the garden, no single hue
So lovely or so marvellous
That its use would not seem impious.
So on she walked,
And the others talked.
Sister Elisabeth edged away
From what her companion had to say,
For Sister Marthe saw the world in little,
She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle.
She did plain stitching
And worked in the kitchen.
'Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last,
I told her so this Friday past.
I must speak to her before Compline.'
Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine.
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The other nun sighed,
With her pleasure quite dried.
Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out:
'The snowdrops are blooming!' They turned about.
The little white cups bent over the ground,
And in among the light stems wound
A crested snake,
With his eyes awake.
His body was green with a metal brightness
Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness,
And all down his curling length were disks,
Evil vermilion asterisks,
They paled and flooded
As wounds fresh-blooded.
His crest was amber glittered with blue,
And opaque so the sun came shining through.
It seemed a crown with fiery points.
When he quivered all down his scaly joints,
From every slot
The sparkles shot.
The nuns huddled tightly together, fear
Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer
More closely at the beautiful snake,
She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make
Colours so rare,
The dress were there.
The Abbess shook off her lethargy.
'Sisters, we will walk on,' said she.
Sidling away from the snowdrop bed,
The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead.
Only Clotilde
Was the last to yield.
When the recreation hour was done
Each went in to her task. Alone
In the library, with its great north light,
Clotilde wrought at an exquisite
251
Wreath of flowers
For her Book of Hours.
She twined the little crocus blooms
With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms
Of laurel leaves were interwoven
With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven
Fritillaries,
Whose colour varies.
They framed the picture she had made,
Half-delighted and half-afraid.
In a courtyard with a lozenged floor
The Virgin watched, and through the arched door
The angel came
Like a springing flame.
His wings were dipped in violet fire,
His limbs were strung to holy desire.
He lowered his head and passed under the arch,
And the air seemed beating a solemn march.
The Virgin waited
With eyes dilated.
Her face was quiet and innocent,
And beautiful with her strange assent.
A silver thread about her head
Her halo was poised. But in the stead
Of her gown, there remained
The vellum, unstained.
Clotilde painted the flowers patiently,
Lingering over each tint and dye.
She could spend great pains, now she had seen
That curious, unimagined green.
A colour so strange
It had seemed to change.
She thought it had altered while she gazed.
At first it had been simple green; then glazed
All over with twisting flames, each spot
A molten colour, trembling and hot,
252
And every eye
Seemed to liquefy.
She had made a plan, and her spirits danced.
After all, she had only glanced
At that wonderful snake, and she must know
Just what hues made the creature throw
Those splashes and sprays
Of prismed rays.
When evening prayers were sung and said,
The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed.
And soon in the convent there was no light,
For the moon did not rise until late that night,
Only the shine
Of the lamp at the shrine.
Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets.
Her heart shook her body with its beats.
She could not see till the moon should rise,
So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes
On the window-square
Till light should be there.
The faintest shadow of a branch
Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch
With solemn purpose, softly rose
And fluttered down between the rows
Of sleeping nuns.
She almost runs.
She must go out through the little side door
Lest the nuns who were always praying before
The Virgin's altar should hear her pass.
She pushed the bolts, and over the grass
The red moon's brim
Mounted its rim.
Her shadow crept up the convent wall
As she swiftly left it, over all
The garden lay the level glow
Of a moon coming up, very big and slow.
253
The gravel glistened.
She stopped and listened.
It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer.
She laughed a little, but she felt queerer
Than ever before. The snowdrop bed
Was reached and she bent down her head.
On the striped ground
The snake was wound.
For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm,
Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm.
She thought she heard steps, she must be quick.
She darted her hand out, and seized the thick
Wriggling slime,
Only just in time.
The old gardener came muttering down the path,
And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath,
And covered Clotilde and the angry snake.
He bit her, but what difference did that make!
The Virgin should dress
In his loveliness.
The gardener was covering his new-set plants
For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts
Your lover of growing things. He spied
Something to do and turned aside,
And the moonlight streamed
On Clotilde, and gleamed.
His business finished the gardener rose.
He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows
A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she
Grasping him, laughing, while quietly
Her eyes are weeping.
Is he sleeping?
He thinks it is some holy vision,
Brushes that aside and with decision
Jumps -- and hits the snake with his stick,
Crushes his spine, and then with quick,
254
Urgent command
Takes her hand.
The gardener sucks the poison and spits,
Cursing and praying as befits
A poor old man half out of his wits.
'Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's
Hatched of a devil
And very evil.
It's one of them horrid basilisks
You read about. They say a man risks
His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it
Out by now. Lucky I chucked it
Away from you.
I guess you'll do.'
'Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast
Was sent to me, to me the least
Worthy in all our convent, so I
Could finish my picture of the Most High
And Holy Queen,
In her dress of green.
He is dead now, but his colours won't fade
At once, and by noon I shall have made
The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see
How kindly the moon shines down on me!
I can't die yet,
For the task was set.'
'You won't die now, for I've sucked it away,'
Grumbled old Francois, 'so have your play.
If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong, --'
'Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong.'
So Clotilde vented
Her creed. He repented.
'He can't do no more harm, Sister,' said he.
'Paint as much as you like.' And gingerly
He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde
Thanked him, and begged that he would shield
255
Her secret, though itching
To talk in the kitchen.
The gardener promised, not very pleased,
And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased,
Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon
Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon
In her bed she lay
And waited for day.
At dawn's first saffron-spired warning
Clotilde was up. And all that morning,
Except when she went to the chapel to pray,
She painted, and when the April day
Was hot with sun,
Clotilde had done.
Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud
At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed
To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made.
A lady, in excellence arrayed,
And wonder-souled.
Christ's Blessed Mould!
From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint,
But her eyes were starred like those of a saint
Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude.
A sudden clamour hurled its rude
Force to break
Her vision awake.
The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed
By the multitude of nuns. They hushed
When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet,
Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot.
And all the hive
Buzzed 'She's alive!'
Old Francois had told. He had found the strain
Of silence too great, and preferred the pain
Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread,
And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead.
256
For Francois, to spite them,
Had not seen fit to right them.
The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild,
Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, 'My child,
Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace,
To spare you while you imaged her face?
How could we have guessed
Our convent so blessed!
A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb!
To have you die! And I, who am
A hollow, living shell, the grave
Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave
To be taken, Dear Mother,
Instead of this other.'
She dropped on her knees and silently prayed,
With anguished hands and tears delayed
To a painful slowness. The minutes drew
To fractions. Then the west wind blew
The sound of a bell,
On a gusty swell.
It came skipping over the slates of the roof,
And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof
To grief, in the eye of so fair a day.
The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray.
And the sun lit the flowers
In Clotilde's Book of Hours.
It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress
And made the red spots, in a flushed excess,
Pulse and start; and the violet wings
Of the angel were colour which shines and sings.
The book seemed a choir
Of rainbow fire.
The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun
Did the same, then one by one,
They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers
Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs.
257
Clotilde, the Inspired!
She only felt tired.
*****
The old chronicles say she did not die
Until heavy with years. And that is why
There hangs in the convent church a basket
Of osiered silver, a holy casket,
And treasured therein
A dried snake-skin.
~ Amy Lowell,
1255:I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,
And here you catch me at an alley's end
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?
The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up,
Do,harry out, if you must show your zeal,
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse,
Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company!
Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat,
And please to know me likewise. Who am I?
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend
Three streets offhe's a certain . . . how d'ye call?
MasteraCosimo of the Medici,
I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged,
How you affected such a gullet's-gripe!  
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves
Pick up a manner nor discredit you:
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets
And count fair price what comes into their net?
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!
Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health
Of the munificent House that harbours me
(And many more beside, lads! more beside!)
And all's come square again. I'd like his face
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern,for the slave that holds
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say)
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down,
You know them and they take you? like enough!
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands
To roam the town and sing out carnival,
And I've been three weeks shut within my mew,
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints
And saints again. I could not paint all night
Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air.
There came a hurry of feet and little feet,
A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song,
Flower o' the broom,
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!
Flower o' the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?
Flower o' the thymeand so on. Round they went.
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,three slim shapes,
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood,
That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went,
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,
All the bed-furniturea dozen knots,
There was a ladder! Down I let myself,
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,
And after them. I came up with the fun
Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,
Flower o' the rose,
If I've been merry, what matter who knows?
And so as I was stealing back again
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head
Mine's shaveda monk, you saythe sting 's in that!
If Master Cosimo announced himself,
Mum's the word naturally; but a monk!
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now!
I was a baby when my mother died
And father died and left me in the street.
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks,
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,
My stomach being empty as your hat,
The wind doubled me up and down I went.
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)
And so along the wall, over the bridge,
By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,
While I stood munching my first bread that month:
"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,--
"To quit this very miserable world?
Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought I;
By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house,
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici
Have given their hearts toall at eight years old.
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,
'T#was not for nothingthe good bellyful,
The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,
And day-long blessed idleness beside!
"Let's see what the urchin's fit for"that came next.
Not overmuch their way, I must confess.
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste!
Flower o' the clove.
All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love!
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets
Eight years together, as my fortune was,
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,
And who will curse or kick him for his pains,
Which gentleman processional and fine,
Holding a candle to the Sacrament,
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch
The droppings of the wax to sell again,
Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,
How say I?nay, which dog bites, which lets drop
His bone from the heap of offal in the street,
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,
He learns the look of things, and none the less
For admonition from the hunger-pinch.
I had a store of such remarks, be sure,
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.
I drew men's faces on my copy-books,
Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge,
Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes,
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,
And made a string of pictures of the world
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun,
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black.
"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark.
What if at last we get our man of parts,
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese
And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine
And put the front on it that ought to be!"
And hereupon he bade me daub away.
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,
Never was such prompt disemburdening.
First, every sort of monk, the black and white,
I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church,
From good old gossips waiting to confess
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there
With the little children round him in a row
Of admiration, half for his beard and half
For that white anger of his victim's son
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,
Signing himself with the other because of Christ
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this
After the passion of a thousand years)
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head,
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf,
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers
(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone.
I painted all, then cried " `T#is ask and have;
Choose, for more's ready!"laid the ladder flat,
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall.
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,
Being simple bodies,"That's the very man!
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog!
That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes
To care about his asthma: it's the life!''
But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked;
Their betters took their turn to see and say:
The Prior and the learned pulled a face
And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here?
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all!
Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true
As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game!
Your business is not to catch men with show,
With homage to the perishable clay,
But lift them over it, ignore it all,
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh.
Your business is to paint the souls of men
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . .
It's vapour done up like a new-born babe
(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)
It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul!
Give us no more of body than shows soul!
Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,
That sets us praisingwhy not stop with him?
Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not?
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms!
Rub all out, try at it a second time.
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,
She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say,
Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off!
Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask?
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white
When what you put for yellow's simply black,
And any sort of meaning looks intense
When all beside itself means and looks nought.
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn,
Left foot and right foot, go a double step,
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,
Both in their order? Take the prettiest face,
The Prior's niece . . . patron-saintis it so pretty
You can't discover if it means hope, fear,
Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these?
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue,
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash,
And then add soul and heighten them three-fold?
Or say there's beauty with no soul at all
(I never saw itput the case the same)
If you get simple beauty and nought else,
You get about the best thing God invents:
That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed,
Within yourself, when you return him thanks.
"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short,
And so the thing has gone on ever since.
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds:
You should not take a fellow eight years old
And make him swear to never kiss the girls.
I'm my own master, paint now as I please
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front
Those great rings serve more purposes than just
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work,
The heads shake still"It's art's decline, my son!
You're not of the true painters, great and old;
Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find;
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer:
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!"
Flower o' the pine,
You keep your mistr manners, and I'll stick to mine!
I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know!
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know,
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage,
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint
To please themsometimes do and sometimes don't;
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world
(Flower o' the peach
Death for us all, and his own life for each!)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over,
The world and life's too big to pass for a dream,
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
And play the fooleries you catch me at,
In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,
Although the miller does not preach to him
The only good of grass is to make chaff.
What would men have? Do they like grass or no
May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing
Settled for ever one way. As it is,
You tell too many lies and hurt yourself:
You don't like what you only like too much,
You do like what, if given you at your word,
You find abundantly detestable.
For me, I think I speak as I was taught;
I always see the garden and God there
A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned,
The value and significance of flesh,
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.
You understand me: I'm a beast, I know.
But see, nowwhy, I see as certainly
As that the morning-star's about to shine,
What will hap some day. We've a youngster here
Comes to our convent, studies what I do,
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop:
His name is Guidihe'll not mind the monks
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk
He picks my practice uphe'll paint apace.
I hope sothough I never live so long,
I know what's sure to follow. You be judge!
You speak no Latin more than I, belike;
However, you're my man, you've seen the world
The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises,and God made it all!
For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no,
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What's it all about?
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course!you say.
But why not do as well as say,paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?
God's workspaint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works
Are here already; nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her(which you can't)
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, paintedbetter to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me but you should, though! How much more,
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,
It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us,
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!"
Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain
It does not say to folkremember matins,
Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this
What need of art at all? A skull and bones,
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a Saint Laurence six months since
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style:
"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?"
I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side,
But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,
The pious people have so eased their own
With coming to say prayers there in a rage:
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year,
For pity and religion grow i' the crowd
Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!
That isyou'll not mistake an idle word
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot,
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!
It's natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself:
And hearken how I plot to make amends.
I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece
There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns!
They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet
As puff on puff of grated orris-root
When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer.
And then i' the front, of course a saint or two
Saint John' because he saves the Florentines,
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white
The convent's friends and gives them a long day,
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz (and Us without the z,
Painters who need his patience). Well, all these
Secured at their devotion, up shall come
Out of a corner when you least expect,
As one by a dark stair into a great light,
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!
Mazed, motionless, and moonstruckI'm the man!
Back I shrinkwhat is this I see and hear?
I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake,
My old serge gown and rope that goes all round,
I, in this presence, this pure company!
Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape?
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing
Forward, puts out a soft palm"Not so fast!"
Addresses the celestial presence, "nay
He made you and devised you, after all,
Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw
His camel-hair make up a painting brush?
We come to brother Lippo for all that,
Iste perfecit opus! So, all smile
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face
Under the cover of a hundred wings
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops
The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off
To some safe bench behind, not letting go
The palm of her, the little lily thing
That spoke the good word for me in the nick,
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say.
And so all's saved for me, and for the church
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights!
The street's hushed, and I know my own way back,
Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks!
NOTES



Form:
unrhyming

1.
First published in Men and Women, 1855.In this poem, Browning makes use of the account of
Lippi in Vasari's Lives of the Painters, from
which the following is an extract: "The Carmelite monk,
Fra Filippo di Tommaso Lippi (1412-1469), was born
at Florence in a bye-street called Ardiglione, under the
Canto alla Cuculia, and behind the convent of the
Carmelites. By the death of his father he was left a
friendless orphan at the age of two years, his mother
having also died shortly after his birth. The child was
for some time under the care of a certain Mona Lapaccia,
his aunt, the sister of his father, who brought him up
with very great difficulty till he had attained his eighth
year, when, being no longer able to support the burden
of his maintenance, she placed him in the above-named
convent of the Carmelites. Here, in proportion as he
showed himself dexterous and ingenious in all works
performed by hand, did he manifest the utmost dullness
and incapacity in letters, to which he would never apply
himself, nor would he take any pleasure in learning of
any kind. The boy continued to be called by his worldly
name of Filippo, and being placed with others, who like
himself were in the house of the novices, under the care
of the master, to the end that the latter might see what
could be done with him\; in place of studying, he never
did anything but daub his own books, and those of the
other boys, with caricatures, whereupon the prior determined
to give him all means and every opportunity for learning
to draw. The chapel of the Carmine had then been newly
painted by Masaccio, and this being exceedingly beautiful,
pleased Fra Filippo greatly, wherefore he frequented it daily
for his recreation, and, continually practising there, in
company with many other youths, who were constantly
drawing in that place, he surpassed all the others by very
much in dexterity and knowledge .... Proceeding thus, and
improving from day to day, he has so closely followed the
manner of Masaccio, and his works displayed so much
similarity to those of the latter, that many affirmed the spirit
of Masaccio to have entered the body of Fra Filippo .... "It is
said that Fra Filippo was much addicted to the pleasures of
sense, insomuch that he would give all he possessed to secure
the gratification of whatever inclination might at the moment
be predominant .... It was known that, while occupied in the
pursuit of his pleasures, the works undertaken by him received
little or none of his attention\; for which reason Cosimo de'
Medici, wishing him to execute a work in his own palace, shut
him up, that he might not waste his time in running about\; but
having endured this confinement for two days, he then made
ropes with sheets of his bed, which he cut to pieces for that
purpose, and so having let himself down from a window, escaped,
and for several days gave himself up to his amusements. When
Cosimo found that the painter had disappeared, he caused him
to be sought, and Fra Filippo at last returned to his work, but
from that time forward Cosimo gave him liberty to go in and
out at his pleasure, repenting greatly of having previously shut
him up, when he considered the danger that Fra Filippo had
incurred by his folly in descending from the window\; and ever
afterwards labouring to keep him to his work by kindness only,
he was by this means much more promptly and effectually
served by the painter, and was wont to say that the excellencies
of rare genius were as forms of light and not beasts of burden."

17.
Cosimo of the Medici (1389-1464): the real ruler of Florence,
and a patron of art and literature.

53.
The snatches of song represent a species of Italian folk-song
called Stornelli\; each consisting of three lines of a set form,
and containing the name of a flower in the first line.

67.
Saint Laurence: the Church at San Lorenzo, now famous for
the tombs of the Medici, the work of Michael Angelo.

73.
Jerome: one of the Christian Fathers, translated the Bible
into Latin\; he led a life of extreme asceticism.

117-18.
A reference to the procession carrying the consecrated wafer.

121.
the Eight: a body of magistrates who kept order.

130.
antiphonary: the service-book.

140.
Preaching Friars: the Dominicans.

172.
funked: turned to smoke.

176 ff.
Lippi belonged to the naturalistic school which developed
among the Florentines. These showed a greater attention to
natural form and beauty, as opposed to the conventional school,
who were men under the influence of earlier artists and inherited
an ascetic timidity in the representation of material things.

189.
Giotto (1267-1337): the earliest of the greater Florentine
painters.

196.
Herodias: sister-in-law of Herod, and mother of Salome.
See Matthew, 14 for the story of Salome's dance and the beheading
of John the Baptist.

227.
See line 18 above.

235.
Brother Angelico: Fra Angelico (1387-1455), "By purity of
life, habitual elevation of thought, and natural sweetness of
disposition, he was enabled to express the sacred affections
upon the human countenance, as no one ever did before or since" (Ruskin).

236.
Lorenzo: Lorenzo Monaco (1370-1425), a Camaldolese
friar who painted in Florence.

273 ff.
Tommaso Guidi (1401-28) better known as Masaccio (which means
"hulking") "because," says Vasari, "of his excessive negligence and
disregard of himself." He was the teacher--not, as here represented,
the pupil--of Filippo Lippi (see first note above).

324.
Prato: a town some dozen miles from Florence\; in the Cathedral
are frescoes by Filippo, but they represent St. Stephen, and the
Baptist, not St. Laurence.

328.
According to tradition, St. Laurence was roasted on a gridiron.

339.
Chianti wine: the common red wine of Tuscany.

346.
Browning proceeds to put into Fra Filippo's mouth a description
of what is considered his masterpiece --a Coronation of the Virgin--which
he painted for the nuns of Sant' Ambrogio. Browning, following Vasari,
believes that the painter put a self-portrait in the lower corner of the
picture. Recent research has shown that the figure is a portrait, not of
Fra Filippo, but of the benefactor who ordered the picture for the
church. In this case, perfecit opus means "caused the work to
be made," not, as Browning takes it, "completed the work himself."

354.
St. John the Baptist is the patron saint of the Florentines.


~ Robert Browning, Fra Lippo Lippi
,
1256:Enoch Arden
Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.
Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.
A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.
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But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home
For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last
A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year
On board a merchantman, and made himself
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:
And all me look'd upon him favorably:
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May
He purchased his own boat, and made a home
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.
Then, on a golden autumn eventide,
The younger people making holiday,
With bag and sack and basket, great and small,
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd
(His father lying sick and needing him)
An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd,
And in their eyes and faces read his doom;
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd,
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life
Crept down into the hollows of the wood;
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,
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Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.
So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,
Seven happy years of health and competence,
And mutual love and honorable toil;
With children; first a daughter. In him woke,
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish
To save all earnings to the uttermost,
And give his child a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd,
When two years after came a boy to be
The rosy idol of her solitudes,
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
Or often journeying landward; for in truth
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales,
Not only to the market-cross were known,
But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering.
Then came a change, as all things human change.
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port
Open'd a larger haven: thither used
Enoch at times to go by land or sea;
And once when there, and clambering on a mast
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell:
A limb was broken when they lifted him;
And while he lay recovering there, his wife
Bore him another son, a sickly one:
Another hand crept too across his trade
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man,
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night,
To see his children leading evermore
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,
And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd
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`Save them from this, whatever comes to me.'
And while he pray'd, the master of that ship
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance,
Came, for he knew the man and valued him,
Reporting of his vessel China-bound,
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd,
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place?
And Enoch all at once assented to it,
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.
So now that the shadow of mischance appear'd
No graver than as when some little cloud
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun,
And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife-When he was gone--the children--what to do?
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;
To sell the boat--and yet he loved her well-How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her!
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse-And yet to sell her--then with what she brought
Buy goods and stores--set Annie forth in trade
With all that seamen needed or their wives-So might she keep the house while he was gone.
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go
This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice-As oft as needed--last, returning rich,
Become the master of a larger craft,
With fuller profits lead an easier life,
Have all his pretty young ones educated,
And pass his days in peace among his own.
Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born.
Forward she started with a happy cry,
And laid the feeble infant in his arms;
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs,
Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike,
But had no heart to break his purposes
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.
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Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt
Her finger, Annie fought against his will:
Yet not with brawling opposition she,
But manifold entreaties, many a tear,
Many a sad kiss by day and night renew'd
(Sure that all evil would come out of it)
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
For here or his dear children, not to go.
He not for his own self caring but her,
Her and her children, let her plead in vain;
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'.
For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend,
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand
To fit their little streetward sitting-room
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.
So all day long till Enoch's last at home,
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang,
Till this was ended, and his careful hand,-The space was narrow,--having order'd all
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs
Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,
Who needs would work for Annie to the last,
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.
And Enoch faced this morning of farewell
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears,
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him.
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God,
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes
Whatever came to him: and then he said
`Annie, this voyage by the grace of God
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,
For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it.'
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle `and he,
This pretty, puny, weakly little one,-Nay--for I love him all the better for it--
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God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts,
And make him merry, when I come home again.
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.'
Him running on thus hopefully she heard,
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd
The current of his talk to graver things
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard,
Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring,
Musing on him that used to fill it for her,
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.
At length she spoke `O Enoch, you are wise;
And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more.'
`Well then,' said Enoch, `I shall look on yours.
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here
(He named the day) get you a seaman's glass,
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.'
But when the last of those last moments came,
`Annie my girl, cheer up, be comforted,
Look to the babes, and till I come again,
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.
And fear no more for me; or if you fear
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
Is He not yonder in those uttermost
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His,
The sea is His: He made it.'
Enoch rose,
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones;
But for the third, sickly one, who slept
After a night of feverous wakefulness,
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said
`Wake him not; let him sleep; how should this child
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Remember this?' and kiss'ed him in his cot.
But Annie from her baby's forehead clipt
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.
She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came,
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;
She saw him not: and while he stood on deck
Waving, the moment and the vessel past.
Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him;
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave,
Set her sad will no less to chime with his,
But throve not in her trade, not being bred
To barter, nor compensating the want
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
And still foreboding `what would Enoch say?'
For more than once, in days of difficulty
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less
Than what she gave in buying what she sold:
She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus,
Expectant of that news that never came,
Gain'd for here own a scanty sustenance,
And lived a life of silent melancholy.
Now the third child was sickly-born and grew
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it
With all a mother's care: nevertheless,
Whether her business often call'd her from it,
Or thro' the want of what it needed most,
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell
What most it needed--howsoe'er it was,
After a lingering,--ere she was aware,-Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
The little innocent soul flitted away.
In that same week when Annie buried it,
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Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her),
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long.
`Surely' said Philip `I may see her now,
May be some little comfort;' therefore went,
Past thro' the solitary room in front,
Paused for a moment at an inner door,
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief,
Fresh from the burial of her little one,
Cared not to look on any human face,
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly
`Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.'
He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply
`Favor from one so sad and so forlorn
As I am!' half abash'd him; yet unask'd,
His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
He set himself beside her, saying to her:
`I came to speak to you of what he wish'd,
Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
You chose the best among us--a strong man:
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'.
And wherefore did he go this weary way,
And leave you lonely? not to see the world-For pleasure?--nay, but for the wherewithal
To give his babes a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish.
And if he come again, vext will he be
To find the precious morning hours were lost.
And it would vex him even in his grave,
If he could know his babes were running wild
Like colts about the waste. So Annie, now-Have we not known each other all our lives?
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Him and his children not to say me nay-For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
Why then he shall repay me--if you will,
Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do.
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Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
This is the favor that I came to ask.'
Then Annie with her brows against the wall
Answer'd `I cannot look you in the face;
I seem so foolish and so broken down.
When you came in my sorrow broke me down;
And now I think your kindness breaks me down;
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:
He will repay you: money can be repaid;
Not kindness such as yours.'
And Philip ask'd
`Then you will let me, Annie?'
There she turn'd,
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him,
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,
Then calling down a blessing on his head
Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately,
And past into the little garth beyond.
So lifted up in spirit he moved away.
Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,
And bought them needful books, and everyway,
Like one who does his duty by his own,
Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake,
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,
Or conies from the down, and now and then,
With some pretext of fineness in the meal
To save the offence of charitable, flour
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.
But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind:
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
Light on a broken word to thank him with.
But Philip was her children's all-in-all;
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From distant corners of the street they ran
To greet his hearty welcome heartily;
Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them
Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
Down at the far end of an avenue,
Going we know not where: and so ten years,
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.
It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd
To go with others, nutting to the wood,
And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too:
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saying to him
`Come with us Father Philip' he denied;
But when the children pluck'd at him to go,
He laugh'd, and yielding readily to their wish,
For was not Annie with them? and they went.
But after scaling half the weary down,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, all her force
Fail'd her; and sighing `let me rest' she said.
So Philip rested with her well-content;
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge
To the bottom, and dispersed, and beat or broke
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
And calling, here and there, about the wood.
But Philip sitting at her side forgot
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life
He crept into the shadow: at last he said
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Lifting his honest forehead `Listen, Annie,
How merry they are down yonder in the wood.'
`Tired, Annie?' for she did not speak a word.
`Tired?' but her face had fall'n upon her hands;
At which, as with a kind anger in him,
`The ship was lost' he said `the ship was lost!
No more of that! why should you kill yourself
And make them orphans quite?' And Annie said
`I thought not of it: but--I known not why-Their voices make me feel so solitary.'
Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
`Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
And it has been upon my mind so long,
That tho' I know not when it first came there,
I know that it will out at last. O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
That he who left you ten long years ago
Should still be living; well then--let me speak:
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
I cannot help you as I wish to do
Unless--they say that women are so quick-Perhaps you know what I would have you know-I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove
A father to your children: I do think
They love me as a father: I am sure
That I love them as if they were mine own;
And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
That after all these sad uncertain years,
We might be still as happy as God grants
To any of His creatures. Think upon it:
For I am well-to-do--no kin, no care,
No burthen, save my care for you and yours:
And we have known each other all our lives,
And I have loved you longer than you know.'
Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke:
`You have been as God's good angel in our house.
God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
Philip, with something happier than myself.
Can one live twice? can you be ever loved
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?'
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`I am content' he answer'd `to be loved
A little after Enoch.' `O' she cried
Scared as it were `dear Philip, wait a while:
If Enoch comes--but Enoch will not come-Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
Surely I shall be wiser in a year:
O wait a little!' Philip sadly said
`Annie, as I have waited all my life
I well may wait a little.' `Nay' she cried
`I am bound: you have my promise--in a year:
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?'
And Philip answer'd `I will bide my year.'
Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose,
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.
Up came the children laden with their spoil;
Then all descended to the port, and there
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand,
Saying gently `Annie, when I spoke to you,
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.
I am always bound to you, but you are free.'
Then Annie weeping answer'd `I am bound.'
She spoke; and in one moment as it were,
While yet she went about her household ways,
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words,
That he had loved her longer than she knew,
That autumn into autumn flash'd again,
And there he stood once more before her face,
Claiming her promise. `Is it a year?' she ask'd.
`Yes, if the nuts' he said `be ripe again:
Come out and see.' But she--she put him off-So much to look to--such a change--a month-Give her a month--she knew that she was bound-A month--no more. Then Philip with his eyes
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand,
`Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.'
And Annie could have wept for pity of him;
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And yet she held him on delayingly
With many a scarce-believable excuse,
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance,
Till half-another year had slipt away.
By this the lazy gossips of the port,
Abhorrent of a calculation crost,
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her;
Some that she but held off to draw him on;
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too,
As simple folks that knew not their own minds;
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly
Would hint a worse in either. Her own son
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish;
But evermore the daughter prest upon her
To wed the man so dear to all of them
And lift the household out of poverty;
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew
Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her
Sharp as reproach.
At last one night it chanced
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly
Pray'd for a sign `my Enoch is he gone?'
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,
Started from bed, and struck herself a light,
Then desperately seized the holy Book,
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,
Suddenly put her finger on the text,
`Under a palmtree.' That was nothing to her:
No meaning there: she closed the book and slept:
When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height,
Under a palmtree, over him the Sun:
`He is gone' she thought `he is happy, he is singing
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms
Whereof the happy people strowing cried
"Hosanna in the highest!"' Here she woke,
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him
88
`There is no reason why we should not wed.'
`Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, `both our sakes,
So you will wed me, let it be at once.'
So these were wed and merrily rang the bells,
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.
But never merrily beat Annie's heart.
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,
She knew not whence; a whisper in her ear,
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:
Such doubts and fears were common to her state,
Being with child: but when her child was born,
Then her new child was as herself renew'd,
Then the new mother came about her heart,
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
And that mysterious instinct wholly died.
And where was Enoch? prosperously sail'd
The ship `Good Fortune,' tho' at setting forth
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext
She slipt across the summer of the world,
Then after a long tumble about the Cape
And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
She passing thro' the summer world again,
The breath of heaven came continually
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles,
Till silent in her oriental haven.
There Enoch traded for himself, and bought
Quaint monsters for the market of those times,
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.
Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows:
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable,
89
Then baffling, a long course of them; and last
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens
Till hard upon the cry of `breakers' came
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
But Enoch and two others. Half the night,
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars,
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
Rich, but loneliest in a lonely sea.
No want was there of human sustenance,
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots;
Nor save for pity was it hard to take
The helpless life so wild that it was tame.
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut,
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.
For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life.
They could not leave him. After he was gone,
The two remaining found a fallen stem;
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself,
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.
In those two deaths he read God's warning `wait.'
The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes,
The lightning flash of insect and of bird,
The lustre of the long convolvuluses
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows
And glories of the broad belt of the world,
All these he saw; but what he fain had seen
He could not see, the kindly human face,
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,
The league-long roller thundering on the reef,
90
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail:
No sail from day to day, but every day
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts
Among the palms and ferns and precipices;
The blaze upon the waters to the east;
The blaze upon his island overhead;
The blaze upon the waters to the west;
Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again
The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail.
There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch,
So still, the golden lizard on him paused,
A phantom made of many phantoms moved
Before him haunting him, or he himself
Moved haunting people, things and places, known
Far in a darker isle beyond the line;
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs,
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas.
Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,
Tho' faintly, merrily--far and far away-He heard the pealing of his parish bells;
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart
Spoken with That, which being everywhere
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone,
Surely the man had died of solitude.
Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went
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Year after year. His hopes to see his own,
And pace the sacred old familiar fields,
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:
For since the mate had seen at early dawn
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle
The silent water slipping from the hills,
They sent a crew that landing burst away
In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores
With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge
Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary,
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd,
With inarticulate rage, and making signs
They knew not what: and yet he led the way
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran;
And ever as he mingled with the crew,
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue
Was loosen'd, till he made them understand;
Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard:
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly,
Scarce credited at first but more and more,
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it:
And clothes they gave him and free passage home;
But oft he work'd among the rest and shook
His isolation from him. None of these
Came from his county, or could answer him,
If question'd, aught of what he cared to know.
And dull the voyage was with long delays,
The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore
His fancy fled before the lazy wind
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon
He like a lover down thro' all his blood
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall:
And that same morning officers and men
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves,
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it:
Then moving up the coast they landed him,
92
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before.
There Enoch spoke no word to anyone,
But homeward--home--what home? had he a home?
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon,
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm,
Where either haven open'd on the deeps,
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray;
Cut off the length of highway on before,
And left but narrow breadth to left and right
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage.
On the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down.
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light
Flared on him, and he came upon the place.
Then down the long street having slowly stolen,
His heart foreshadowing all calamity,
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes
In those far-off seven happy years were born;
But finding neither light nor murmur there
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept
Still downward thinking `dead or dead to me!'
Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went,
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,
A front of timber-crost antiquity,
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old,
He thought it must have gone; but he was gone
Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane,
With daily-dwindling profits held the house;
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.
There Enoch rested silently many days.
But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous,
Nor let him be, but often breaking in,
Told him, with other annals of the port,
Not knowing--Enoch was so brown, so bow'd,
93
So broken--all the story of his house.
His baby's death, her growing poverty,
How Philip put her little ones to school,
And kept them in it, his long wooing her,
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth
Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenance
No shadow past, nor motion: anyone,
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale
Less than the teller: only when she closed
`Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost'
He, shaking his gray head pathetically,
Repeated muttering `cast away and lost;'
Again in deeper inward whispers `lost!'
But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again;
`If I might look on her sweet face gain
And know that she is happy.' So the thought
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth,
At evening when the dull November day
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
There he sat down gazing on all below;
There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
The ruddy square of comfortable light,
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
Against it, and beats out his weary life.
For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
The latest house to landward; but behind,
With one small gate that open'd on the waste,
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd:
And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk
Of shingle, and a walk divided it:
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.
For cups and silver on the burnish'd board
94
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd:
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning now and then to speak with him,
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.
Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children's love,-Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all,
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.
He therefore turning softly like a thief,
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden-wall,
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed,
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.
And there he would have knelt, but that his knees
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.
95
`Too hard to bear! why did they take me hence?
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle,
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
A little longer! aid me, give me strength
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
Help me no to break in upon her peace.
My children too! must I not speak to these?
They know me not. I should betray myself.
Never: not father's kiss for me--the girl
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.'
There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little,
And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced
Back toward his solitary home again,
All down the long and narrow street he went
Beating it in upon his weary brain,
As tho' it were the burthen of a song,
`Not to tell her, never to let her know.'
He was not all unhappy. His resolve
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore
Prayer from a living source within the will,
And beating up thro' all the bitter world,
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea,
Kept him a living soul. `This miller's wife'
He said to Miriam `that you told me of,
Has she no fear that her first husband lives?'
`Ay ay, poor soul' said Miriam, `fear enow!
If you could tell her you had seen him dead,
Why, that would be her comfort;' and he thought
`After the Lord has call'd me she shall know,
I wait His time' and Enoch set himself,
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.
Almost to all things could he turn his hand.
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd
At lading and unlading the tall barks,
That brought the stinted commerce of those days;
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself:
Yet since he did but labor for himself,
Work without hope, there was not life in it
96
Whereby the man could live; and as the year
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually
Weakening the man, till he could do no more,
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed.
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully.
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall
The boat that bears the hope of life approach
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw
Death dawning on him, and the close of all.
For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope
On Enoch thinking `after I am gone,
Then may she learn I loved her to the last.'
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said
`Woman, I have a secret--only swear,
Before I tell you--swear upon the book
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.'
`Dead' clamor'd the good woman `hear him talk!
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.'
`Swear' add Enoch sternly `on the book.'
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,
`Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?'
`Know him?' she said `I knew him far away.
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.'
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her;
`His head is low, and no man cares for him.
I think I have not three days more to live;
I am the man.' At which the woman gave
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.
`You Arden, you! nay,--sure he was a foot
Higher than you be.' Enoch said again
`My God has bow'd me down to what I am;
My grief and solitude have broken me;
Nevertheless, know that I am he
Who married--but that name has twice been changed-I married her who married Philip Ray.
Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his voyage,
97
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears,
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly
To rush abroad all round the little haven,
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;
But awed and promise-bounded she forbore,
Saying only `See your bairns before you go!
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
A moment on her words, but then replied.
`Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
But let me hold my purpose till I die.
Sit down again; mark me and understand,
While I have power to speak. I charge you now,
When you shall see her, tell her that I died
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
Save for the bar between us, loving her
As when she laid her head beside my own.
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw
So like her mother, that my latest breath
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.
And tell my son that I died blessing him.
And say to Philip that I blest him too;
He never meant us any thing but good.
But if my children care to see me dead,
Who hardly saw me living, let them come,
I am their father; but she must not come,
For my dead face would vex her after-life.
And now there is but one of all my blood,
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,
And I have borne it with me all these years,
And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:
It will moreover be a token to her,
That I am he.'
98
He ceased; and Miriam Lane
Made such a voluble answer promising all,
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again
She promised.
Then the third night after this,
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale,
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals,
There came so loud a calling of the sea,
That all the houses in the haven rang.
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad
Crying with a loud voice `a sail! a sail!
I am saved'; and so fell back and spoke no more.
So past the strong heroic soul away.
And when they buried him the little port
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

IN CHAPTERS [83/83]



   32 Integral Yoga
   18 Yoga
   10 Occultism
   5 Fiction
   3 Poetry
   2 Psychology
   1 Islam
   1 Christianity
   1 Alchemy


   30 The Mother
   18 Sri Ramakrishna
   15 Satprem
   5 James George Frazer
   5 H P Lovecraft
   4 Aleister Crowley
   2 Sri Aurobindo
   2 Jorge Luis Borges
   2 Carl Jung


   18 The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
   7 Questions And Answers 1957-1958
   7 Agenda Vol 01
   5 The Golden Bough
   5 Lovecraft - Poems
   4 Questions And Answers 1956
   4 Magick Without Tears
   2 Words Of Long Ago
   2 Agenda Vol 10
   2 Agenda Vol 08


0.10 - Letters to a Young Captain, #Some Answers From The Mother, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  On the night of Friday the 8th, I had a very peculiar
  dream. As I could not tell it to You at the Playground, I

0 1958-11-08, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   I found my message for the 1st of January It was quite unforeseen. Yesterday morning, I thought, All the same, I have to find my message, but what? I was absolutely like that, neutral, nothing. Then yesterday evening at the class (of Friday, November 7) I noticed that these children who had had a whole week to prepare their questions on the text had not found a single one! A terrible lethargy! A total lack of interest. And when I had finished speaking, I thought to myself, But what IS there in these people who are interested in nothing but their personal little affairs? So I began descending into their mental atmosphere, in search of the little light, of that which responds And it literally pulled me downwards as into a hole, but in such a material way; my hand, which was on the arm of the chair, began slipping down, my other hand went like this (to the ground), my head, too! I thought it was going to touch my knees!
   And I had the impression It was not an impression I saw it. I was descending into a crevasse between two steep rocks, rocks that appeared to be made of something harder than basalt, BLACK, but metallic at the same time, with such sharp edgesit seemed that a mere touch would lacerate you. It appeared endless and bottomless, and it kept getting narrower, narrower and narrower, narrower and narrower, like a funnel, so narrow that there was almost no more roomnot even for the consciousness to pass through. And the bottom was invisible, a black hole. And it went down, down, down, like that, without air, without light, except for a sort of glimmer that enabled me to make out the rock edges. They seemed to be cut so steeply, so sharply Finally, when my head began touching my knees, I asked myself, But what is there at the bottom of this this hole?

0 1958-11-14, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   Friday evening, November 14, 1958
   Satprem,

0 1958-11-28, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   (Extract from the last Friday class)
   As it is, the physical body is really only a very disfigured shadow of the eternal life of the Self, but this physical body is capable of a progressive development; the physical substance progresses through each individual formation, and one day it will be able to build a bridge between physical life as we know it and the supramental life that is to manifest.

0 1958 12 - Floor 1, young girl, we shall kill the young princess - black tent, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   Mother withdrew on December 9. In fact, She had been unwell for already more than a month before withdrawing. On November 26, the last 'Wednesday class' took place at the playground; on November 28 the last 'Friday class', on December 6, the last 'Translation class'; on December 1, the end of Mother's tennis and the last visit to the playground. On December 9, She again went down for the meditation around the Samadhi. From December 10, Mother remained in her room for one month. A great period had come to an end. Henceforth, She would only go out of the Ashram building on rare occasions.
   A disciple

0 1959-01-21, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   I will therefore give you initiation this Friday or Saturday, on the day of the full moon or the day before. This first stage will last three months during which you will have to repeat 1 lakh2 times the mantra that I will give you. At the end of three months, I will come to see you in Pondicherryor you will come here for a fortnight, and as soon as I have received the message from my guru, I will give you the second stage that will last three months as well. At the end of these three months, you will receive the full initiation. X warned me that the first stage I am to receive provokes attacks and tests but that all this disappears with the second stage. Forewarned is forearmed. For what reason I do not know, but X told me that the particular nature of my initiation should remain secret and that he will say nothing about it to Swami, and he added (in speaking of the speed of the process), But you will not be less than the Swami. (!!) There, I wanted you to knowbesides, you were present in Xs vision. All this happened at a time when I was in the most desperate crisis I have ever known. Sweet Mother, there is no end to expressing my gratitude to you, and yet with the least trial, I am reduced to nothing. Why have you so much grace for me?
   I would like very much to return to Pondicherry for the February Darshan and once again begin working for you. Today I am sending a second lot to Pavitra and tomorrow I will start on the Aphorisms, for I do not want to make you wait any longer. I will send a third and final lot to Pavitra by the end of the month, in time for printing. I am very touched, sweet Mother, by your attention and the money you are sending me.
  --
   I was waiting to answer your letter of the 21st until the Friday and Saturday you mentioned had gone by. And then I felt that you were returning the Aphorisms, so I waited a bit more. I have just received them along with your letter of the 23rd, but I have not yet looked at them. Besides, if you intend returning for the February darshan, I think it would be preferable for us to revise the whole book together. There will not be very much work on my side since the Wednesday and Friday classes were discontinued in the beginning of December, and I still do not know when they will resume.3 Right now, I am translating the Aphorisms all alone and it seems to go quickly and well. This could also be revised and the book on the Dhammapada prepared for publication.
   For the time being, I am going downstairs only in the mornings at 6 for the balcony darshan and I immediately come back up without seeing anyone then in the afternoons, I go down once more at about 3 to take my bath and at 4:30 I come back up again. I do not yet know what will happen next month. I shall have to find some way to meet you so that we can work together I am going to think it over.

0 1959-05-28, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   Friday, 5.29.59
   Satprem, my dear little one,

0 1960-01-28, #Agenda Vol 01, #unset, #Zen
   'It wants to live only to conquer.' Then the next day, Mother sent the following note to the disciple: 'Friday, 1.29.60yesterday, when I left you, the experience was there, but in my hurry to leave, the words did not come correctly, or rather they were incomplete (I had said, 'to live only to conquer'). What my body was experiencing was, 'Live to win the Lord's Victory.'
   ***

0 1963-04-29, #Agenda Vol 04, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   On Friday X gave me a new mantra, then the next day he told me that during his puja he received an order to the effect that this mantra was not suitable and he should give me another one. I am supposed to receive the new mantra tomorrow, Tuesday. X said this mantra would be final and with effect. I do hope so, for I would really like to be through with all these changes and preparations and delays, to have the Word, as the Rishis said, and fix myself on it. I would like not to return to Rameshwaram any more and to be through with these dillydallyings. Anyway, Ill have to wait for another three days after receiving the new mantra, so that X can see whether it has the desired effect. So I cannot leave until Thursday.
   I hope this time it will be final and everything will settle into the true Rhythm.

0 1966-12-14, #Agenda Vol 07, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   On the 16th, Friday, I have eighty-five people to see! Its a miracle if I am not in a complete daze.
   Yes, you lead an impossible life.

0 1967-04-05, #Agenda Vol 08, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   He adds: I suggested it might be better to gather and listen to Mothers voice (the recordings of the Wednesday and Friday classes), for even if one doesnt understand at all, your voice would do its inner work, which we are not able to comprehend. In this regard I would like to know what is the best way to put the child in contact with you. For all the suggestions, mine included, seem to me arbitrary and worthless. Mother, would it not be better for the teachers to concentrate exclusively on the subjects they teach, for you are there to look after spiritual life?
   For?

0 1967-10-04, #Agenda Vol 08, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   I told F. to ask him to stay on till Friday, so I could show you this today and ask you if you would mind seeing the gentleman and speaking to him (to see how you feel). But if that troubles you F.s impression is good. Here, you may read his letter to the Prior:
   I have received your answer with joy and am writing again. I am in Aurobindo Ashram, where I thought I would only pass through, but there is a certain something here which attracts me strongly, and I think I have had enough of travelling around. I intend to go to Ramakrishna Mutt at Ootacamund, since I informed them of my visit, but will come back here as early as possible. Everything here is wonderful and spellbinding. One who sees beyond the surface panes might well wonder if the new heaven and the new earth St. John speaks of do not meet here.

0 1969-07-19, #Agenda Vol 10, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   Yes. But whats most, most extraordinary is this change of consciousness of the BODY! You understand, its as if it were reliving they are things that have remained in the consciousness because the psychic being took parttheyre very clear, very precise; the rest has been erased (its been like that for a long time). Well, those things were recorded by the psychic being, and the body had an impression, you understand, an impression of its own; now the psychic consciousness is the same, it sees things in the same way, but the physical impression is completely different! Which means its the PHYSICAL consciousness that has changed. These last few days it has become very, VERY clear. It began on Wednesdayfrom Wednesday to today: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday Its quite recent.
   (Laughing) A dangerous person!

0 1969-11-12, #Agenda Vol 10, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   Yes, thats right. But recently (quite recently, once yesterday, and once last Friday), I had that sort of (whats the word? I dont know what they call it, but he thinks1 its a disease I said, I have no diseases!) its the nerves, the nerves which are nervously attacked by others nervous atmosphere it results in almost intolerable sufferings. Since I settled here, I had never had that, it was Sri Aurobindo who took it away from me (I had explained it to him: it had happened to me when I went back from India to France, and it was rather serious). But since I came here, never. And it came back the other day through someone who was here and who caused it. Yet that someone doesnt know at all and has no CONSCIOUS ill will. And yesterday again, with someone else, it was the same thing. So I had to put the Lord on the nerves forcefullyit took me more than half or three quarters of an hour to succeed in restoring order. Then I said to myself, Goodness! The battle is getting serious.
   Its a disease. They call it a disease of the nerves: all the nerves are sensitized and suffer terribly. When I first had it, I could no longer eat, no longer sleep, no longer move, no longer And that was because2 I had done something mad: I went back to France after leaving my psychic being here; so it seized me as soon as I was far enough from the atmosphere; as soon as I entered the Mediterranean, it began. And it was very serious.
   Now and then, there were attacks like that, but when I came back here, Sri Aurobindo drove it away com-plete-ly (that was long ago). Its only last Friday that it came, and yesterday I hope it wont recur.
   But thats the battle. Its like whats happening there for P.L.: everywhere its a battle. Especially in the vital, especially, still more than in the mind; in the mind, theres a movement of understanding, but in the vital a rage, you know, a rage.

0 1970-05-13, #Agenda Vol 11, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   Mother, on Friday morning I saw you, you called me, you showed me the wall and you told me, Look, those two pictures will become real.
   And then?

0 1972-03-24, #Agenda Vol 13, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   I dont know if Ill remember, thats why I am telling you. Because today is Friday and I wont see him till tomorrow. This way, I am sure I wont forget. Youll tell him, wont you?
   Yes, Mother.

1.03 - Sympathetic Magic, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
  (_kadjwo_). On Fridays they turn these "old men" upside down and
  place them on the thresholds of their houses, believing that whoever

1.05 - THE MASTER AND KESHAB, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  IT WAS Friday, the day of the Lakshmi Puja. Keshab Chandra Sen had arranged a boat trip on the Ganges for Sri Ramakrishna.
  About four o'clock in the afternoon the steamboat with Keshab and his Brahmo followers cast anchor in the Ganges alongside the Kli temple at Dakshineswar. The passengers saw in front of them the bathing-ghat and the chandni. To their left, in the temple compound, stood six temples of iva, and to their right another group of six iva temples. The white steeple of the Kli temple, the tree-tops of the Panchavati, and the silhouette of pine-trees stood high against the blue autumn sky. The gardens between the two nahabats were filled with fragrant flowers, and along the bank of the Ganges were rows of flowering plants. The blue sky was reflected in the brown water of the river, the sacred Ganges, associated with the most ancient traditions of Aryan civilization. The outer world appeared soft and serene, and the hearts of the Brahmo devotees were filled with peace.

1.062 - Friday, #Quran, #unset, #Zen
  object:1.062 - Friday
  class:chapter

1.08 - THE MASTERS BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION AT DAKSHINESWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, March 9, 1883
  Life of worldliness

1.11 - WITH THE DEVOTEES AT DAKSHINEWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, June 15, 1883
  It was a holiday on account of the Hindu religious festival Dasahara. Among the devotees who visited Sri Ramakrishna at Dakshineswar that day were Adhar, M., and Rkhl 's father. Rkhl 's father's father-in-law was also present. All were seated on the floor of the Master's room.

1.13 - THE MASTER AND M., #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, September 7, 1883
  Sri Ramakrishna and M. were talking in the Master's room at half past seven in the evening. No one else was present.

1.16 - WITH THE DEVOTEES AT DAKSHINESWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, December 14, 1883
  At nine o'clock in the morning Sri Ramakrishna was standing on the southeast verandah near the door of his room, with Ramlal by his side. Rkhl and Ltu were moving about. M. arrived and prostrated himself before the Master. Sri Ramakrishna said to him affectionately: "You have come. That's very good. Today is an auspicious day."

1.17 - M. AT DAKSHINEWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, December 21, 1883
  In the morning the Master and M. were conversing alone under the bel-tree. The Master told him many secrets of spiritual discipline, exhorting him to renounce "woman and gold". He further said that the mind at times becomes one's guru.

1.18 - M. AT DAKSHINESWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, January 4, 1884
  Sri Ramakrishna was sitting in his room. M. was still staying with the Master, devoting his time to the practice of spiritual discipline. He had been spending a great part of each day in prayer and meditation under the bel-tree, where the Master had performed great austerities and had seen many wonderful visions of God.

1.19 - The Act of Truth, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  You must invent your act to suit your case, every time; suppose you expect a cable next Friday week, transferring cash to your account. You need $500 to make up an important payment, and you don't know whether they will send even $200. What are you going to do about it? Skimp, and save your expenses, and make yourself miserable and incapable of vigorous thought or action? You may succeed in saving enough to swing the deal; but you won't get a penny beyond the amount actually needed and look at the cost in moral grandeur!
  No, go and stand yourself a champagne luncheon, and stroll up Bond Street with an 8 1/2 "Hoyo de Monterey," and squander $30 on some utterly useless bauble. Then the $500 will swell to $1000, and arrive two days early at that!

1.23 - FESTIVAL AT SURENDRAS HOUSE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, June 20, 1884
  It was dusk. Sri Ramakrishna was sitting in his room, absorbed in contemplation of the Divine Mother. Now and then he was chanting Her name. Rkhl , Adhar, M., and several other devotees were with him.

1.33 - The Gardens of Adonis, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
  in Catholic and Greek churches on Good Friday, just as the gardens
  of Adonis were placed on the grave of the dead Adonis. The practice
  --
  Good Friday a waxen effigy of the dead Christ is exposed to view in
  the middle of the Greek churches and is covered with fervent kisses

1.51 - How to Recognise Masters, Angels, etc., and how they Work, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
    Kindly read over the entry of January 12 with care exceeding. Now then: On Friday, January 30, I went to Paris, to buy pencils, Mandarin, a palette, Napoleon Brandy, canvases and other appurtenances of the artist's dismal trade. I took occasion to call upon an old mistress of mine, Jane Chron, concerning who see Equinox Vol. I, "Three Poems." She has never had the slightest interest in occult matters, and she has never done any work in her life, even of the needlework order. I had seen her once before since my escape from America, and she said she had something to show me, but I took no particular notice, and she did not insist. My object in calling on this second occasion was multiple: I wanted to see the man with whom she is living, who has not yet returned from Russia; I wanted to make love to her; and wanted to smoke a few pipes of opium with her, she being a devotee of that great and terrible God.
    Consider now: the Work whereby I am a Magus began in Cairo (1904) with the discovery of the Stl of Ankh-f-n-Khonsu, in which the principal object is the Body of our Lady Nuit. It is reproduced in colours in the Equinox, Vol. I, No. 7. Jane Chron has a copy of this book. On Friday afternoon, then, I was in her apartment. I had attained none of my objectives in calling on her, and was about to depart. She detained me to show me this "something." She went and took a folded cloth from a drawer. "Shut your eyes," she said.
    When I opened them they saw a cloth four feet or more in length, on which was a magnificent copy, mostly in applique silk, of the Stl. She then told me that in February 1917, she and her young man had gone to the South of France to get cured of the opium habit. In such cases insomnia is frequent. One night, however, he had gone to sleep, and on waking in the morning found the she, wakeful, had drawn a copy of the Stl on a great sheet of paper.

1.56 - The Public Expulsion of Evils, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
  March, and the ceremony is repeated every Friday evening during the
  month. Often, as might have been anticipated, the ancient pagan rite
  --
  peasants believe that on Good Friday the witches go their rounds and
  have great power for mischief. Hence about Oels, near Strehlitz, the

1.57 - Beings I have Seen with my Physical Eye, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  This incident is the key to the puzzle of my character. But, as a child, what did I see? I cannot think of any one person who subsequently devoted his life to Magick who has not at least one early experience of seeing angels, or fairies, or something of the sort. But A.C.? Nary a one. I was brought up on the Bible, a literalist, fundamentalist all that a Plymouth Brother could wish. It never occurred to me to doubt a word of what I was told. Perhaps the Wolf's Tail of an healthy scepticism gleamed pale at the age of 10, when I asked my form master how it was that Christ managed to be dead for three days and three nights between Friday night and Sunday morning. He said that he did not know, and (to a further question) that no one had ever explained it. This merely filled me with ambition to be the great exegetist who had explained it. I never thought of doubting the story.
  Well, all this time, and then through puberty, despite my romantic bent, my absorption in the gramarye of Sir Walter Scott, my imaginative life as one of his heroes, and the rest of it. I never had even a moment's illusion that anything of the sort had ever happened to me. I went through all the motions; I haunted all the places where such things are reputed likely to happen, but nothing did happen.

1.58 - Human Scapegoats in Classical Antiquity, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
  soldier John on Friday the twentieth day of November, being the
  twenty-fourth day of the moon, at the fourth hour.

1.62 - The Elastic Mind, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  You ask me what I mean by an "elastic mind" from our telephone conversation on Friday.
  It is hard to define; but let me give you an example of the bad kind: an old riddle. "Why is a story like a ghost?" Because

1.62 - The Fire-Festivals of Europe, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism
  hallowed on Good Friday, all for the purpose of protecting their
  fields against showers of hail. In some parts of Swabia the Easter

1953-05-13, #Questions And Answers 1953, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   Two days later the Mother took up the subject again in the Friday Class.
   If you said to yourself, my children, We want to be as perfect instruments as possible to express the divine Will in the world, then for this instrument to be perfect, it must be cultivated, educated, trained. It must not be left like a shapeless piece of stone. When you want to build with a stone you chisel it; when you want to make a formless block into a beautiful diamond, you chisel it. Well, it is the same thing. When with your brain and body you want to make a beautiful instrument for the Divine, you must cultivate it, sharpen it, refine it, complete what is missing, perfect what is there.

1954-12-29 - Difficulties and the world - The experience the psychic being wants - After death -Ignorance, #Questions And Answers 1954, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Well, Friday, which is my reading day, is the thirty-first. The thirty-first is the eve of the first. On the eve of the first, usually, a long time agoyou were very small, perhaps you werent even there I used to read the prayer at midnight, just when we passed from one year to the next. Now it is too late, we people tire ourselves out very much the whole day and need to sleep quietly. (The children all ask Mother to read at midnight.) No, no, I wont do it. (Laughter) Only, on that day, at this time, instead of reading anything at all, I shall read the prayer for 1955 to you, and you will listen. And if any of you want to ask questions, I shall answer you, and we shall finish our year in this way not till midnight! (Laughter) We shall end our year like this. Here we are.
  There, my children, thats all?

1956-03-07 - Sacrifice, Animals, hostile forces, receive in proportion to consciousness - To be luminously open - Integral transformation - Pain of rejection, delight of progress - Spirit behind intention - Spirit, matter, over-simplified, #Questions And Answers 1956, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  It is quite certain that if the movement is absolutely unconscious, the result will also be absolutely unconscious; and if the movement is entirely egoistic, the result is also entirely egoistic. It is as in that story by Sri Aurobindo1 I read to you one Friday, the first story in which he explained Karma, saying that evil results in evil, and good results in good. Evil begets evil, and good begets good: that is Karma; it is not a punishment or a reward, it is something automatic. Well, if your sacrifice is egoistic and obscure, it will necessarily have an obscure and egoistic result.
    Sweet Mother, here it is written: The vulgar conception of sacrifice is an act of painful self-immolation, austere self-mortification, difficult self-effacement. But the Gita discourages any excess of violence done to oneself; for the self within is really the Godhead evolving, it is Krishna, it is the Divine; it is not to be troubled and tortured as the Titans of the world trouble and torture it, but to be increasingly fostered, cherished, luminously opened to a divine Light.

1956-08-15 - Protection, purification, fear - Atmosphere at the Ashram on Darshan days - Darshan messages - Significance of 15-08 - State of surrender - Divine Grace always all-powerful - Assumption of Virgin Mary - SA message of 1947-08-15, #Questions And Answers 1956, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  The divine Willand the Grace which manifests itis all-powerful and nothing can exist which is not the expression of this divine Will and this Grace which manifests it. The logical attitudeprecisely the one described in the little book I read to you on Fridays now, Wu Wei4a perfect peace, a total surrender, putting aside all effort and all personal will, giving oneself up to the divine Will and letting it act through oneself.
  Mind you, this is not at all easy, it is not as simple as it looks. But still, if one sincerely takes up this attitude, it is certain that immediately there comes a perfect inner peace, an unmixed bliss, and whatever may be the events of your life, they leave you totally indifferent. This has always been recommended for individual salvation; and I may remark in sing that in this little book, which is also very beautiful and very well written, the sage pares the state of surrender of which he speaks to a sea which is calm, blue, peaceful, vast, moved by a deep force, swelling up at the right moment, subsiding at the right momentindeed, it is an ideal description. But a practical and somewhat objective mind immediately tells you, Well, yes, but there are also tempests at sea, there are also terrible storms, tidal waves, engulfed islands. And so that is perhaps another aspect of the Divine, but it does not bring peace, at least not in the way described by the sage. One would have to be in another state of consciousness to be at peace in such circumstances, one must not pare oneself with the sea! So the problem presents itself again.

1956-08-29 - To live spontaneously - Mental formations Absolute sincerity - Balance is indispensable, the middle path - When in difficulty, widen the consciousness - Easiest way of forgetting oneself, #Questions And Answers 1956, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  I suppose most of you come on Fridays to listen to the reading of Wu Wei. If you have listened, you will remember that somethings said there about being spontaneous, and that the true way of living the true life is to live spontaneously.
  What Lao Tse calls spontaneous is this: instead of being moved by a personal willmental, vital or physicalone ought to stop all outer effort and let oneself be guided and moved by what the Chinese call Tao, which they identify with the Godheador God or the Supreme Principle or the Origin of all things or the creative Truth, indeed all possible human notions of the Divine and the goal to be attained.

1956-10-03 - The Mothers different ways of speaking - new manifestation - new element, possibilities - child prodigies - Laws of Nature, supramental - Logic of the unforeseen - Creative writers, hands of musicians - Prodigious children, men, #Questions And Answers 1956, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Some time later, during a Friday Class, Mother spoke once again on the subject of child prodigies.
  Recently, in one of the Wednesday classes, we talked about child prodigies. Some say that the number of child prodigies is increasing considerably, and someeven among Americanssay it is the influence and work of Sri Aurobindo, and others say it is a result of atom bombs! But the fact is that there is a fairly large number of child prodigies. I did not want to speak about it in much detail, for I did not have any proofs in hand, that is, I did not have any good examples to give. It happens that since then someone has brought me a French book written by a child of eight.2 Naturally there are people who dispute the possibility, but I shall explain to you later how such a thing is possible.

1957-03-08 - A Buddhist story, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  The following story was told by Mother during one of the Friday classes, generally reserved for readings to the children.
  A Buddhist Story

1957-03-15 - Reminiscences of Tlemcen, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  The following talk was given on a Friday, the day Mother used to read to the children.
  Reminiscences of Tlemcen

1957-03-22 - A story of initiation, knowledge and practice, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  The following story was told by Mother during a Friday class.
  This evening I am going to read to you a short story which seemed quite instructive to me. It is a tale of ancient times, of what used to happen before there were printing presses and books, of the days when only the Guru or the Initiate had the knowledge and gave it only to those he considered worthy of having it. And for him, usually, to be worthy of having it meant putting into practice what one had learnt. He gave you a truth and expected you to practise it. And when you had put it into practice, he consented to give you another.

1957-07-31 - Awakening aspiration in the body, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Sweet Mother, on Friday the subject you gave for meditation was How to awaken in the body an aspiration for the Divine.
  Yes.

1957-10-02 - The Mind of Light - Statues of the Buddha - Burden of the past, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
    For some months, every Friday in the younger children's class Mother used to read a few verses from the Dhammapada, the most sacred text of Buddhist Teaching.
  ***

1958-08-15 - Our relation with the Gods, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  This short talk was given on a Friday, the day on which the Dhammapada was usually read.
  As today is Sri Aurobindos birthday I thought that instead of reading the Dhammapada I could read to you something which will both interest you and show you how Sri Aurobindo visualised our relation with the gods.

1958-08-27 - Meditation and imagination - From thought to idea, from idea to principle, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Mother, in the Friday Classes, you often read a sentence1 to us and ask us to meditate on it. But how should we meditate on a sentence? That is, should we think, meditate on the idea or what should we do?
  Meditate on a sentence?
  --
  When we have finished the Dhammapada, that is what I intend to do. I am at present translating the latest of Sri Aurobindos books we have published, Thoughts and Aphorisms, and I intend, every Friday, to give one single sentence, one single aphorismwith or without the commentary as necessaryas a subject for meditation. We still have to see how we should go about it. We could proceed in two different ways. As I am going to take them up in order, you will always know which one will be for the following week and prepare questions in advance; or else if you dont prepare the questions in advance, perhaps it will be more interesting to take a sentence, to have a meditation on it, and in the following lesson to ask me questions on the sentence from the previous week. Then, from the questions I am asked, I shall choose those that seem to me the most intelligent and answer them. And later we shall take a new sentence which will serve as the subject for meditation on that day and the subject for questions the following week. And this I am going to do with a very precise, very definite purpose: to bring you out of your mental somnolence and compel you to reflect and try to understand what I tell you. For, it makes a little noise in your ears, a still softer noise in your heads, and then it goes out from the other side, and then it is finished! Sometimes, very rarely, by a special grace, there is just a little effect here, like this (gesture), which lasts like a little flickering flameit burns, and then, pfft! Something blows on it, it goes out and it is all finished.
  We need lessons, Sweet Mother.

1958 12 05, #On Thoughts And Aphorisms, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
   The "Friday Classes", which took place in the Ashram Playground, end here, and with them the first section of the Mother's commentaries.
   ***

1.ad - O Christ, protect me!, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
   English version by Gabriel Rosenstock O Christ, protect me! How can I know your power? Your peace I need now Branch of fairest flower! O child of Bethlehem Please do not be hard! Ruler of all On Sunday be my guard. On Monday, when you judge me Save me from all harm, Though angered by your wounds Stretch out your arm. On Tuesday, lovely Son Who never shirked pain Let the world's kings stand aside Be my gain! On Thursday, God the Father, Do not deny your face, Your pain stirs love within me Seal your grace. O Trinity, stand by me Without you we are dust, On Friday, hold back your anger, Help us, you must. On Saturday, save me! My deeds leave me in danger, Do not tax me too much, I am no stranger. Son of the Father, help me, Only son most high, Pardon us, in spite of all, I cry.

1f.lovecraft - In the Vault, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
   for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. Being
   without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; though ever
  --
   On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the
   tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. That
  --
   certain chance allusions such as Friday, tomb, coffin, and words
   of less obvious concatenation. His frightened horse had gone home, but

1f.lovecraft - The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
   Smith diary a company of about 100 men met at 10 p.m. on Friday, April
   12th, 1771, in the great room of Thurstons Tavern at the Sign of the
  --
   significance to the change. The day was Good Friday, a circumstance of
   which the servants made much, but which others quite naturally dismiss
  --
   In the week following that memorable Good Friday Charles Ward was seen
   more often than usual, and was continually carrying books between his
  --
   the cook. Dr. Willett had been told of those Friday noises and
   happenings, and on the following Tuesday had a long conversation with
  --
   that turbulent Good Friday. The youth was arguing or remonstrating
   hotly with himself, for there suddenly burst forth a perfectly
  --
   it must have come. That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday, and those
   different tones in the locked attic laboratory. What were they like,
  --
   horrible Good Friday of the previous year.
   [cdw1.gif]
  --
   heard her son chanting on that ominous Good Friday a year before, and
   what an authority had told him was a very terrible invocation addressed
  --
   So on the morning of Friday, April 13, 1928, Marinus Bicknell Willett
   visited the room of Charles Dexter Ward at Dr. Waites private hospital

1f.lovecraft - The Dunwich Horror, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
   woke late Friday, clear of head, though sober with a gnawing fear and
   tremendous sense of responsibility. Saturday afternoon he felt able to
  --
   Friday morning Armitage, Rice, and Morgan set out by motor for Dunwich,
   arriving at the village about one in the afternoon. The day was

1f.lovecraft - The Electric Executioner, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
   me we were due in Mexico City at noon Friday, but I soon saw that
   countless delays were wasting precious hours. There were waits on
  --
   Friday eveningfully twelve hours behind schedulewhen the conductor
   consented to do some speeding in an effort to make up time. My nerves
  --
   sharpening unlike the precise pointing I had given it Friday afternoon
   on the machine in President McCombs private car.
  --
   States. By the next Friday I was in San Francisco again, and the
   postponed wedding came off the following week.

1f.lovecraft - The Shadow out of Time, #Lovecraft - Poems, #unset, #Zen
   On the evening of Friday, Sept. 26, I dismissed the housekeeper and the
   maid till noon of the next day. Lights burned in the house till late,
  --
   sand and rock. On Friday, May 31st, we forded a branch of the De Grey
   and entered the realm of utter desolation. A certain positive terror

1.rb - Fra Lippo Lippi, #Browning - Poems, #Robert Browning, #Poetry
   Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this
   What need of art at all? A skull and bones,

1.ww - The Old Cumberland Beggar, #Wordsworth - Poems, #unset, #Zen
  Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
  By her own wants, she from her store of meal

2.01 - AT THE STAR THEATRE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, September 19, 1884
  IT WAS MAHALAYA, a sacred day of the Hindus, and the day of the new moon. At two o'clock in the afternoon Sri Ramakrishna was sitting in his room with Mahendra Mukherji, Priya Mukherji, M., Baburam, Harish, Kishori, and Ltu. Some were sitting on the floor, some standing, and others moving about. Hazra was sitting on the porch. Rkhl was still at Vrindvan with Balarm.

2.02 - THE DURGA PUJA FESTIVAL, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, September 26, 1884
  SRI RAMAKRISHNA had come to Calcutta. It was the first day of the Durga Puja, the great religious festival, and the Hindus of the metropolis were celebrating it. The Master intended to visit the image of the Divine Mother at Adhar's house. He also wanted to see Shivanath, the Brahmo devotee.

2.13 - THE MASTER AT THE HOUSES OF BALARM AND GIRISH, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, April 24, 1885
  Master and M.

2.17 - THE MASTER ON HIMSELF AND HIS EXPERIENCES, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, August 28
  It was dawn. Sri Ramakrishna was awake and meditating on the Divine Mother. On account of his illness the devotees were deprived of his sweet chanting of the Mother's name.

2.19 - THE MASTER AND DR. SARKAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, October 23, 1885
  IT WAS THE DAY of the full moon following the Durga Puja, the worship of the Divine Mother. At ten o'clock in the morning Sri Ramakrishna was talking to M., who was helping him with his socks.

2.21 - IN THE COMPANY OF DEVOTEES AT SYAMPUKUR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, October 30, 1885
  It was nine o'clock in the morning. Sri Ramakrishna was talking with M. in his room. No one else was present. M. was going to Dr. Sarkar to report his condition and bring him to examine the Master.
  --
  Friday, November 6, 1885
  It was the day of the Kli Puja, the worship of the Divine Mother, Sri Ramakrishna's Chosen Ideal. At about nine o'clock in the morning the Master, clad in a new cloth, stood in the south room on the second floor of his temporary residence at Syampukur. He had asked M. to offer worship to Siddhesvari at Thanthania, in the central part of Calcutta, with flowers, green coconut, sugar, and other sweets. After bathing in the Ganges, M.

2.22 - THE MASTER AT COSSIPORE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  ON Friday, DECEMBER 11, Sri Ramakrishna was moved to a beautiful house at Cossipore, a suburb of Calcutta. The house was situated in a garden covering about five acres of land and abounding in fruit-trees and flowering plants. Here the final curtain fell on the Master's life.
  At Cossipore he set himself with redoubled energy to the completion of the work of spiritual ministration he had begun long before at Dakshineswar. Realizing that the end of his physical life was approaching, he gave away his spiritual treasures without stint to one and all. He was like one of those fruit-sellers who bring their fruit to the market-place, bargain at first about the prices, but then toward sunset, when the market is about to close, give away the fruit indiscriminately. Here his disciples saw the greatest manifestation of his spiritual powers. Here they saw the fulfilment of his prophecies about his own end: "I shall make the whole thing public before I go." "When people in large numbers come to know and whisper about the greatness of this body, then the Mother will take it back." "The devotees will be sifted into inner and outer circles toward the end." And so on. Here he predicted that a band of young disciples, with Narendranath as their leader, would in due course renounce the world and devote themselves to the realization of God and the service of humanity.

2.23 - THE MASTER AND BUDDHA, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, April 9, 1886
  IT WAS FIVE O'CLOCK in the afternoon. Narendra, Kali, Niranjan, and M. were talking downstairs in the Cossipore garden house.
  --
  Friday, April 16, 1886
  The moon was shining brilliantly, flooding the garden paths, the trees, and the water of the lake with its white rays. Girish, M., Latu, and a few other devotees were seated on the steps leading to the lake. The house stood to the west of the lake. A lamp burnt in the Master's room on the second floor. Sri Ramakrishna was sitting on his bed. There were several devotees in the room.

2.24 - THE MASTERS LOVE FOR HIS DEVOTEES, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, April 23, 1886
  It was-Good Friday. Hirananda had taken his midday meal at the Cossipore garden house. About one o'clock in the afternoon he was stroking Sri Ramakrishna's feet. M. sat near by. Latu and one or two other devotees were going in and out of the room. It was the Master's earnest desire that Hirananda should stay for some time at the Cossipore garden house.
  While massaging the Master's feet, Hirananda conversed with him. He spoke in a very sweet voice, as if trying to console a child.

2.25 - AFTER THE PASSING AWAY, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  Friday, April 8, 1887
  About eight o'clock in the morning two devotees, one a householder and the other a monk, were conversing in a room in the Baranagore monastery, when M. came in. The devotees were of the same age — twenty-four or twenty-five years old. M. intended to spend three days at the monastery. He went to the shrine and saluted the Deity. After visiting Narendra, Rakhal, and the other brothers, he at last came into the room where the two devotees were engaged in conversation. The householder devotee wanted to renounce the world. The monk was trying to persuade him not to do so.

2.3.04 - The Mother's Force, #The Mother With Letters On The Mother, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   evening that day. But I did not write to the Mother about X's complaint until Friday. Could it be that when X's letter entered the Ashram atmosphere a response came?
  Y spoke to the Mother about X's pain on the same day - so it is not necessary to suppose an automatic effect of the letter itself. But such an automatic effect does often take place either immediately after writing or when the letter enters the Mother's

3.04 - On Thought - III, #Words Of Long Ago, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Madame Martial was telling you very rightly last Friday that it would be wrong for women to want to think in the same way as men, that they would be in danger of losing their own qualities - profound intuition and practical deduction - without acquiring those of their masculine counterparts - logical reasoning and the capacity of analysis and synthesis.
  That is why today I shall not attempt to demonstrate to you by logical reasoning and transcendental speculation that thoughts exist as true, autonomous, living and active entities.
  --
  Friday of each month.1
  Alternative version intended for another group:

3.06 - Death, #The Practice of Psycho therapy, #Carl Jung, #Psychology
  an important archetype, since even today we have our Good Friday. An
  archetype always stands for some typical event. As we have seen, there is

5.01 - ADAM AS THE ARCANE SUBSTANCE, #Mysterium Coniunctionis, #Carl Jung, #Psychology
  [555] The circular arrangement of the elements in the world and in man is symbolized by the mandala and its quaternary structure. Adam would then be a quaternarius, as he was composed of red, black, white, and green dust from the four corners of the earth, and his stature reached from one end of the world to the other.38 According to one Targum, God took the dust not only from the four quarters but also from the sacred spot, the centre of the world.39 The four quarters reappear in the (Greek) letters of Adams name: anatole (sunrise, East), dysis (sunset, West), arktos (Great Bear, North), mesembria (noon, South).40 The Book of the Cave of Treasures states that Adam stood on the spot where the cross was later erected, and that this spot was the centre of the earth. Adam, too, was buried at the centre of the earthon Golgotha. He died on a Friday, at the same hour as the Redeemer.41 Eve bore two pairs of twinsCain and Lebhdh, Abel and Kelmathwho later married each other (marriage quaternio). Adams grave is the cave of treasures. All his descendants must pay their respects to his body and not depart from it. When the Flood was approaching, Noah took Adams body with him into the ark. The ark flew over the flood on the wings of the wind from east to west and from north to south, thus describing a cross upon the waters.
  [556] At the midpoint where Adam was buried, the four corners come together; for when God created the earth his power ran along in front of it, and the earth ran after his power from four sides like winds and gentle breezes, and there his power stopped and came to rest. And there will be accomplished the redemption for Adam and all his children. Over the grave where the cross would stand there grew a tree, and there too was the altar of Melchizedek. When Shem laid the body on the ground,

7.14 - Modesty, #Words Of Long Ago, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Suleiman, Caliph of Damascus, was like that. One Friday, coming out of his hot bath, he dressed himself in green clothes,
  254

Blazing P2 - Map the Stages of Conventional Consciousness, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  vernacular, or no longer requiring abstinence from meat on Friday); the encounter with
  experiences or perspectives that lead to critical reflection on how ones beliefs and values have

BOOK I. -- PART III. SCIENCE AND THE SECRET DOCTRINE CONTRASTED, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy
  ** By W. Crookes, F.R.S., V.P.C.S., delivered at the Royal Institution, London, on Friday, February
  18th, 1887.
  --
  amazement at the idea of the days of Mercury (Wednesday), Venus (Friday), Jupiter (Thursday),
  Saturn (Saturday), and others being related to the days of the week in the same order and with the

Book of Psalms, #The Bible, #Anonymous, #Various
  This collection of 12 Psalms includes the Messianic Psalms 2, 22, and 110; Psalm 23, which is ingrained in the American conscience; Psalm 31, referenced by Jesus on the Cross; and the Seven Penitential Psalms, which bring comfort to a repentant heart (6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130, 143). The most famous of the seven is Psalm 51, which is called the Miserere after its first word in Latin and is said every Friday at Lauds in the Liturgy of the Hours.
  Psalms 2, 23, 31, and 110 are from the 1611 Authorized King James Version of The Holy Bible, now in the public domain. Psalm 22 and the Seven Penitential Psalms are from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. All rights reserved throughout the world. Used by permission of the International Bible Society.

Chapter II - WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  come very seasonably." The day happened to be a Friday, and in the whole inn there was nothing but some
  pieces of the fish they call in Castile "abadejo," in Andalusia "bacallao," and in some places "curadillo," and

Chapter I - WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it
  went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he

Conversations with Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  Friday, December 18, 1925
  YOUR going back to France at the moment would be a defeat. You would fall off from the state of consciousness of which you have caught a glimpse. It could even be worse. Perhaps after a few years you would get over it, but in any case, you would be missing an opportunity and failing in what you have to do.
  --
  Friday, December 25, 1925
  Remaining attentive facing my thoughts I found that they disappeared immediately on my looking steadily at them. The means of killing them, hence, is to watch attentively and, as soon as one becomes conscious of any, destroy it thus. This succeeds quite well in the region of words but less in that of images. I can manage to remain thus, conscious only of my attention. But the mind is not dead. I feel it behind the door. At certain moments I have the impression that I shall soon lose consciousness (?).
  --
  Friday, January 8, 1926
  What seemed so simple has become very difficult. These last few days I have had the greatest difficulty in separating myself from my lower mind. It needed a great deal of energy to remain awake, attentive, and not to let myself be carried away by the stream of mental images, without head or tail, a sort of waking dream. Perhaps this is a temporary reaction?
  --
  Friday, January 22, 1926
  These last few days have not brought much progress, for my mind was extremely distracted and agitated by different mental occupations. Everything is settled now. But I don't see very well what I ought to do: my mind is divided into two parts. The first which uses language, reasons and formulates is that which is silent. A certain attention is however necessary in order to prevent inopportune thoughts from arising through the throat and disturbing this peace. The other part is attentive, its particular function being the vision of inner images its centre is Ajana.[1] The former is inactive so far, but it is not always still for all that: it is centred here and there and does not know what to do.
  --
  Friday, February 5, 1926
  These last few days were better the concentration easier and the detachment of the mind more happy. I can separate myself from the mind and observe its action. But when I try to make it dead-still, I cannot do it except by concentrating near the Sahasrara, trying to separate myself from the body, and the breathing becomes difficult.

Emma Zunz, #Labyrinths, #Jorge Luis Borges, #Poetry
  trivial, Friday the fifteenth, the day before, elapsed.
  Impatience awoke her on Saturday. Impatience it was, not uneasiness,

r1916 02 24, #Record of Yoga, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   Friday.
   Two strong telepathies in the evening

The Aleph, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  But first thing Friday morning, I began worrying about the telephone. It offended me that that device, which had once produced the irrecoverable voice of Beatriz, could now sink so low as to become a mere receptacle for the futile and perhaps angry remonstrances of that deluded Carlos Argentino Daneri. Luckily, nothing happened -- except the inevitable spite touched off in me by this man, who had asked me to fulfill a delicate mission for him and then had let me drop.
  Gradually, the phone came to lose its terrors, but one day toward the end of October it rang, and Carlos Argentino was on the line. He was deeply disturbed, so much so that at the outset I did not recognise his voice. Sadly but angrily he stammered that the now unrestrainable Zunino and Zungri, under the pretext of enlarging their already outsized "salon-bar," were about to take over and tear down this house.

The Anapanasati Sutta A Practical Guide to Mindfullness of Breathing and Tranquil Wisdom Meditation, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  monastery offered public talks every Friday evening and
  Sunday morning where 300 to 500 people would attend.
  Bhante gave talks every other Friday and on every Sunday.
  While staying there he had the opportunity to meet many

The Dwellings of the Philosophers, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  p. 132), Nicolas le Vallois is supposed to have died young, in the year 1541. "Friday, Day of
  Epiphany, 1541", writes the old historian, "Nicolas Le Vallois, Lord of Escoville, Fontaines,

The Shadow Out Of Time, #unset, #Arthur C Clarke, #Fiction
  On the evening of Friday, 26 September, I dismissed the housekeeper and the maid until
  noon of the next day. Lights burned in the house till late, and a lean, dark, curiously
  --
  eighteen rattled forth over the arid leagues of sand and rock. On Friday, May 31st, we
  forded a branch of the De Grey and entered the realm of utter desolation. A certain

WORDNET














IN WEBGEN [10000/592]

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https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Buddhism#Rebirth
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/File:RebirthZRDF.JPG
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Middle_way#Rebirth
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Outline_of_Buddhism#Rebirth
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Outline_of_"In_the_Buddha's_Words"#The_Way_to_a_Fortunate_Rebirth
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#Commentaries
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#Etymology_and_Doctrine
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#External_links
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#Notes
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#Rebirth_as_cycle_of_consciousness
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#Rebirth_from_one_lifetime_to_the_next
https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Rebirth_(Buddhism)#Rebirth_in_historical_context
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https://religion.wikia.org/wiki/Serpent_(symbolism)#Renewal.2C_rebirth.2C_regeneration
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Death, Rebirth, and Meditation
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Psychology Wiki - Rebirth_(Buddhism)
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Metal Armor Dragonar (1987 - 1988) - A.D. 2087 - the United Lunar Empire Giganos wages war on the Earth Federation Military to take control of the planet and establish a "rebirth" of the human race. During an invasion of a colony by Giganos' forces, three civilian men stumble upon a trio of top-secret Metal Armor units called "Dragonar...
Howling V: The Rebirth(1989) - Basically another variation of Ten Little Indians with a werewolf thrown in for good measure, this plodding sequel efers less to previous Howling installments than to the source novels by Gary Brandner. The stage is set at an ominous Romanian castle, where the ancestors of a legendary werewolf blood...
Evangelion: 3.0 You Can (Not) Redo(2012) - Shinji awakes on the ruined Earth 14 years after a third impact, and people have turned against him. He becomes trapped in a cycle of death and rebirth and continues to battle the angels as the world spirals toward destruction.
Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death & Rebirth(1997) - Death and Rebirth is a highly condensed re-edit of the series (Death) plus the first half of The End of Evangelion
Godsend(2004) - A couple agree to have their deceased son cloned, under the supervision of an enigmatic doctor but bizarre things start to happen years after his rebirth.
https://myanimelist.net/anime/31149/Persona_3_the_Movie_4__Winter_of_Rebirth -- Action, Supernatural, Fantasy
https://myanimelist.net/anime/31/Neon_Genesis_Evangelion__Death___Rebirth -- Drama, Mecha, Psychological, Sci-Fi
https://myanimelist.net/anime/32950/RS_Keikaku__Rebirth_Storage -- Mecha
https://myanimelist.net/anime/42797/Rebirth_Special -- Game, Slice of Life, Comedy
https://myanimelist.net/anime/968/Kakutou_Bijin_Wulong__Rebirth -- Action, Comedy, Martial Arts, School, Shounen
https://myanimelist.net/manga/497/Rebirth
https://myanimelist.net/manga/57777/Rebirth_Knight
Colourful (2010) ::: 7.4/10 -- Karafuru (original title) -- Colourful Poster A sinful spirit is granted the opportunity to prove worthy for rebirth, inhabiting the body of a student who killed himself. Director: Keiichi Hara Writers: Eto Mori (novel), Miho Maruo (screenplay) Stars:
Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death & Rebirth (1997) ::: 7.5/10 -- Shin seiki Evangelion Gekij-ban: Shito shinsei (original title) -- Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death & Rebirth Poster -- A recap of the first 24 episodes of Neon Genesis Evangelion, followed by a 30-minute continuation of the plot that would later form the first third of The End of Evangelion. Directors: Hideaki Anno, Masayuki | 1 more credit Writers:
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Ajin -- -- Polygon Pictures -- 13 eps -- Manga -- Action Mystery Horror Supernatural Seinen -- Ajin Ajin -- Mysterious immortal humans known as "Ajin" first appeared 17 years ago in Africa. Upon their discovery, they were labeled as a threat to mankind, as they might use their powers for evil and were incapable of being destroyed. Since then, whenever an Ajin is found within society, they are to be arrested and taken into custody immediately. -- -- Studying hard to become a doctor, Kei Nagai is a high schooler who knows very little about Ajin, only having seen them appear in the news every now and then. Students are taught that these creatures are not considered to be human, but Kei doesn't pay much attention in class. As a result, his perilously little grasp on this subject proves to be completely irrelevant when he survives an accident that was supposed to claim his life, signaling his rebirth as an Ajin and the start of his days of torment. However, as he finds himself alone on the run from the entire world, Kei soon realizes that more of his species may be a lot closer than he thinks. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Sentai Filmworks -- 465,425 7.47
Ankoku Shinwa -- -- Ajia-Do -- 2 eps -- Manga -- Demons Fantasy Horror Mystery Psychological Supernatural -- Ankoku Shinwa Ankoku Shinwa -- Long ago there were fierce gods of legends who shook the earth to its foundation with their power. There are now prehistoric rivals from the primitive times in Japan, that fought to protect their secrets in the present day. The God of Darkness Susanoah-oh is now sleeping in the shadows of the underworld waiting for his rebirth. However his coming hasn't gone unoticed. There are agents from the Kikuchi Clan (descendants of Japans first inhabitants) who have seen the warning signs of the spreading of darkness's bringing. These investigators are armed with ancient knowledge and artifacts who are willingly prepared to face the God of Darkness. Now they must fight the assembled spirits of hell to find the one young boy who is chosen by fate to grasp the chaotic might of the deadly Gods. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- -- Licensor: -- Manga Entertainment -- OVA - Jan 26, 1990 -- 2,338 4.18
Kikou Senki Dragonar -- -- Sunrise -- 48 eps -- Original -- Sci-Fi Adventure Space Mecha -- Kikou Senki Dragonar Kikou Senki Dragonar -- A.D. 2087 - the United Lunar Empire Giganos wages war on the Earth Federation Military to take control of the planet and establish a "rebirth" of the human race. During an invasion of a colony by Giganos' forces, three civilian men stumble upon a trio of top-secret Metal Armor units called "Dragonars" and pilot them to combat the enemy forces. -- TV - Feb 7, 1987 -- 4,192 6.66
Levius -- -- Polygon Pictures -- 12 eps -- Manga -- Action Sci-Fi Martial Arts Mecha Seinen -- Levius Levius -- As society rises from the ashes of war, cybernetically augmented arena fighters battle for fame and fortune... or die trying. -- -- It's the 19th century, and the world has entered the Era of Rebirth, recovering from the devastating flames of war. The sport of mechanical martial arts has galvanized the nations. Cybernetically augmented fighters turn their blood into steam and their bodies into brutal fighting—and killing—machines. -- -- Young Levius is one of those arena battlers, hell-bent on winning in order to simply survive. -- -- (Source: VIZ Media) -- ONA - Nov 28, 2019 -- 15,303 7.23
Magic Kaito -- -- TMS Entertainment -- 12 eps -- Manga -- Adventure Comedy Romance Shounen -- Magic Kaito Magic Kaito -- Magic is not real—everyone knows that. When performed by a true expert, however, magic possesses the ability to amaze and wonder its audience. Kaito Kuroba, son of world-famous stage magician Touichi Kuroba, is no stranger to this fact. Well-versed in the arts of deception and misdirection, Kaito frequently disrupts the lives of those around him with flashy tricks and pranks. But when Kaito accidentally stumbles upon a hidden passage in his home, he discovers a secret that may well have been the cause of his father's death eight years ago—the dove-white outfit of Kid the Phantom Thief. Wanting to find out more about his father, Kaito dons the outfit and searches for the Pandora Gem that is said to grant immortality. However, he is not the only one after the gem—the organization responsible for his father's death is also hot on his tail! -- -- Magic Kaito follows the rebirth of Kaitou Kid, phantom thief of the night. Utilizing his dummies, disguises, and signature card gun, Kaito sets out to steal the world's most precious jewels, uncovering the truth behind his father's death and the rumored Pandora Gem along the way. -- -- Special - Apr 17, 2010 -- 57,983 7.80
Mardock Scramble: The Second Combustion -- -- GoHands -- 1 ep -- Novel -- Action Psychological Sci-Fi -- Mardock Scramble: The Second Combustion Mardock Scramble: The Second Combustion -- Rune Balot is weeping and trying to save both herself and a severely injured Oeufcoque from Shell's assassin Boiled. Luckily for her, Doctor Easter finally shows up in the Humpty Dumpty – a special militarized vehicle made for protecting those in Welfare cases if their lives are threatened. From there they go to Paradise, where the Scramble 09 technology (and Boiled's rebirth) was developed. All of the secrets of the past of Mardock City (and possibly its future) are revealed in this riveting second part of the Mardock Scramble series, upping the stakes and making Balot choose between justice for herself or peace within Paradise instead. -- -- (Source: the witch of theatregoing) -- -- Licensor: -- Sentai Filmworks -- Movie - Sep 3, 2011 -- 36,056 7.37
Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death & Rebirth -- -- Gainax, Production I.G -- 1 ep -- Original -- Drama Mecha Psychological Sci-Fi -- Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death & Rebirth Neon Genesis Evangelion: Death & Rebirth -- In the year 2015, more than a decade has passed since the catastrophic event known as Second Impact befell mankind. During this time of recovery, a select few learned of beings known as the Angels—colossal malevolent entities with the intention of triggering the Third Impact and wiping out the rest of humanity. -- -- Called into the city of Tokyo-3 by his father Gendou Ikari, teenager Shinji is thrust headlong into humanity's struggle. Separated from Gendou since the death of his mother, Shinji presumes that his father wishes to repair their shattered familial bonds; instead, he discovers that he was brought to pilot a giant machine capable of fighting the Angels, Evangelion Unit-01. Forced to battle against wave after wave of mankind's greatest threat, the young boy finds himself caught in the middle of a plan that could affect the future of humanity forever. -- -- -- Licensor: -- Manga Entertainment -- Movie - Mar 15, 1997 -- 188,445 7.45
Persona 3 the Movie 4: Winter of Rebirth -- -- A-1 Pictures -- 1 ep -- Game -- Action Supernatural Fantasy -- Persona 3 the Movie 4: Winter of Rebirth Persona 3 the Movie 4: Winter of Rebirth -- "The time of destruction is coming ever closer without a doubt. It cannot be stopped." -- To know death, to gaze at death, to face death. -- -- Makoto and his allies have grown through the many meetings and partings they have experienced. -- -- Their fight might not be for the sake of the world, but for themselves. Even so, they have continued to fight, believing that there are peaceful days waiting at the end of the battle. -- -- However, a boy says that destruction is the fate that humanity must shoulder. The boy they believed to be their friend tells them the truth of the situation without an emotion on his face. -- -- The season changes to winter. Makoto makes a decision in order to greet the spring that is waiting beyond... -- -- (Source: ANN) -- Movie - Jan 23, 2016 -- 53,182 8.02
Rebirth -- -- LIDENFILMS -- ? eps -- Card game -- Game Slice of Life Comedy -- Rebirth Rebirth -- The series revolve around a team of 12 high school students who love to play the trading card game Rebirth For You. -- -- (Source: Anime News Network) -- 3,284 5.42
Tezuka Osamu no Buddha: Akai Sabaku yo! Utsukushiku -- -- Toei Animation -- 1 ep -- Manga -- Drama Historical Military Supernatural -- Tezuka Osamu no Buddha: Akai Sabaku yo! Utsukushiku Tezuka Osamu no Buddha: Akai Sabaku yo! Utsukushiku -- In ancient Nepal, the lives of the re plagued by drought, famine, constant warfare and the injustices of the strict caste system. The intertwining lives of many unhappy souls are drawn together by the birth of the young prince Siddhartha, who embarks on a spiritual journey, becomes Buddha, "the Enlightened One," and attempts to bring about a spiritual rebirth of the people in this desperate age. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- Movie - May 28, 2011 -- 7,820 6.99
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